The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Away with you,” I said lightly to Clarice, casting Giuliano’s poem to my dressing table, ready to forget it. “Now, back to these fabrics. I quite like the cut of the gown you are wearing. Would you permit me to have a copy made?”

  “Indeed I shall,” she said, “though low necklines are coming back into fashion, so keep that in mind. It is a style that shall flatter you particularly well, I think.”

  And so we spent a happy afternoon sorting through Marco’s gift to me. Clarice accepted my invitation to stay for dinner, and she was her perfectly charming and gracious self toward my parents, making for a merry evening for all.

  * * *

  In those days preceding my wedding, it also fell to my mother to explain what would occur on the wedding night, and what would be expected of me in the marriage bed. I could not conceal my shock and horror when she first outlined the details of the marriage act.

  “But that is disgusting,” I said. “How can I—”

  “Simonetta,” my mother interrupted, covering my hands with her own. “I can see how it might seem so, but it is your duty. It is your duty as a wife to bear children, and to give your husband pleasure so that he need not seek it elsewhere and fall into sin.”

  I was silent. For a young woman with such a thirst for love poetry, I could not believe that the knowledge of such things had completely eluded me for so long.

  “In time,” my mother said, hesitantly, “you may come to enjoy it. Some women do.”

  I blushed at the thought.

  “But your pleasure is of no consequence,” my mother said quickly. “Your only objective must be to please your husband. And so, on your wedding night, when he comes to your bed, you will still be dressed in your shift, and you will simply lie back and let him complete the act.”

  I mulled this over, trying to picture myself and Marco engaging in such an animalistic act, yet unable to do so. My breath hitched.

  My mother patted my hand, noticing my distress. “You shall get used to it in time,” she said. “And you have a few days yet to prepare yourself, and to get accustomed to the idea. It is necessary, I am afraid. God in His wisdom has decreed that this is how children must be brought into the world, and so we women must endure.”

  With that, my mother left me alone in my bedchamber, to contemplate this new and heretofore forbidden knowledge I now possessed.

  Once again, the picture unfolded in my mind, of Marco and me alone together. And yet … as moments passed and my imaginings continued, the thought of him touching me, of his hands on my body, of him kissing me freely with no one to censure us, caused heat to rise in that very spot between my legs.

  Quickly I crossed myself and knelt to pray, realizing that this must be the sin of lust. I must now list this sin among the rest when next I went to confession. Yet, before the words of prayer could come to my lips, I paused. Surely it could not be a sin to feel desire for one’s own husband, could it? Even if he was not yet my husband, he would be, and for us to engage in this act would be holy and blessed; commanded by God himself, just as my mother said.

  A slight smile curved my lips as I rose from my knees. I would not speak of this to my confessor.

  11

  The day of the wedding, I rose with the sun, as did Chiara. I bathed, then put on a soft dressing gown and sat before my mirror for Chiara to put up my long hair. For my wedding day, the longer-than-waist-length tresses must be styled much more elaborately than for any simple dinner party, even one with the Medici family. Today all the eyes of Florence—all the eyes that mattered, anyway, or so I’d been told—would be on me, and I must look a goddess. Nothing less would do.

  It took Chiara a few hours to braid dozens of strands of my wavy hair, and to pin each one perfectly into place about my head, like a crown. Woven through these braids were fine strands of pearls, each one carefully nestled amongst my tresses so as to shimmer and catch the light no matter which way I might turn. Between the pearls and the natural gold of my hair, I would have a halo of light around my head in the candlelight.

  Once my hair was complete, Chiara helped me dress in my new silk shift—purchased especially for my wedding, and for my wedding night—and then in my gown, of pale yellow satin with elaborate cream silk brocade: embroidered flowers and vines wove their way all over the fabric, finely worked so as to draw the eye and enhance the cut of the gown, but not to distract from my face, my form. The seamstress had assured me so when she had delivered the stunning final product.

