“For me?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes. Clarice Orsini de’ Medici.”
“My word!” my mother tittered. “Such an illustrious guest! And you only made her acquaintance last night!”
“Indeed,” I said. “She did express her desire to call on me, though I had no idea it would be so soon.” I summoned my dignified, sophisticated persona again, and wrapped it about me like a heavy, fur-lined mantle. “Do show her in without delay.”
The man bowed his head again. “Very good, Madonna Simonetta.”
He disappeared, and reappeared again a few moments later, bowing as the slight figure of Clarice entered the room.
I rose from my chair, and my mother did the same. “Signora Medici,” I said, coming to meet her. “You honor me with your visit.”
“The honor is all mine,” she said, removing her cloak and handing it to the servant. “I hope I am not intruding, to arrive unannounced like this.”
“Not at all.” I turned to my mother. “May I present my mother, Cattocchia Cattaneo. Mother, this is Clarice Orsini de’ Medici, wife of Lorenzo de’ Medici.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Donna Cattaneo,” Clarice said.
“A pleasure and an honor to meet you as well,” my mother responded. “And welcome to our house, temporary though it is.”
“It is a lovely house,” Clarice said. “I hope you all are comfortable, and are enjoying your stay in Florence?”
“Oh, very much,” my mother said. “Simonetta has told us of your husband’s very generous offer to host her wedding to Marco—to Signor Vespucci, that is. So very kind. We are honored beyond words.”
“It is our pleasure, that we might bring joy to our friends,” Clarice said softly, and I remembered, with some discomfort, her look of pique the night before when Lorenzo, together with his mother, had spontaneously offered to host the wedding.
“In any case,” my mother said as, much to my surprise, she began to move toward the door, “I shall leave you young women to your talk. So very lovely to meet you, Donna Medici.”
“Likewise,” Clarice murmured, and my mother left the sitting room.
I had thought for certain that my mother would wish to stay, to listen in on our gossip, and to cultivate a connection of her own to the Medici family. Yet perhaps she wished for me to become accustomed to receiving and entertaining my own callers, as I would soon need to do as Marco’s wife.
“Please, sit,” I murmured, and Clarice took the seat my mother had just vacated. “I shall send for some wine.”
“That would be lovely,” Clarice said.
I quickly stepped outside the room and sent one of the maidservants to the kitchen with instructions. Then I returned to the sitting room and took up my chair again.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Clarice said in her soft voice.
“Not at all,” I said. “I must thank you again for yours last night. It was so wonderful to meet some of my future husband’s friends.”
“Indeed,” Clarice said. “And no doubt you shall be seeing much more of them from now on. Lorenzo likes to keep his friends close.”
“I gathered as much. I was also introduced to a few writers, I believe, as well as a painter, Sandro Botticelli.”
“Yes,” Clarice said. “Signor Botticelli is a new find of my husband’s. Lorenzo has yet to favor the man with a commission himself, but he has been about a good deal of late. I believe he is establishing his own studio in Florence.”
“How lovely,” I said, not sure how else to respond, nor how to inquire about him further without seeming improper.
“Indeed,” Clarice said, as though she did not care one way or the other about Signor Botticelli and his work. “And you no doubt met Marsilio Ficino as well, the scholar.”
“I believe so,” I said. “In truth, Madonna Clarice, I was introduced to so many new people last night that I do not know if I could identify the face which belongs to each name.”
She smiled. “I am not surprised,” she said. “Signor Ficino was a great friend of my husband’s grandfather, and was one of Lorenzo’s own teachers. He keeps him and many other scholars and artists always about.” She sighed. “I have found it somewhat wearisome, being always in the company of men.”
I found it telling that she did not mention Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni, but I kept my silence.
“This is why I was so happy to make your acquaintance, Madonna Simonetta,” she said, her expression brightening. “It will be so nice to have another woman to converse with.”
I smiled. “And I was equally delighted to make your acquaintance,” I said. “What friends I had I left behind in Genoa.”
