My entire body grew flushed at this conversation. “I shall take your words into consideration.”
She laughed. “Indeed. I think you are considering them already. So much so that I think I ought to send you back to your bedchamber, and send your husband in after you.”
I smiled. “The second time, it … was not unpleasant.”
“Dear Simonetta, it can be so much better than ‘not unpleasant.’ I promise you.”
As though somehow prompted by our words, by my thoughts, Marco turned from where he walked on ahead with the Medici brothers and gave me a smile full of warmth, love, and what I now recognized as desire.
I returned the smile, certain that mine was brimming with the very same things.
* * *
We walked to the edge of the Medici property, then turned to make our way back to the villa. The day had become almost punishingly hot, and I was sweating even in my light, simple dress.
“At least in our carriage we shall be out of the sun,” Marco said, wiping his brow with a piece of cloth. He had come to the back of the group to offer me his arm, and Clarice had gone to walk with her own husband.
“Small mercies,” I said, feeling rather out of breath. I did not wish to complain, though, not when our hosts had been so generous to us. I could see the villa from our path; it would not be much longer now before we could step into the cool rooms.
Just then, I began to feel quite faint—a result of the heat or something else, I was not quite sure. I stumbled, and would have fallen to the grass had Marco not noticed and caught me.
“Simonetta!” he cried, and it sounded as though his voice was coming from very far away as everything momentarily faded to black.
It must have been only a minute that I was unconscious, for as I came to I heard Lorenzo speaking to his brother. “Giuliano, run back to the villa and have the servants bring a sedan chair for Madonna Simonetta. And some water. Hurry!”
I did not hear Giuliano’s reply, if he made one; only his footsteps quickly retreating back up to the villa.
I opened my eyes and found myself half lying on the ground, Marco’s arm beneath my shoulders to support me.
“Simonetta, darling,” Marco said. “Are you alright?”
I took several seconds more to regain my breath before answering him. “I think so,” I said. “I am not sure what happened, but I … I feel better now, I think.”
My mother nodded. “The excitement, no doubt,” she said.
“And this brutal heat cannot have helped,” Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni added. “My dear, you should have told us you were feeling unwell! We would not have dragged you outdoors into this scorching morning had we known.”
“I felt fine until just a few moments ago,” I said. Now that the spell had passed, I was merely embarrassed to have caused such a fuss, and to have drawn everyone’s attention. “Truly, you are all kind to worry, but it is nothing, I am sure. I am sorry to have ruined everyone’s morning.”
“None of that,” Lorenzo said. “Your well-being is our primary concern, and nothing else.”
“You are too kind,” I said. “I am fine, I am sure of it.”
Marco squeezed my hand. “We shall summon the doctor directly upon our return to Florence.”
“Perhaps you should not return today at all,” Clarice interjected. “You are both welcome to stay as long as you need, until Simonetta feels up to the journey.”
“Si,” Lorenzo said. “In fact, you can both stay here and I will send for our doctor to come from Florence to attend you, Madonna Simonetta.”
“You are all too kind,” I said again. “But please, let us make no more of a fuss than is warranted. I am feeling quite restored now, and I am sure the return journey will pose no problem at all.”
“If you are sure, moglie,” Marco said slowly. “But I shall still call for the physician once we arrive home.”
“I do not believe there is any need,” I said, getting to my feet despite the worried looks of the company. “But if it shall set your mind at ease, marito, then, by all means, send for him.”
Just then Giuliano returned, with a wineskin full of fresh, clean water from the countryside. “For you, my dearest,” he said, dramatically kneeling to offer it to me. “It is an honor and privilege to come to your aid, though it is abhorrent to me that any illness should dare inflict itself upon you.”
I smiled and took the wineskin from him, and in spite of his chivalrous, playful words I could see the worry in his eyes as well.
“Simonetta assures us that she is well, fratello,” Lorenzo said.