  My mother was in the room as Chiara laced me into the gown, and her eyes, when they met mine in the mirror, were rimmed with red. “You have never looked more beautiful, Simonetta,” she said, voice wavering, once Chiara had finished and stepped back. She came to stand beside me, brushing two fingers against my cheek, as though to reassure herself that I was still her daughter, even in my new finery befitting a goddess. “You are a woman now. You will make your father and me very proud today.”

  “I hope so,” I said. I knelt for her blessing, which she gave.

  She smiled through her tears as I rose. “Now let us go downstairs to present you to your father. Then it will be time for us to go to the chapel.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “You are ready, si?”

  At her question, doubt stabbed through my breast, just for an instant. I was but sixteen; what did I know of love or marriage? But my parents had wanted this match, had arranged it; and I had to trust that they knew what was best for me, even if I did not know myself. Besides, it would be Marco waiting for me in that chapel—my dear Marco, and he would not change into some different, hostile man to fear simply upon becoming my husband. Quite the reverse, surely.

  But since confessing my doubt would change nothing in this moment—perhaps only cause my mother grief—I only smiled and said, “Si, Mama. I am ready.”

  * * *

  The close confines of the chapel only permitted a few witnesses to the ceremony itself—my parents, Marco’s parents, and Lorenzo, Clarice, Giuliano, and Lucrezia. They all rose from their seats as I entered, and I seemed to hear a collective gasp at the sight of me. Standing by the small altar with the priest, Marco took me in as I moved toward him, his eyes as round as coins.

  He was dressed as richly as I was, in a silk doublet of vibrant red trimmed with pale yellow to match my gown. He looked awestruck as he beheld me, fear and desire and pride and disbelief all mingling on his face. As I approached him, he reached out to take my hand gingerly, carefully, as though he was afraid that in touching me he would find me not real after all, only some vision. I smiled reassuringly at him as he began to lead me the final few steps to the altar, wondering if he could hear my heart pounding beneath all the fine fabric I was wearing.

  We knelt before the priest, and the nuptial Mass began. The Latin words blurred together as I tried to steady my breathing and slow my heart. Before I knew it, we were standing again, and I was facing Marco and promising to love and honor and obey him, and he was promising to love and honor me, and then there was a ring on my finger and Marco was kissing me and the witnesses were applauding.

  And we were married. We were husband and wife, before both God and man.

  And my future was set.

  * * *

  We traveled to the Medici villa at Careggi in a litter with Lorenzo and Clarice. From the way that Marco kept my fingers twined with his and cast me longing glances, I was sure that he wished we had a litter to ourselves, but I was glad of our friends’ company. Lorenzo paid extravagant compliments to my beauty, and soon he and Marco were talking of business, leaving Clarice and myself free to chatter on as we would.

  “It was a most touching ceremony, truly,” she told me, “and I am sure you do not need me to tell you that you look a vision. You look as though you are not quite real.”

  I smiled. “I am all too real, I’m afraid. And I must confess, I do not remember much of the ceremony. This day has already been … a bit overwhelming.”

  “I know what you mean. My wedd
ing day was much the same. Still, try to enjoy it. Do not let yourself become too preoccupied with…” She cast a glance at the men to make sure that they were safely absorbed in their own conversation and lowered her voice. “With what comes later. Tonight, that is.”

  I nodded quickly.

  “You do know what—”

  “Yes,” I cut her off. “My mother informed me.”

  “Good. Well, try to put it from your mind for now.” A slight flush rose in her cheeks. “Some women enjoy it.”

  “So I am told,” I said. “I should like to speak to one such woman.”

  Clarice’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Come see me tomorrow, Simonetta, and we will talk. It would not do for married ladies to share such secrets with virgins, now, would it?”

  I smiled, but a part of me wished she would not be so coy. I had been prepared for pain and discomfort and endurance, yet so, too, was pleasure hinted at. No doubt there is pleasure to be had—a great deal of it—or this act would not contain such potential for sin, I thought. Surely there is more to men and women making fools of themselves over love than chaste words and staring into each other’s eyes—and beauty. Surely there is something else.

