“More blasphemy! You would have me more beautiful than the divine Beatrice, then?” I asked, enjoying—and flattered by—our lively conversation.
“I would, and to the spirit of Beatrice I will offer no apology.”
“Let us hope that she does not come to haunt us in our new Florentine home, then.”
“No,” he said. “I shall not allow it. Only happiness shall we have there. I promise you.”
I smiled at him again as our eyes met. “I look forward to the fulfillment of your promise, signore.”
“Ah,” he said. “As I said, you must call me Marco.”
I hesitated for a moment. I had not yet spoken his given name aloud before him, and it felt almost too intimate. “Marco,” I said softly.
He rose from his chair and came to kneel beside mine. He was tall enough that, with him kneeling and me seated, our eyes were level. “Yes,” he said. “I am yours to command, Simonetta.” He took my hand and kissed it, his eyes never leaving mine.
* * *
What I did not realize right away amidst all the preparations was that I would not be returning to Genoa before my wedding, and thus perhaps not ever. It did not occur to me until I came into my chambers one afternoon to find my mother consulting with Chiara about the packing.
“Not the bed, nor the coverlets, of course—we shall buy her all new linens in Florence for her trousseau, and they shall have a bigger bed—they will need one.” She giggled. “But, yes, we must have the dressing table sent, and the wardrobe…”
“Why?” I asked, stepping into the room behind them.
My mother turned, starting slightly. “Goodness, Simonetta, what are you doing, lurking at doors like that? A lady never eavesdrops like a common servant.”
“I have only just now come in,” I pointed out, a slight peevishness in my tone that I could not always master when speaking to my mother. “Why shall we need to take all my furniture to Florence with me?”
“For your new home, of course,” my mother said. “What else? Not that Signor Vespucci will not provide you with some marvelous new things, naturally, but no daughter of the Cattaneo name shall come into her marriage looking like a pauper, I promise you!”
“But…” my confusion must have shown on my face, for my mother sighed as if in distress.
“Oh, Simonetta, surely you knew you would not be coming back here?”
“I thought…”
“Oh, my dearest, no. There would be no reason. We shall go to Florence, draw up the betrothal, then set ourselves to planning the wedding. Then you will be married, and move to your new home with your husband. There is no need for you to come back here.”
“I see.” I sat on the dressing table stool, picking up a ribbon that had been left to lay there and twining it idly through my fingers.
My mother came up behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders. “It will be better this way,” she said. “Indeed, once you are in Florence, you will no doubt never wish to come back.”
That night I prayed, as I had not all throughout the last weeks, that Florence would be everything I dreamed, that it would be the paradise of poets and painters that Marco had told me it was. Please, Lord, let me love it there, I thought, feeling too uncertain and childish to even speak the words aloud. Let me love it there at least a little.
And, I reminded myself as I climbed into bed, dragging my cloak of hair behind me and arranging it upon my pillow, Marco would be there. That much I could rely upon.
5
The city of Florence lay sprawled out below us, a mass of both brownstone and red-tiled roofs nestled among the brilliant, vibrantly green, rolling Tuscan hills. Above it all rose the massive dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, Brunelleschi’s wonder, famous the world over. The cathedral rose above the city like a great sleeping dragon, watching over its domain even in its slumber.
We had heard of this modern wonder in Genoa, of course, but seeing it in person was an entirely different matter. The dome was egg-shaped, and had been finished with reddish tiles beneath the great white ribs of its supports. A cross sat at the very top, blessing those who beheld it from below as well as pointing upward into the heavens. As I gazed upon it, I marveled that so great a structure could stay upright without collapsing in on itself. It seemed a frightening thing, that lowly mankind had dared to build something that ascended so close to God.
My father came up beside me. “Beautiful, is it not?” he asked. “It is a lovely city. And every time I see il Duomo, I am struck anew by the majesty of it. Who knew that human hands could build such a thing?”
“God makes all things possible,” I said, “especially such a great work, in His name. The city of Florence must be especially blessed.”
My father was silent for a moment. “One might think so,” he said at last. “And yet there are startling stories coming from the city of late, as well.” He turned a stern face to me. “You must be careful, daughter. A part of me thought it was perhaps not wise for you to marry into this city, and yet we could not refuse such an offer.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, perplexed. “What manner of stories do you speak of?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “It does not do to trouble women with such things. I should not have spoken of it.” He walked away from me and returned to his horse. “Back into the carriage, ladies,” he called to my mother and me. “We shall want to reach our lodgings before nightfall.” Behind him were the two wagons carrying the luggage and our servants—save for Chiara and my mother’s maid, who rode in the carriage with us—and at his words they began to slowly roll forward once again.
I did as I was told, still unsettled by my father’s words. Surely my parents would not send me anywhere dangerous, regardless of how good the match was? Something in his tone, however, had suggested that these “startling stories” were of a danger other than the physical.
I would not think of it now, I decided, pushing such thoughts firmly aside as the carriage began to move down the hill toward the city. I was ready to embrace my new life in this place, and while I was sure it would not be without its difficulties, I would deal with them as they came.