“Beauty overcomes all adversaries,” Giuliano declared. “But even so, some servants are following me with a sedan chair. We shall not permit you to walk the rest of the way, Madonna.”
As if summoned by his words, four male servants bearing the chair came down the path toward us.
“You are all making a ridiculous fuss over me,” I said, but I obliged and climbed into the chair. Once I was seated, the servants lifted the chair and bore me back up to the villa, and in spite of my self-consciousness at having brought such a dramatic end to the morning, I was grateful not to have to walk the rest of the way.
* * *
Marco helped me back up to our suite of rooms, and directed Chiara to pack my things immediately. Scarcely an hour later, we were once again ensconced in a carriage with Lorenzo and Clarice on our way back to Florence.
By the time we returned to the city, it was quite clear that I was not as well as I’d thought, and that my fainting spell had been the precursor of something much more serious. The Medici carriage brought us directly back to our rooms at the Vespucci palazzo, which would be our new home. Yet we had to dispense with the Florentine custom wherein the groom would show the bride every inch of her new home, from top to bottom—I was scarcely conscious—so Marco carried me up to our bed instead.
Lorenzo sent the Medici physician to attend me, who pronounced that I had a fever, and bled me. He left Chiara with instructions to place cool cloths on my forehead and change them as necessary.
I woke up the next night, sweating through my shift, in an unfamiliar room lit only by a single candle. I began to panic at first—where was I? How had I gotten here?—but as my eyes adjusted and I saw Marco asleep in a wooden chair in the corner, I began to remember.
I was married. I had fallen ill, and now I was in my new home with my husband.
I struggled to sit up against the pillows and licked my dry lips. I was so thirsty … and yet I hated to wake Marco, who looked as though he was sleeping deeply, despite his uncomfortable position.
Almost as though my thoughts had roused him, Marco woke with a start, his eyes fixing on me. “Simonetta,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You are awake.”
“I am.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Better,” I said. “I do believe that this—whatever it was—has passed.”
“Thanks be to God,” he said, and even in the dim light I could see how haggard and wearied he looked, as though he had just woken from his first slumber in days.
“But why do you sleep in that chair, marito?” I asked. “There is plenty of room in our bed for you.…”
“I did not want to disturb you,” he said. “Are you truly feeling well, Simonetta? I was so worried.…”
“As I said, better,” I said. “I hate to trouble you, marito, but my throat is so dry … if there is anything to drink…”
“Dio mio, of course,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I should have thought of that. I shall return directly.” He quickly left the room, and returned moments later with a goblet of watered-down wine.
I accepted it and gulped it down greedily.
“More?” he asked when I was finished, hovering over me.
I set the goblet on the small table beside my bed. “Perhaps in a bit,” I said. I patted the mattress beside me. “Sit here with me, and tell me what has happened.”
Marco obliged, telling me of br
inging me back and of what the doctor had said. “It is all my fault,” he finished, burying his head in his hands.
At first, I stopped myself from reaching out to comfort him—old habits of propriety were difficult to be rid of, it seemed—but I was his wife now, and I could comfort him—and touch him—as much as I wanted. I placed a hand on his cheek, lifting his face so that I could see it. “What nonsense,” I said gently. “How should my taking ill be your fault?”
He shook his head shamefacedly. “It was all too much, perhaps—the wedding and the feast and the journey and the heat.”
“None of those things made me sick, I shouldn’t think,” I said. “I am just as yet not used to your Florentine air.” I smiled at him. “I grew up by the sea, remember. I am used to fresh, clean breezes, not a landlocked city such as this, and its…”
“Stench,” he finished for me, a rueful smile on his face.
I laughed. “My mother would no doubt tell me that a lady does not talk of such things,” I said, “but yes.”
He reached out and took my hand where it lay on the bedcovers, his face becoming quite serious. “If you wish it, Simonetta—if you think it will be better for your health—we can return to Genoa,” he said. “I can find a position there, with my connections—I am sure of it. I want to do what is best for you, and nothing else.”