“Of course,” she said. “And I cannot imagine—” she broke off. “Forgive me. I do not mean to be so forward.”
“No, please,” I said. “If we are to be friends, you must speak freely, Madonna Clarice.”
“If we are to be friends, you must call me Clarice.”
“Only if you will call me Simonetta,” I said, smiling. “But I pray you, Clarice—you may say whatever you wish.”
“Indeed,” she said. “This may be quite inappropriate of me, but I—well, I shall be frank, as you wish. Upon seeing how beautiful you are, I thought that I should hate you. But that would be quite wrong of me, because you—why, you are lovely, both within and without.” She blushed. “I am sorry. I should not have—”
“No, no,” I said. “I confess that I have never been able to count many female friends—I suppose for jealousy. Though God in His wisdom has given me a face and form that many consider beautiful, there have been times when I wished that He bestowed His blessing—if indeed it is—on someone else.”
Clarice laughed. “And so the beauties of the world pray to be plain, and the plain girls pray for beauty.”
I laughed as well. “Perhaps it speaks more to the contrary nature of women than anything. Though I would venture that men are contrary enough, in their own way.”
“I can promise you they are.”
“As I will learn, soon enough,” I said. “I do not know much of men nor their ways at present.”
“As a wife, you shall learn all too quickly,” Clarice said.
Here our conversation paused, and we both smiled at each other good-naturedly. Here was a woman—a friend—who would understand my concerns, my troubles, perhaps even my sorrows, and could teach me to fit in within Florentine society in a way that Marco never could, recent arrival though she was herself.
Just then, the maidservant came in with the carafe of wine and two glasses, and she served my guest first, then me. She curtsied and withdrew, and Clarice and I each took a sip, letting the silence continue.
“You must tell me of Rome,” I prompted after a moment, remembering that she had come from one of the great noble families of the Eternal City.
Clarice smiled, pleased to be reminded of her home. “To be frank, I had thought that when I left Rome, I would not miss it in the least.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “It is not half so beautiful as Florence. There are beautiful churches, of course, and the palazzi of the great nobles—my family included—are sights to behold. Many of the cardinals live in splendor as well, though no palazzo is so grand as that of the Holy Father, as is only right.”
“And have you visited the palazzo of the Holy Father?” I asked, diverted. “Have you had audience with him?”
“Oh, of course,” Clarice said, “with more than one pope. My family—the Orsini—are second only to His Holiness in Rome.” She wrinkled her nose. “No matter what any of the Colonna might tell you.”
I hid a smile. In his history lessons, Padre Valerio had made many mentions of the Orsini and Colonna families of Rome, and their fight for dominance over the Eternal City and even over the pope himself.
“No, but…” Clarice trailed off, as though beginning to lose herself in the past. “Despite its occasional splendor, Rome is quite different from what you must be imagining, Simonetta. It is dirty and v
iolent and dangerous. The Tiber floods and kills people every year, and when it does not flood it is a cesspool of waste and garbage and things a good woman should never think of. The popes and their court were in Avignon for far too long, and when they returned, the city was nearly past saving, it seems. One pope after another has striven to set the city to rights, but it will take much more time than I am likely to be granted in this lifetime. It will be many years before Rome is worthy of the title Holy City again.”
I remained silent, disappointment washing over me. I had always been taught that one must strive to see Rome in one’s lifetime; to go and pray before the site of St. Peter’s burial; to seek an audience with the Holy Father and ask for his blessing. The picture Clarice painted was not at all what I had expected.
“And so, as I said, I did not expect to miss it,” she went on. “Especially not once I saw how beautiful Florence is, and how clean in comparison. And when I saw the state of my husband’s family, well—I thought I should be quite happy here.” She cast a sad smile at me. “But perhaps this is yet another example of those contrary ways of women you spoke of. I miss my home, even if it is not what it ought to be. Even if there is nothing here but reasons for me to be happy.”