  Yet I began to feel afraid again. My mother had told me I must think only of my husband’s pleasure. But how would I know how to see to such a thing? I glanced at Clarice again. “But … what must I do? What if I cannot … make him happy?”

  Clarice laughed, then quickly looked contrite. “I am sorry, Simonetta. I do not mean to laugh. But trust me, you need not do much of anything at all to ensure his pleasure. Especially not you, beautiful as you are.”

  “What are two such lovely ladies whispering about so intently?” Lorenzo interrupted, and we glanced up to see both of our husbands—yes, I had a husband now—looking at us curiously.

  Clarice laughed in her throat, a low, alluring sound I had not heard from her before. “Just the idle talk of married women,” she said, winking at me. “Nothing you illustrious men need concern yourselves with.”

  “Indeed,” Lorenzo said, and I saw the look he and his wife exchanged. I knew their marriage was a political one, and I had not wanted to ask Clarice whether love had grown between them as well. In public they were fastidious and proper, as befit their station. Yet here was the first time I had seen a glimmer of something more.

  We arrived at the villa before too long, and with my mind whirring I scarcely took in the picturesque setting, the charming buildings set against the lush Tuscan hills. Servants came out to greet us and to show Marco and me to the chamber that had been prepared for our wedding night. Our own servants followed us in from the cart where they had been riding, along with the light baggage we had brought with us: a few personal items and changes of clothes for our trip back to the city the following day. They brought these things into the chamber and then left us alone.

  Marco turned to me, taking my hands in his. “Alone at last, as husband and wife.”

  I smiled. “Yes.”

  “It would not do to not appear at our own wedding feast, especially one that has been so generously provided for us by our friends,” he said, his voice low. He stepped closer and stroked my cheek, his fingers trailing down my neck. “But by God, Simonetta, I am tempted to consummate our marriage this very moment.”

  My heart pounded faster, though from fear or excitement, I could not tell. “As you said, it would hardly be right,” I murmured, glancing up at him.

  He groaned. “Do not look at me that way. My resolve is tested enough as it is.” Quickly, he leaned down and kissed me, gently but insistently, his tongue slipping into my mouth.

  I gasped in surprise, but my mouth opened beneath his and I began, tentatively, to respond. Marco groaned against my mouth and pulled me tightly against him. As the kiss went on, he took my hand and placed it on the hardness beneath his hose.

  Startled, I quickly drew back, only to regret it as I saw the shock and disappointment on Marco’s face. “I am sorry,” I said quickly. “I just—this is—should we not…”

  Marco took a deep breath. “You are quite right. As I said, it would not do to be late to our wedding feast.…” he trailed off, regarding me in silence for a moment. “Do you fear me, Simonetta?”

  “Fear you? No, of course not,” I assured him. “It is just that … I am not sure how … that is, I…” I trailed off, sounding a very fool even to my own ears. What did I even mean to say? I was not sure; I did not know how to explain to Marco, a man, all the ways in which a woman’s value was tied to what was between her legs, when I was only beginning to understand it myself. When I knew barely what was expected of me in the physical sense, and nothing beyond that.

  Why was there no book that spoke of such things?

  I felt my love for him grow a bit more when he smiled at me then. “I understand,” he said. “At least, I think I do.” He stepped closer to me again, this time kissing me chastely on the forehead. “As difficult as it is, I shall wait until tonight, so that our first bedding might be a proper one. And please, Simonetta,” he said, his expression growing serious, “do not be afraid of me, or of what will take place between us as husband and wife. I will be gentle, I promise. I want only to make you happy.”

  Relieved, I smiled up at him and let him lead me from the room and down to the hall where the banquet was being laid out and our guests were assembling.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Marco and I greeted our guests, starting of course with our hosts, Lorenzo and Clarice, followed by Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni.