“Oh, but we cannot!” I said. “You are to begin working with Lorenzo, and your whole life is here in Florence!”
His expression did not change. “You are my whole world,” he said quietly. “None of the rest of it means anything to me without you.”
I was quite at a loss for words. “You are so sweet, Marco,” I said softly. “I know not what I have done, that God should have granted me such a wonderful husband.” I squeezed his hand. “We shall stay,” I said. “I like Florence, and your friends. I took a summer fever—what of it? Many do each year, and we are lucky that it was not worse.”
He nodded slowly. “As you wish, mia carissima Simonetta.” He rose from the bed. “I shall fetch you some more wine, and then perhaps it might be best for you to rest again.”
I nodded, suddenly aware of how heavy my eyelids felt. “Yes,” I said. “I think that would be best.”
Marco returned with more watery wine, and once I drank it I lay back against the pillows again. Just before sleep took me, I felt Marco get into the bed beside me, his body curled protectively against mine, as though he would—or could—protect me from illness itself.
I smiled before falling back asleep. It was only the second night I had shared a bed with him, but already I did not know what I would do without him there.
13
Within a few days, I felt perfectly well again. The fever and headaches were gone, and I was itching to leave the house. Marco was finally able to take me through the entirety of the house. We had an entire wing to ourselves, and need not even see his parents if we wanted our privacy. We had a dining room and a receiving room and extra bedrooms for guests and—hopefully someday soon—children.
Marco had continued to sleep beside me during my illness, in case I should need anything in the night, but he did not seek to claim his rights as a husband—something that I was quite glad of, in my weakened state. Yet even once I recovered, he continued to sleep chastely beside me, and I began to worry. Had I done something wrong, in one of the two times that we had been together as man and wife?
I decided to take matters into my own hands. I had a sneaking suspicion that doing so was not strictly in the interest of wifely modesty, but I found I could not wait. Besides, I was curious about these “pleasures” of which I had heard so much.
One night, I lay abed in a clean shift, longing impatiently for Marco to come up to bed. Before dismissing Chiara, I had had her take down my long, heavy hair, rather than keeping it tied back as she had done when I was ill. It spilled over my shoulders, over the pillow and the bedclothes, in a way that I hoped was particularly fetching.
When Marco finally came in, I sat up quickly. “Husband,” I said, pitching my voice low in what I hoped was an alluring tone. I knew nothing of seduction, truth be told, but was willing to try.
He paused upon seeing me. “Wife,” he said, desire flickering across his face. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“I have,” I said, keeping the same tone in my voice. “Our marriage bed is cold and lonely without you.”
“Is it, indeed?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. Yet I could detect the wanting in his voice, in his eyes.
“It is,” I said. “I was hoping you could come warm it for me.”
He swallowed, and my heart plummeted as I saw that he was fighting the desire to take me in his arms. “Are … are you sure that you are well enough, Simonetta?”
“I have been well enough for days,” I said.
“Only if you are sure,” he said, still not moving. “I would not want to put your health at further risk … or tax your strength…”
Slowly, I slid from the bed and impulsively lifted my shift over my head, and dropped it to the floor. Thus I stood before him, clothed only in my long hair, every inch of my pale flesh bared to his eyes. I tilted my head, raising my eyebrows.
He groaned aloud and swiftly crossed the room to me. He took my face in his hands and kissed me roughly, yet I did not mind. The fabric of his shirt and breeches chafed against my skin, and I drew back. “You are overdressed, husband,” I murmured, my fingers moving to the laces of his breeches.
Once he was as naked as I, we tumbled to the bed, mouths locked, tongues exploring. His body half covered mine as he reached between my legs, his fingers exploring, stroking. I gasped, feeling a hint of the promised pleasure.
