“That is all one needs to know, Signorina Simonetta, truly,” Lorenzo said, his voice soft. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. They were most illuminating. You have given me much to consider.”
I felt a flush of pride at his words, at his sincere tone. What a strange, wonderful place this Florence was.
“You must give your compliments to the artist himself, as well,” Lorenzo added. “I know he will be pleased to hear your reaction.”
I felt myself flush again as I peered around the garden. “Is he here?”
“Not yet,” Lorenzo said, “though I expect him at any time. He has been a guest of ours often, of late.”
I cast a glance at the entryway to the garden, as though willing this Signor Botticelli to appear. Having seen his work, having been so captivated by it, I found myself both eager and nervous to meet the man himself. An unexpected warmth found its way into my heart as my gaze made its way back to his paintings once more. Who was this man, able to bring such life to his art?
“But how rude of me,” Lorenzo said. “Here I have pressed you for your opinion, and sought to impress you with my family’s treasures, and I have not even offered you a refreshment.” He glanced over his shoulder and, summoned by this merest of glances, a servant appeared. “Signore?” the man said, bowing.
“A glass of wine for Signorina Simonetta, if you would,” Lorenzo said. “If that is agreeable, signorina?”
“Very much so,” I said, smiling up at him.
His eyes widened slightly as they took in my face, then he chuckled and shook his head. “The men of Florence had best guard themselves now that you are here,” he said. “That smile of yours is quite the weapon.”
I preened slightly under Lorenzo’s attentions, even though a part of me preferred it when he was praising my artistic insights. That praise, at least, I felt I had earned.
The servant returned almost immediately, bearing a crystal goblet of the dry red wine that was the pride of Tuscany. I took a sip, unsurprised at finding it to be of very high quality. “Grazie,” I said to Lorenzo.
“My pleasure,” he said. “I should return you to your betrothed, I think. No doubt he does not relish being parted from you for any length of time, and who could blame him?”
He led me back to the rest of the party, who was gathered near the table. I took my place at Marco’s side, causing him to turn and smile at me. “I see you are making friends,” he murmured in my ear. “I knew you would be quite popular.”
“Lorenzo is wonderful,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Just as you said.”
He squeezed my hand. “I could not lie to you, my Simonetta,” he said. “You see, it is all just as I have said. The Florence I have brought you to is in good hands.”
“Indeed,” I said. “And I think Lorenzo de’ Medici shall leave Florence a great deal more beautiful than he found it.”
* * *
Marco and I sipped our wine, which was continually refilled by the Medici servants, and mingled happily with the other guests. Giuliano regaled me with tales of Marco as a boy, including a time that Giuliano had written a love note for a girl and asked Marco to give it to her after Mass—which my affianced husband did, only to pretend that it was from himself. “He has ever been a rascal, this man of yours,” Giuliano teased. “Of course, it worked out perfectly for me in the end, as within the hearing of everyone the lady declared that swine could write finer verse!”
I laughed aloud along with Marco. “Ah, well, such were my just rewards for so dishonorable a trick,” Marco said, wiping away tears of mirth.
“Indeed,” Giuliano said. “Tell me, Signorina Simonetta, did he need to turn to tricks to win you?”
“He did not,” I said, looking fondly up at Marco. “He was just his most charming self.”
“I can be charming as well, my lady,” Giuliano said, dramatically dropping to one knee before me. “And my skill at poetry has greatly improved, I swear to you!”
As we all laughed together, Lorenzo appeared at my elbow again. “Pardon my intrusion,” he said, “but, Signorina Simonetta, there is one more person whom I should like you to meet, if you are willing.”
“Of course,” I said. “Do excuse me, Marco, Signor Giuliano.”
I stepped away from the mirthful pair to where someone else—a striking blond man—waited. “Signorina Simonetta, let me present you to Sandro Botticelli,” Lorenzo said. “Sandro, this is Simonetta Cattaneo, the betrothed of our dear friend Marco Vespucci.”
So this, then, was the artist whose work I had been admiring. He bowed over my hand briefly, then straightened and allowed his light eyes to flick back to my face. “You are very beautiful, Madonna Simonetta,” he said. Yet the words were not delivered in the honeyed tones of compliments to which I had become accustomed in my brief sixteen years; rather, this artist Botticelli spoke as one simply stating a fact, as though he must acknowledge what so many others had already acknowledged.
My answering smile was uncertain. “So I have been told, signore,” I said. I found myself studying him—his face, his eyes, his hands, as though by doing so I could discover how he managed to create such marvelous works. “It is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. Signor Lorenzo was kind enough to share with me your two panels of the story of Judith. I was quite taken with them.”
“Were you?” he said, sounding surprised. “I must thank you for saying so. Judith is a most worthy heroine, and so I could only hope I might do her justice.”
“You did that and more,” I said. “You show her not only as a heroine, but as a real woman, too. I felt that I might step into the panel and begin to converse with her.”