  Giuliano came behind his mother. “Ah!” he said as he approached, his hands over his heart. “Your beauty, Signora Vespucci, serves only to accentuate that this is the unhappiest day of my life. Perish the thought that a man must see his lady love wed to another!”

  I laughed, uncertain how else to react to such a speech—especially since Marco seemed amused, nothing more. I remember Clarice’s words when she had brought me Giuliano’s love note, that this was all a game in which I was both player and prize. “You are a most devoted cavalier, Signor Giuliano.”

  He closed his eyes as though in ecstasy. “Such kind words from my goddess will sustain me better than all the food of this magnificent feast.”

  Marco clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Away with you,” he said. “Go drown your sorrows in wine.”

  “So I shall,” Giuliano said dramatically, “that I may fall into a drunken slumber and dream of my dear Simonetta’s lips.”

  “He is almost too ridiculous, is he not?” I asked Marco, who only chuckled in reply as the next person in line stepped forward.

  The overwhelming majority of the guests were not known to me, so I did my best to smile pleasantly at each person presented to me, accepting their compliments on my gown and hair, on my beauty and grace, with what I hoped was an easy and gracious charm.

  “I shall never remember all of these people,” I murmured to Marco during a pause. “I barely remember everyone Lorenzo introduced me to when we dined with him!”

  Marco smiled. “Do not worry your pretty head about that, darling. They are all so awed by you, and thrilled simply to have a word or two from you. They should all die of delight were you to remember their names as well, and it would never do for you to slay our wedding guests.”

  I laughed at this, but Marco was only partially correct, I noticed. The men appeared quite thrilled to make my acquaintance, true, but the women—their wives—seemed, for the most part, cool and suspicious.

  To my surprise, at the end of the long line of guests was Signor Botticelli.

  “Ah,” Marco said, when he spotted him. I felt his body grow slightly tense beside me. “Signor … Botticelli, was it not?”

  He bowed to the two of us. “Indeed, Signor Vespucci. An honor that you should remember me.”

  It was just what he was required to say, but I was surprised by the lack of feeling and sincerity behind it. It was obvious enough to Marco as well, for he only nodded tightly
in acknowledgment.

  “Ah, Sandro,” Lorenzo de’ Medici said, turning back to us from where he had been talking with some friends. “Signor and Signora Vespucci, you remember Sandro Botticelli, do you not? He is here at my invitation.”

  “Indeed,” Marco said, a barely discernible edge to his voice.

  “I remember you well, signore,” I said, smiling.

  “Since meeting you, Signora Vespucci, Sandro has spoken of little else, not in my hearing, anyway,” Lorenzo said. “He wishes to paint you, as I believe he mentioned when you were introduced, and I confess I invited him in the hope that you might favor him with a commission. For what better inspiration could an artist have than this most beautiful of brides on her wedding day?”

  “Indeed,” Marco said again. “Well, then we must follow your advice, Lorenzo, for if you recommend him, then he must be an artist of the utmost skill.” If anyone but me noted the lack of enthusiasm in Marco’s voice, no one remarked upon it. Still, I felt a thrill at his agreement that this talented man might paint me.

  “I should be honored if such a distinguished gentleman as yourself found me so,” Botticelli said.

  “So it is your art that brings you here, Signor Botticelli,” I said.

  “Indeed. It is my art that brings me most places,” he said, and a hint of a smile appeared on his handsome face. “But I do want to take this opportunity to wish both of you much joy and happiness in your marriage.”

  “We thank you, signore,” Marco said. “Now I pray you enjoy the feast, and we shall perhaps talk in more detail about your proposed portrait of Signora Vespucci at a later date.”

  Thus dismissed, Botticelli bowed and left us to find his seat.

  I turned to Marco, excited. “Will we truly have him paint me?” Botticelli’s painting of Judith lingered in my mind’s eye, and I felt that same surge of longing, of curiosity, to see how he might portray me. To see how he saw me, in ways that perhaps I had never seen myself.