We were a greater distance away from the city than it had appeared from our perch atop the hill, and it took us the rest of the afternoon to reach our rented house, which was near to Marco’s family home in the Ognissanti district of Florence, on the banks of the river Arno. Once we entered the city proper, I craned my neck out the window to see the narrow cobblestoned streets, the tall buildings of terra-cotta and stone and wood, the laborers whom we passed and who had to jump out of the way to avoid our carriage. I was thwarted in my desire to see all of the city that I could, though, by my mother admonishing me to bring my head back inside the window. A lady never gawps, after all.
The sun was beginning its descent by the time we reached our rented lodgings. It was not a large house, with its tall and skinny façade squeezed in between the two larger neighboring buildings.
“This is it?” my mother asked dubiously, poking her head out of the carriage window. I had to bite my lip to keep from telling her not to gawp.
“It is just for a few months,” I reminded her. “Did you expect us to take up residence in a palazzo the size of the Medicis’?” Of course, I had never seen the Medici palazzo, but based on what I knew of them I assumed it was large.
“Of course not,” she huffed. “Do not take everything I say so literally, Simonetta.”
Then why do you say such things? I wanted to ask.
We went inside, while my father remained in the street, supervising the unloading of our luggage. We explored the house with its small rooms, which did not take long, then ascended to the top floor to select our bedchambers. “Baths, I think, to wash away the dust of the road,” my mother said to Chiara, following me into one of the smaller rooms that I had deemed as good as any other. “For myself and Simonetta. You shall need to wash Simonetta’s hair, as well.” She turned to me, grinning widely. “We want you l
ooking perfectly fresh tomorrow, when we go to meet Signor Vespucci’s family.”
I had nearly forgotten that the next day we would go to call on my future in-laws. I shook my head slightly. I was far too tired from travel to think about it now. Instead, I napped on my borrowed bed while waiting for Chiara to locate a washing tub, find a source of clean water, and fill it so that she might bathe me. As soon as the ordeal was over I fell back into bed, not caring that sleeping on my wet hair would make for at least another hour of work on it in the morning.
* * *
The next day, Marco came to call for us in a carriage and took us to his large family home, the same home where he and I would also be residing after our wedding, for the customary dinner with our two families. It was during this time that I would be presented with my betrothal ring. His parents were very kind to us, and made much of my beauty and of me. His mother was rather quiet, and spoke only when she was spoken to—a womanly art that my own mother had never mastered, nor had I. His father seemed the sort to be a stern taskmaster, who had no doubt raised his son to know exactly what was expected of him. His parents had clearly spared no expense on the meal, and we dined well on sliced melon, a rich vegetable stew, fresh trout, and veal. They introduced us to a curious, pronged implement that was all the rage among Florence’s well-to-do set: called a fork, it allowed one to spear and pick up bits of food without dirtying the fingers. It was rather odd to eat with, but I did appreciate the cleanliness it afforded—as well as what I guessed would be additional decorum, once I’d grown more comfortable with it and did not drop morsels back onto my plate quite so often.
The conversation consisted mostly of my father and Signor Vespucci speaking of business and politics, those of both Florence and Genoa. Every now and then Marco would catch my eye across the table and smile at me, and I would try to smile back as much as I dared without seeming immodest. Something about his smile made me wish that the two of us were quite alone, with no parents or chaperones near. Soon enough, I told myself, dropping my eyes from his. The first time we would be alone together, I knew, would be our wedding night, when whatever mysterious thing it was that took place between a married couple would happen between us. Well-read for a woman though I was, I had not come across the details of the marriage act committed to paper, though I was inclined to believe that that was more a result of the literature I had been exposed to rather than any delicacy on the part of writers at large. I was curious, intensely so, yet knew that I would need to wait for my mother to impart this forbidden knowledge to me, like a reluctant serpent whispering in the ear of an all-too-eager Eve.
After the meal, I was given my ring—a modest diamond set in a gold band—and our fathers adjourned to Signor Vespucci’s study for more wine and to begin to discuss the terms of the betrothal. I did not know how long such things took, but I knew the wedding plans would not be delayed in any case—our mothers had already made passing mention of what cloth should be ordered for my trousseau and who should make my new gown for the occasion.
Marco’s mother led us into the receiving room: a rather bare stone room, as any tapestries and wall hangings had no doubt been put away in the heat of summer. Even so, the simple wooden furniture that was there—chairs with embroidered cushions and a few small side tables—was of the finest craftsmanship. Once we were all seated, Signora Vespucci engaged my mother in conversation—something that entailed my mother doing most of the talking, while Signora Vespucci nodded and murmured politely in response—so as to allow Marco and myself to speak to one another without interruption. He drew his chair nearer to mine and leaned toward me.
“I have wonderful news for you, Simonetta,” he said. “I wanted to tell you myself, before anyone else knows. I think you will be honored and excited, as I am. But you must not speak of this to your parents, mind, until we have received the official invitation.”
“Dear Marco,” I said, smiling, “whatever it is, have mercy and do not leave me in suspense!”