“Then I have achieved my aim.” He paused as he continued to contemplate my face, yet not with the avaricious desire with which men usually studied it; nor with the envious, calculating gaze of most women. Rather, he considered my face as though he would unlock its secrets; as though he would solve the puzzle of how I was so beautiful. “I should like to paint you,” he said finally.
My face grew warm. I felt all of the courtly worldliness I had worked so hard at cultivating since entering this palazzo beginning to dissolve, when faced with this strange, handsome man and the odd, forward things he was saying. Outrageous flattery I was quite used to; this bluntness, this plain acknowledgment of my beauty and, furthermore, what purpose it may serve was very new, and very much beyond me. I struggled to find words with which to respond.
Thankfully, Lorenzo came to my aid. “Why, Sandro,” he said, laughing, “the lady has only recently arrived in Florence, and only just arrived amongst this company. Let us not overwhelm her entirely just yet.” He lifted my hand, which had been resting on his arm, and kissed it, his eyes meeting mine. “Though I must agree that you would make a most exceptional subject for a portrait, Madonna.”
I glanced quickly toward where Clarice Orsini de’ Medici stood, to see if she had noticed her husband’s impromptu kiss and, more importantly, the look in his eyes as he turned to me. But she was deep in conversation with her mother-in-law—or, rather, it looked as though Lucrezia was in conversation with her, and it was all Clarice could do to follow along with the rapid stream of words.
I exhaled slightly, relieved. It would not do to make an enemy of a woman whom I hoped might become a friend and confidant. Back in Genoa, I often did not see my friends again once they married, especially once they saw how their husbands looked at me. But perhaps here in cosmopolitan Florence—where I would soon have a husband of my own—things might be different.
“I thank you, Signor Lorenzo,” I said. “You are most kind.” Without thinking, I turned my body slightly to bestow a smile on the artist, who was still watching us closely. “And you have taken a most worthy painter under your patronage, I think. He is always looking for a chance to create art.”
“Indeed,” Sandro Botticelli said, before his patron could answer. “For what else gives meaning to life but art?”
“What, indeed?” I
responded. “And do you include the works of the great poets in your definition of art, signore?”
“Signorina Simonetta is much enamored with poetry,” Lorenzo interjected.
“I should be a fool not to,” he replied. “What words are more beautiful than those of Dante? I can only wish to communicate so much through my brush as he does in a single stanza.”
“I believe the priests would have something to say about this discussion,” Lorenzo said, interest sparking in his eyes. “They would no doubt say that the Lord God gives all meaning to life, and the life best lived is the one which dedicates itself to worshipping and glorifying Him.”
“And does not art, in its many forms, do just that?” I asked.
“Indeed it does,” Lorenzo replied. “Yet Sandro, here, would speak of art as the highest aim in and of itself, without the glorification of God.”
“That all artists glorify God in their work need not be said,” Botticelli replied. “For it is from Him that all our talent comes. Yet do you not find art for its own sake to be worthy as well, Lorenzo?”
Botticelli’s casual use of his patron’s Christian name surprised me; the two men were obviously much closer than I had first realized. Yet they were, after all, of an age, and perhaps had more in common than their stations would suggest. “You know I agree with you, and then some,” Lorenzo said, smiling.
I felt myself relaxing more than I had since arriving—since coming to Florence, in truth. Relaxed enough, in fact, that my tongue felt much looser than usual—perhaps I had the wine to thank for that as well. “I notice, Signor Botticelli,” I said, looking at him, “that you are not surprised that I should have a knowledge of poetical writings, as so many men are when I speak of such things.”
His blue gaze held mine, firm and unyielding. Here, I realized, was a man who had no doubt of his abilities nor of his place in the world. “It follows that where God has created so beautiful a face and form, He would have created an equally beautiful mind,” Botticelli said.
I blushed. With this sort of compliment I had no experience and therefore no response.
“Well said, Sandro,” Lorenzo said. “We shall make a courtier of you yet.”
At that moment, Giuliano de’ Medici appeared at his brother’s elbow. “Now I find you are monopolizing the most beautiful woman present, brother,” he said, grinning impishly. “Beware of making your new bride jealous!”
I blushed again, yet all three men laughed, so I did my best to join in. “Lay the blame for stealing away Signorina Simonetta at the feet of Sandro,” Lorenzo said. “I believe he is already mapping out a canvas for her in his mind even now.”
The two brothers laughed, but this time Botticelli did not join in. Rather, his eyes held mine again for a moment longer, and then he nodded briefly, so small a movement that I was almost not certain as to whether I had actually seen it.
But I had. And though I knew not then what secret accord I was entering into with the painter, I nodded ever so slightly in response.
* * *
Dinner was served shortly thereafter at the table in the garden. As his father was indisposed, Lorenzo sat at the head of the table, with his mother, as the lady of the house, opposite him. Clarice sat at her husband’s right hand, and I was shown to the seat immediately to his left, with Marco right beside me.
“Do sit by me, Signorina Simonetta,” he said. “You and Marco are our guests of honor, after all.”
I gave what I hoped was a gracious smile at the honor and took the chair he indicated. Giuliano sat across from Marco, and with us thus placed the rest of the company found their seats.