“Surely no one can fault you for missing your home,” I said. I noticed she had spoken of all the reasons she had to be happy in Florence, but had neglected to mention whether or not she was truly happy.
“Perhaps not, but a woman must do her duty no matter what she feels inside,” Clarice said. “It may be that I am as yet not completely used to Florence. I do not know. The society here is so different. The things my husband and his friends speak of sometimes, why … no one speaks so in Rome. No one could. It is heresy, the things they say.”
I was unsure how to respond. I was fairly certain that I had engaged in just such a conversation last night, with Lorenzo and Signor Botticelli. I could hardly admit that to Clarice, nor could I confess that I hoped to engage in such talk often enough in the future, for it thrilled me to the core, even as it made me nervous.
“But that is enough of my melancholy,” she said, reaching for her wine again. “You must tell me of Genoa.”
I warmed to the new topic instantly, describing for my new friend the bustling, busy port; the way the sun sparkled and shimmered on the sea; the way the sun set into the sea each night, bathing the water and the buildings in a brilliantly colored glow.
“It sounds beautiful,” she said when I had finished. “Far more so than Rome. I should like to visit sometime, with you as my guide.” She smiled. “If our husbands can spare us, of course.”
“We shall implore them to do so,” I said, “for I should very much like to show you my city, and my parents would be honored to have you as a guest.”
Our talk then turned to other things, of what foods Clarice recommended I try, and what seamstress she recommended for my wedding gown. We laughed and sipped our wine, and the maidservant, unbidden, brought us a plate of olives and cheeses as well. Soon, half the afternoon had passed without us so much as noticing.
“Goodness,” Clarice said, taking note of the slant of light through the windows, “I suppose I must take my leave and not impose upon your hospitality any further. I am to dine with my husband and his mother and brother soon, in any case.”
“And Lorenzo’s father?” I inquired. “I have heard that he is not well.”
“He is not,” Clarice said bluntly. “I fear that he will not last the year, though—” she broke off, as though she had been about to say something she should not. “It would be a great sadness for Lorenzo and Giuliano and their mother, and for me as well,” she said instead. “Piero has been nothing but kind to me since my arrival in Florence.”
“How sad, that he should be so ill,” I said. “You and your family have my sympathies.”
“I thank you,” she said, rising to take her leave. “It has been difficult.”
I rose to see her out. “Do give my regards to your husband, as well as to Giuliano and their mother.”
“I shall,” she said. “And I shall see to it that you are invited to dine with us again soon.”
“I will look forward to it,” I said, as we moved to the front entryway. “Your husband probably told you, but he also extended use of his library to Marco and myself. I do not wish to trespass on his generosity, but I hope very much to take him up on his offer.”
Clarice went still, for just a moment. “He did not mention it,” she said lightly, “but it does not surprise me. Lorenzo is very generous to his friends. And I do hope you will make use of the library. It shall give us another excuse to spend time in each other’s company.”
“Then I should like nothing better,” I said. “Books and companionship are two of life’s greatest pleasures, I find.”
Clarice laughed. “What an interesting creature you are, Simonetta. I have never been one for books myself, and I cannot see that you, beauty as you are, have much need of them.”
I smiled. “So I have always been told, but I cannot seem to help myself.”
She laughed again. “When next we meet we shall drink a toast to books and companionship, then.” She stepped out into the street and clasped my hands in hers. “I thank you again for hosting me, and I hope to see you again very soon.”
“I hope for the same,” I said, squeezing her hands. “And it was my pleasure.”
Clarice climbed into her carriage and waved one hand out of the window, then was gone.
I turned and went back into the house, unable to stop a smile from spreading across my face. A friend—and a female friend, at that. Hopefully she would prove to be a true friend.
Elisabetta’s words before I left Genoa returned to me, unbidden: Mark my words, Simonetta Cattaneo—the Florentine women never forget what game it is they are playing, and they know the rules as well as they know their catechism. So beware.