His eyes took on a merry glint. “Anything you wish, dearest lady. Upon my return I was invited to the home of the Medici family to dine. They were all so captivated by my accounts of your beauty—understated, as they shall see—that Lorenzo has invited you to dine as well. As soon as our betrothal is made official, I am to present you to him and the rest of his family.”
Why I should be so excited for the esteem and notice of a man I had never met, I could not say—I only knew that my heart began to pound with excitement and nervousness in equal measure. “Truly, Marco?”
“Indeed.” He lowered his voice a bit further. “Lorenzo’s father, Piero, is quite ill—an invalid, for all intents and purposes. Gout—it runs in their family, sadly. As such, Lorenzo has largely taken over as head of the family.” He reached out and squeezed my hand lightly. “You will make a wonderful impression on such an important man.”
I was hardly listening, though I knew his words were important. “Whatever shall I wear? I do not know if I have a gown fine enough.…”
Marco laughed. “You could dress in a nun’s habit and still be the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen. Do not fret, Simonetta. And remember, Florence is a republic. The Medici are not royalty.”
I heard his words, but could scarcely bring myself to pay them any mind. This promised evening—whenever it took place—would be important, I knew it. I was no longer the little Cattaneo girl, the only daughter of a minor noble family. This was my chance to be seen. To be a woman of note and learning, to speak and perhaps be heard in this enlightened city. To be somebody, if only I had the courage.
6
After that first evening with Marco’s parents, the betrothal negotiations continued on unimpeded, as far as I knew, for I was not privy to any of the particulars. All I knew was that before long the agreement was signed and sealed, and Marco sent me a bracelet of small pearls with a gold clasp to commemorate the event.
We settled into our life in Florence—a temporary diversion for my parents, but a true transition for me. Our first Sunday in the city, we went to Mass at Santa Maria del Fiore. The massive dome seemed even more extraordinary when beheld from the ground beneath it; I had heard that though it had stood for years now, many Florentines were still waiting for it to collapse at any moment. I could see why.
The entire structure was enormous, not just the great dome. Up close I was able to admire the intricate marble detailing on the outside, completed in not only white stone but also in stripes and blocks of green and pink. Tall, narrow windows were set into the sides, framed with elaborately carved stonework. Beside the cathedral stood its campanile, nearly as tall as the dome, built in the same multicolored stone as the cathedral itself. The bells rang an urgent yet melodious toll, calling worshippers to Mass.
It was a bit intimidating to step into such a large, grand structure—it made me feel quite small but reverent—and perhaps that was the point: one should always feel unworthy of stepping into God’s house, yet this structure, with its somewhat plain yet mammoth interior, heightened that feeling. Light spilled into the sanctuary from the windows in the walls and set high up near the ceiling, and this, along with the simple, if massive, columns and arches, created a vast, airy space in which to hear the Word of God. Yet, for all the space and light, there was something a bit oppressive about the cathedral as well—perhaps due to the sprawling, elaborate fresco that graced the inside of Brunelleschi’s dome. It depicted the last judgment and, in addition to the Lord welcoming the righteous into the glory of heaven, there was also, as might be expected, depictions of hell and the torments that await the damned. Sinners tumbled naked into hell, where demons tortured them and Satan stuffed them into his mouth, devouring them with his gnashing teeth.
The beauty and horror of the fresco captivated me, and I confess I spent much of that first Mass craning my neck to look upward, unable to tear my gaze away, trying to take in every detail of the beautiful and hideous artwork. I could not even begin to count the numerous figures i
n the fresco, from saints and angels and kings sitting in attendance on the Lord Jesus to the human souls being judged and the demons of hell; it was a riot of color and activity. Several times my mother pinched my arm, a not-so-gentle reminder that my mind should be firmly on the service. Yet for what other purpose was the fresco there, I reasoned, than to fascinate and terrify the faithful? To both inspire and instill fear? It was, I thought, much more effective than any sermon.
* * *
A few days after my betrothal gift arrived came a note. We are invited to dine at the Medici palazzo a week from tonight, so it went. I shall come to escort you, with your maid for chaperone, if that is pleasing to your parents.
At the bottom of the parchment he had written, Do not worry. No matter what you say or do, you shall enchant them. There is no woman, on earth or in Heaven, more charming than you.
My mother, when I showed her the note, was quite beside herself. “In the name of all the saints, whatever shall you wear?” she exclaimed. “Nothing too elaborate, no; they have such pesky sumptuary laws in Florence. The cloth must be of the best quality, though; yes, these Florentines are cloth merchants all, they will know inferior quality from a yard off when they see it. We’ve no time to have anything made, have we? What have you brought with you? Quickly, let us see—Chiara! Come, child, we shall need your help. Simonetta, you must try a few things, and we shall see what flatters you best.”
I had, of course, brought all my clothes with me from Genoa, save those that were too worn or no longer fit. As such there were several possibilities from which to choose, and my mother had Chiara lace me into all of them so that we might best decide.
In the end we chose one of pale pink silk, of the finest cloth but simple design. The bodice and long, wide sleeves were embroidered with small sprigs of flowers, and a cream band ran beneath my breasts, with the same floral embroidery. It was determined that this gown flattered my creamy skin and golden hair better than any of the others, as well.
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 3