Of course, it was not as simple as that. Signor Vespucci dined with us again after that, at which time—once my mother and I had retired for the evening—he made his intentions known to my father. Before he could make a formal offer, however, he had to return to Florence—he was almost finished with his studies, in any case—and receive the permission of his family. Apparently he foresaw no difficulty, once he told them of my virtue, my goodness, and my beauty. Especially my beauty.
And so I waited, as was, I supposed, the lot of women.
In those first days after Signor Vespucci’s departure from Genoa, I found myself missing him. Our discussion of Dante had left me with a fondness toward him, and I appreciated that my cleverness in such things was not off-putting to my suitor—quite the reverse, in fact.
And so I missed him and perhaps, more so, I missed the conversations we had not yet had. I knew that we would have nothing but time for such things once we were married, but even so.
And yet, as the days wore on, and we did not hear back from him, that very idea of marriage began to grow ever fainter and more alien to me, like the page of a book one has pored over so often that the ink begins to fade. Perhaps it would be for the best if I heard no more from him, for what did I know of marriage, or of men? Or, more specifically, of this particular man? Knowledge of poetry, a fine mind, and a handsome person did not a good marriage make. Or did it? What more was there, really? I knew I was lucky to have such a young and handsome suitor. Most girls my age were married to men much older than they.
And every so often I would remember what he had said about Florence, about the society there, and about what I could expect to find. I did want that: to meet those wise and learned men that Signor Vespucci had spoken of. I did not want to remain in Genoa with my parents all my life, seeing and learning nothing more of the world than my own town.
Yet who knew if Signor Vespucci had spoken in earnest about taking me to Florence, and presenting me to the Medici’s circle? Why should men like Lorenzo de’ Medici care about a simple nobleman’s daughter from Genoa? Signor Vespucci had spoken no more than a few words on the subject, and I was ready to tumble right into the marriage bed. As far as wooing went, he had not needed to try very hard. And perhaps that’s all his words had been—weightless words meant to woo a naïve maid.
Just over a week after Signor Vespucci’s departure, my friend Elisabetta came to visit me. Quite the gossip, she was a year older than me and still unmarried, which perhaps accounted for our friendship more than anything else: we were the only noble girls of age who had yet to be married or confined to a cloister. Elisabetta was nice enough to talk to, and to visit the merchants with, but often I could only spend so much time in her company before the spite that worked its way into her gossip began to wear on me.
We sat outside in the courtyard, wearing wide-brimmed hats to shield our faces from the sun, yet with the crowns cut out so that our hair could be pulled through and left to fall down our backs, that it might lighten to a dazzling shade of gold. That was what the Venetian ladies did, anyway, and it was said Venetian women were the most beautiful in the world.
“Any word from your handsome suitor?” she inquired as soon as we were seated.
“No,” I answered. “And what of you? Does your father still have his heart set on Count Ricci?”
Elisabetta made a face, and I saw that my words had stung her in a manner I had not intended. The latest gossip about town (for I had Chiara to keep me informed when too much time had passed since Elisabetta’s last visit) was that Elisabetta’s father, after failing to broker her a marriage between any of the younger scions of the local families, had offered her to Count Ricci, a childless widower nearing fifty. I had not thought there was any truth to the tale, but the look on Elisabetta’s face told me otherwise.
“God forgive me, but I should rather be a nun,” she said, primly crossing herself.
I laughed off my discomfort. “Let us hope it does not come to that. Do not worry yourself, amica. Surely your father will look elsewhere for a match for you—Pisa, perhaps, or Florence.”
Elisabetta waved my words aside. “Bah. Pisa is full of nothing but scholars and priests. Florence, though—Florence, it seems, is the place from which husbands hail.” She very nearly leered at me. “As you would know, my dear Simonetta.”
“I have no husband as yet, from Florence or elsewhere,” I said.
“You will soon enough, or so I hear.”
I shrugged in a rather unladylike way. My mother would be appalled. “Perhaps.”
I could feel her eyeing me from beneath the brim of her hat. “Was he not pleasing to you?” she asked.
“Pleasing enough,” I said, remembering that strange moment of kinship. “It is just … I do not know that I want any husband yet.”
Elisabetta laughed. “What else could you do but get a husband?”
“What else indeed,” I murmured, but I knew the answer as well as she did: nothing. The most I had ever dared hope for was that I might find a husband tolerant enough to permit my continued study and reading of poetry, and wealthy enough to keep me supplied with books. Signor Vespucci was just such a one.
“You could never be a nun,” she continued. “You are far too pretty.” When she said it, it sounded as though she were accusing me of being a witch.
“A convent might not be so terrible,” I said, leaning my head against the wall behind us and closing my eyes. I knew even as I spoke that my parents would never allow me to take holy vows. As the only child of the family, I was expected to make an advantageous marriage—and with my beauty, so I had been told many times, I would no doubt be able to make the most fortuitous of matches. Yet the nuns were allowed to read, and the most skilled of them even copied manuscripts.
Elisabetta was still watching me. “I heard he has a mistress,” she said suddenly.
I opened my eyes. “Who? Count Ricci?”
“No,” she said, her gaze still fixed on me. “Your Signor Vespucci.”
I felt as though the pleasant feeling Signor Vespucci had planted in my stomach suddenly went sour. “What of it?” I asked, belying my discomfort—or so I hoped. “Most men do.”
“She is a courtesan in town,” Elisabetta went on, as though I had not spoken. “Her name is Violetta. Apparently she is very beautiful, and much sought after for her particular … gifts.”
I could not believe Elisabetta was insinuating such things—it was as near to vulgar as I had ever heard her. “And so?” I asked, my voice a bit sharp. “What am I to do about it? Not marry him because he once bedded a courtesan? If such were grounds for refusing a husband, every woman in the world would remain a spinster.”
Elisabetta turned her head away slightly. “I just thought you should know.”
I narrowed my eyes. I knew jealousy plain enough when I saw it. Yet Elisabetta seemed to credit me with having more control of my own fate than I did. I may have fancied that I had made a decision in regard to Signor Vespucci, but so long as my father saw an advantage to the match, betrothed I would be. Really, the only thing for me to decide was how much resistance I would offer up.
I closed my eyes again, face tilted up to the sun, the creaminess of my skin be damned. Neither of us spoke again for a long while, and when I finally broke the silence it was only to ask Elisabetta if she might like some wine.
* * *
Three days later, a letter arrived from Florence. Signor Vespucci had spoken to his parents and was returning to Genoa, so the missive went, where he hoped he might have the privilege of coming to call upon my parents and me at once.
I scarcely heard my mother exclaiming in happiness, nor my father proudly booming about what an excellent match it was, an excellent match indeed. No, instead I felt that same warmth sprawl through my lower abdomen, accompanied by something else, something that—I thought—might be joy. And if it wasn’t, perhaps it would be, one day.