Clarice Orsini de’ Medici certainly did not seem to fall into the mold of Florentine women of which Elisabetta had spoken. Of course, I thought, as I had asked Elisabetta at the time, what would she know of fashionable Florentine women? She knew no more and less than I, as Clarice had just proven.
10
With a chapel for our marriage ceremony and a villa for the reception, the wedding plans began to move forward at a much more rapid pace, and I, for one, was glad. I had come to Florence to make a marriage, and I was eager for it to take place so I could step into the new life I was building for myself.
I had virtually nothing to do with the arrangements. My father selected the fabric from which my gown would be made—something rich and fine enough to show off our family’s status, but nothing too outrageously expensive. I met with the dressmaker for my fittings, and took her recommendation as to the cut and style, so that the gown would be as fashionable as possible while also setting off my beauty to its greatest advantage.
My father and Marco’s also met to devise a guest list. I did not see it myself, but no doubt it was full of mostly Florentine dignitaries, from government officials to important and wealthy businessmen. Invitations were likely also sent back to our friends and acquaintances in Genoa, though how many of them would make the journey for the wedding remained to be seen.
Marco also sent me a trunk full of carefully selected fabrics, some sumptuous for formal occasions, and some plainer for everyday wear. My wife must be well outfitted as befits our station, in the finest cloth that Florence has to offer, his accompanying note said. Have these fashioned in whatever styles you please—no doubt Clarice Orsini de’ Medici can advise you. These fabrics shall be as the petals on a flower, and only serve to make you even more beautiful than you already are. He signed it Yours, Marco.
I took his advice and, in the days leading up to the wedding (set for the beginning of August), I sent Clarice a note begging her to call on me, that she might help me make some fashion decisions.
“My goodness,” she said, as I opened the trunk containing the fabrics, which had been
carried up to my dressing room. “Dear Marco certainly thinks much of you.” She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps he fears that if he does not lavish you with gifts, you will cast him aside for some wealthier, more attentive suitor.”
I straightened up and turned to face her, offended—did I seem like the sort of woman who would go back on my word, on my honor? Who cared for nothing more than money and gifts? But I saw from the sparkle in her eye that she was simply jesting with me. “I do not know that I could find a more attentive suitor than Marco,” I said, relaxing. “And, indeed, I find my heart is quite set on him.”
Clarice studied me carefully as I spoke. “You do love him,” she said. “I can see it.”
“All that I know of love is what I have read in poetry and stories,” I confessed. “But I find that I can no longer imagine my life without Marco, nor do I wish to.”
She smiled. “That rings of love enough to my ears. But, as to a more attentive suitor,” she said, “I think you do not give my brother-in-law enough credit.”
“Giuliano?” I said, surprised and diverted from the riches in the trunk. “Whatever do you mean?”
She drew a folded piece of parchment out of her sleeve and handed it to me, her eyes bright with mischief. “When he learned that I was coming to visit you, he bade me give you this. He has not ceased speaking of you since you dined with us.”
“Indeed?” I said. I unfolded the paper and read through it. It was an elegantly penned love poem, though Giuliano was certainly no Dante. “Flattering, to be sure,” I murmured. “But what am I to make of this?” I brandished the paper at Clarice, and she took it and read it as well.
“Why, nothing,” she said. “It is courtly love, nothing more. It is all the rage amongst my husband and his set. They write words of love and worship to the most beautiful women they can find. It is chaste enough—” She paused, then took a deep breath. “Usually, that is.”
“And so what is my role in all this?” I asked her, feeling like a gauche, unsophisticated child. “Am I to write back, to respond? Should I tell Marco?”
Clarice laughed. “Dear Simonetta, your role—as near as I have been able to tell in observing such games—is to simply be adored, and to enjoy yourself. Revel in it!” She grinned. “Indeed, you had best ready yourself to be so adored by every man in Florence.”
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 7