As the pasta was served, Lorenzo engaged Marco in a lively discussion of Florentine politics, and soon the majority of those at the table had joined in, especially Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni. As I knew not of the issues of which they spoke, nor had I met any of the dignitaries to whom they referred, I kept silent and listened, hoping to learn as much as I could of my new home so that one day I might join in such discussions. Lucrezia, I noticed with surprise and admiration, more than held her own, and was listened to attentively by the men present, especially her eldest son. The mothers, daughters, and wives of Genoese noblemen were expected to stay silent when political matters were discussed, and they always did, at least in my experience. Yet I smiled as I listened to the discourse and to Lucrezia in particular. She certainly lived up to her reputation, as did this Florence of which I had heard so much.
One other guest, I noticed, who did not contribute much to the discussion was Sandro Botticelli. He was seated closer to Lucrezia’s end of the table, and on the opposite side from myself. He spoke rarely, and several times I noticed him watching me. His gaze held the same intensity I had noticed earlier: as though I were a mystery for him to solve, as though he sought to see past my face and my skin and my hair to what lay underneath. As though he sought to see my mind, my soul.
Once I caught him studying me, and held his gaze in a challenge. Yet rather than look away, as would have been polite and seemly, he boldly met my eyes, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. After several heartbeats, it was I who blushed and looked away.
My other admirer—though he at times took his attention from me long enough to join in the conversation—was Giuliano de’ Medici. Out of the corner of my eye I would catch him stealing appreciative glances at me, though never was he so bold as Signor Botticelli—indeed, no one else at the table but I likely noticed.
I was used to such attention, but tonight, in this new and unfamiliar place and among new and unfamiliar people, it set me on edge more than usual. I sought Marco’s hand beneath the table and took it in mine for a moment, and he squeezed my fingers, smiling his handsome smile at me. Instantly I felt better, more sure of myself.
The main course was wild boar—abundant in the Tuscan hills, so Marco informed me—seasoned with spices from the Indies, imported via Venice. On my first bite, I had to stifle a most uncouth exclamation of delight. My family had always dined well in Genoa, of course, but I had never tasted anything quite like this before—rich and flavorful and spicy. I forced myself to take small, ladylike bites, even as I became aware of just how hungry I was—I had not eaten since breaking my fast that morning, and staying poised as I met so many new and important people had left me quite famished. A lady never shovels food in her mouth like a peasant, my mother’s voice admonished me in my head.
As the dessert was being served—a flaky, cream-filled pastry, along with a much sweeter white wine—Lorenzo sat back in his chair and beamed at Marco and me. “I am so glad you are able to be our guests tonight,” he said. “I hope that as you settle into married life, we may see much more of you.”
“We would be honored, as we are by your invitation here tonight,” Marco said.
“Tell me,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward in his chair again, gently spinning the stem of his delicate crystal wineglass between his thumb and forefinger, “have the arrangements been made for your wedding yet?”
“Not as yet,” Marco said. “Our parents are in the process of doing so.”
“Why, then,” Lorenzo said, “we must host your wedding. Do you not agree, Mother?” he asked Lucrezia.
“A lovely idea,” she agreed.
“Yes,” Lorenzo said, becoming more excited the more he thought about it. “Yes, you can be married here at the chapel in the palazzo, and then perhaps a country reception at Villa Careggi? If that is agreeable to you both, of course, as well as your families.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. “Truly, signore?” I asked.
He smiled at me. “Please, do call me Lorenzo.”
“You do us too much honor,” Marco said, taking my hand. “We would be delighted, and I am sure our parents will be equally so.”
“It is settled, then!” Lorenzo said. “Consult with your parents, and then you shall name the date.” He lifted his wineglass. “To the bride-and-groom-to-be, Marco Vespucci and Simonetta Cattaneo!”
; The rest of the party lifted their glasses to toast as well. “To Marco and Simonetta!” they cried as one, and drank.
Clarice Orsini de’ Medici had a somewhat pinched, sour look on her face as she drank the toast. I thought how her husband had, before all those present, consulted his mother about his plan, but not his wife. I felt a stab of pity for her. It could not be easy to be married to such a man as Lorenzo de’ Medici, nor to be under the thumb of such a mother-in-law as Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni. For all the prestige that Clarice’s own name garnered, she did not rule in Florence and never would.
Yet I was too happy, in that moment, to pay her much mind. I smiled at Marco as he squeezed my hand, his cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. Our lives in Florence were off to a much grander start than I could ever have anticipated.
* * *
As the dishes were cleared away and we rose from the dining table, Lorenzo again turned to Marco and me. “Perhaps you would like to see the chapel where you are to be married?” he asked. “I hope it will meet with your approval and that you do not change your minds upon seeing it.”
I laughed. “I think that nothing could dissuade us from accepting your kind and generous offer, but I would very much like to see it.”
“Indeed,” Marco said.
Lorenzo led us out of the garden, back through the courtyard and past the statue of David, and up a staircase located to the right of the main entrance. We climbed two flights and then followed him down a short corridor, at the end of which was a door on the left-hand side.
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 5