“Yes,” I begged. “More.” I was unable to articulate better what I wanted, yet I felt Marco smile against my mouth as his fingers increased their pressure, feeling waves beginning to build within me, aching to crash against the shore.
I cried out as a fierce pleasure that verged on pain ripped through me, causing my whole body to shudder, my head thrown back.
“Yes, my Simonetta,” Marco murmured as the glorious storm subsided. “Good, si?”
“Yes,” I murmured. I wrapped my arms around him hungrily, and my legs twined around his waist, our bodies fitting themselves together. There was no pain this time, only the shadow of that delicious pleasure and the desire for more. I clutched him tighter to me, arching against him as he moved within me, so different, this time, from before.
Yes, I thought as he reached his pleasure, gasping as he fell against me. This, surely, is what the marriage act is meant to be.
After a moment, Marco rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, breathing hard. “Temptress,” he whispered at last, opening one eye and smiling at me.
“I believe that God smiles on the wife who gives her husband a happy marriage bed,” I said. I leaned over him, my hair falling around both of us, and kissed him.
“Then God shall smile upon you more than any woman, I should think,” he said. “You are delicious, Simonetta.” He grinned at me. “And I trust that my wife is happy in her marriage bed as well?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me so that I lay partially atop his bare chest.
“I am,” I said. I giggled foolishly; I could not help it. “Perhaps…”
He eyed me. “Yes?”
“Perhaps we might make each other happy again soon?” I reached between his legs and hesitantly caressed him.
“You have cast a spell on me, wife,” he said. He rolled me over onto my back in one motion, causing me to squeal with delight.
* * *
Once my illness was behind us, we spent an idyllic honeymoon period together. My parents took their leave of us once I was well again, and returned to Genoa. I had thought I would miss them terribly, yet I had other things to distract me. For a week, neither of us left the palazzo if we did not have to; we dined alone, retired early, and lingered in bed long into the morning. I began to learn that the joys of the marriage bed ext
ended beyond that first wonderful night we had spent together, and I was eager to discover them all, as well as find new ways that I might please my husband. Sometimes, after we had made love, I would reach for the book of poetry Lorenzo had given us—which I had taken to keeping on our bedside table, in lieu of a Bible—and read my favorite verses aloud, Marco’s head leaning contentedly against my shoulder. Every so often, he would ask me to go back and repeat a line that had particularly struck him, and we would say it over and over together until we both had it memorized.
Married life, so far, was suiting me quite well.
One morning I lingered in bed after Marco had risen. I knew my deliberate laziness could not last much longer, but the Florentine summer dragged on so hot and oppressive, and I was finding I much preferred to remain in bed wearing nothing at all.
Yet soon Marco came back in, still only partially dressed. “A messenger has come,” he said, showing me a bit of parchment. “One of the servants brought this up. We are invited to dine at the Medici palazzo tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, how lovely,” I said. “It will be nice to see our friends again.” I giggled. “They will think us quite rude indeed, to have ignored them for so long.”
“We are newlyweds, wife,” Marco said, his eyes devouring me. “It is to be expected that we ignore the world for a time.”
“I am sure they shall forgive us, then.”
* * *
The following day, I bathed in preparation for dinner that evening. Chiara dressed me and pinned up my hair, ensuring that I looked my best. Yet I was much more relaxed this time; I had already been judged by the Medici and their circle and not been found wanting, and I thought of them—especially Clarice—as my friends.
Marco and I arrived at the Medici palazzo at the appointed time, and were shown to the garden again.
“Ah, there are the newlyweds!” Lorenzo cried. “I am surprised we managed to rouse you from your lovers’ nest! I knew that nothing short of a direct invitation would suffice to return you to your friends’ company again.” He came to greet us, clapping Marco on the back, and kissing my hand. “But who can blame you, Marco, to stay shut away from the world with such a bride,” he said, though his eyes were on me. “You look as beautiful as ever, Madonna Simonetta—more so, even. I daresay that marriage agrees with you.”
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