The following day dragged by as I rattled about the house, alone. I wished Marco were there, that I might have some distraction from my thoughts and my endless, cyclical wonderings and questions and justifications and fears. But he was at the Medici bank with Lorenzo, as he was nearly every day. Whether they actually engaged in any banking business there or whether it was all politics and plotting I could not say. Even when I asked, Marco insisted he did not want to “bore” me with his work. Eventually I had stopped asking.
I read a little, and consulted with the family cook about the evening’s meal: fish and fresh greens, along with the tasteless Tuscan bread to which I had never managed to grow accustomed. I was looking forward to dining with Marco, having in a sense been apart from him for much of my illness.
Yet as the dinner hour neared, still there was no sign of Marco. The cook came into the sitting room where I waited, glancing up from my book to peek out the window every so often. “Beg pardon, Madonna,” she said, “but should I proceed with the meal? Even though the master is not yet home?”
“Yes,” I said, after only a moment of hesitation. “And have the table laid when everything is ready, as usual. No doubt he will be here soon.”
But time dragged by, the table was laid, the sun began to set, and still Marco did not appear.
“Everything is ready, Madonna, as it please you,” the kitchen maid said, tiptoeing into the sitting room.
I sighed and rose. “Very well. I still must eat, so I will do so.”
Yet despite my outward calm, I was worried. Marco had never not come home before. And without so much as a word! If he had been detained, no doubt he would have sent a messenger.
I ate alone in the dining room, trying to ignore the worry gnawing at my insides. Surely it was nothing. No doubt he had simply lost track of the time.
Yet as the night wore on, as I finished eating what little I could and the remnants of the meal had been cleared away, as I went upstairs and began to ready myself for bed, still there was no sign of Marco.
Perhaps I should send word to Lorenzo and Clarice, and ask if either of them has seen him, I thought as Chiara unpinned my hair. Perhaps Marco had an engagement this evening that he forgot to mention to me, and if so, Lorenzo may know.
I did not send a message, though. I did not wish to seem an anxious, overly worried wife. Surely there was some explanation.
At least, there had better be, I thought, feeling a bit of anger begin to creep in alongside the worry. God help him if this was merely some nonsense, some silly party or some such that he forgot to tell me about, when I’d been beside myself all evening. And all that food that went to waste as well; if he wasn’t going to be home, the least he could have done was told me so. I might have invited Clarice and the children for dinner, perhaps, and had some company and someone to eat the meal I had prepared.
Even so, I must have fallen asleep—no doubt exhausted from poor sleep the previous night—for the next thing I remember is being awoken by shouts from the street below.
I jerked upright in bed. Surely it was not some silly Florentine swains, come to pay me court at this hour of night, and wake the whole house in the process. Yet as I groped about on the bed next to me in the darkness, I found that Marco was not beside me. Still he had not come home.
Leaping from bed, I pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs, where I could now hear a pounding on the door. Dear God, it must be to do with Marco. My heart wedged in my throat. Perhaps something has happened … should I wake his parents? But I could not stand not knowing any longer, so I went right to the door and opened it.
Before me stood my husband and Giuliano de’ Medici—though perhaps “stood” was too generous a word. Giuliano had his arm looped around Marco’s waist to help him stand, and Marco had an arm draped around his companion’s shoulders—though Giuliano was none too steady on his feet himself. He was swaying, eyes half closed, a sloppy, drunken grin on his face.
His eyes flickered twice and opened wider as he saw me standing before him. “Simonetta,” he said. He drove his shoulder into Marco. “Wake up, Vespucci. Is—your wife,” he slurred.
Marco’s eyes fluttered open. “Simonetta?” he asked, his voice thick with drink. “Can you—open the door?”
“I’ve opened it,” I said. “How do you think I came to be standing here?”
Rather than make them realize their folly, my words instead sent both men into a fit of laughter.
“Come inside,” I hissed, reaching out and grabbing Giuliano’s arm to pull him into the house. “You fools will wake the whole neighborhood.” He stumbled over the threshold, pulling my husband behind him. “You, Marco, might have a care to not wake your parents.”
Marco shrugged, and the simple gesture nearly sent him toppling over.
“Madonna? I heard voices—” I turned to see Chiara behind me, rubbing sleep from her eyes even as she took in the scene.
“Run and fetch my husband’s manservant,” I bade her, “and make up one of the extra bedrooms. I don’t suppose the gallant Giuliano will be able to make his own way home tonight.”
Silently, Chiara left to do as I bade her.
“Honestly, Marco,” I said, knowing he was in no condition to pay heed to my words, but unable to stop myself. “I have been beside myself all evening, worrying because you had not come home. And all this time you’ve been out carousing with him?” I gestured angrily at Giuliano. “You both should know better!”
“God’s thumbs, Marco,” Giuliano slurred, “but she is beautiful, Simonetta, isn’t she? If she wasn’t your wife, I’d take her right here in this hallway—”
I reached out and slapped him, causing him to stumble back a step, though otherwise he seemed to scarcely notice. Unfortunately, though, it did not stop his tongue.
“Tell me, amico,” Giuliano went on, draping an arm around Marco’s shoulders where he leaned against the wall, “is your wife as heavenly a fuck as she looks? Is she as good as—What’s her name, your favorite whore, that Frenchwoman—”
Yet what the Frenchwoman’s name was, I could not hear over the roaring in my ears, the echo—over and over again—of Giuliano’s words. Your favorite whore. Your favorite whore. Favorite. Whore.
Whore.
I turned away from the two men and almost bumped right into Chiara and Giovanni, Marco’s manservant. “Get them out of here and into bed,” I managed. “I have had my fill of this nonsense.” I started to walk away, but stopped and turned back. “And see that wherever my husband sleeps tonight, it is not in my bed.”
“But, Madonna,” Chiara protested, “I only readied one of the extra rooms.”
“Then ready another,” I snapped, “or else put them both in the same bed, if you will. It is no matter to me.”
With that I climbed the stairs and returned to my bedchamber, where I barred the door and prepared for another sleepless night.
* * *
Shortly after dawn I awoke—after what little sleep I had managed to get—with a ghastly headache and with dry, red-rimmed eyes, as though I had been the one who had overindulged in drink. My whole night had been laced with repeats of Giuliano’s words, the words uttered carelessly, thoughtlessly, in a drunken stupor but that nevertheless had the power to upend my entire life. Your favorite whore, that Frenchwoman …
I had assumed—like a fool, apparently—that Marco was a faithful husband to me. After all, why should he not be? Why should I have had any reason to think otherwise? He professed his love for me, often; we made love regularly and certainly with gusto; I ran a proper, efficient home and played hostess whenever he needed me to; I had become accepted among his circle. What could he possibly find lacking in me as a wife? What could be missing? What more did I need to do?
And was I not hailed as the most beautiful woman in Florence? No one in this house knew a day’s peace because of the men calling to me from the street outside, singing to me, begging me for a glimpse or a token. Could this Frenchwoman—this whore—be more beautiful than me? I thought not, for I had not heard of crowds clogging the streets outside her door, whoever she was, to pay her homage.
What more could Marco want in a woman than what he already had?
And thus I came to the crux of it: what was the use of being the most beautiful woman in Florence if I could not keep my own husband faithful to me?
I began to cry.
* * *
At some point, I decided I had best rise and dress and eat something. I would need to face my husband sooner or later—we did live in the same house, after all.
I unbarred the door to my bedchamber and called for Chiara. She came in and dressed me and pinned up my hair, all as if it were a normal day. She did not speak, though; she only cast worried glances at me in the mirror until I felt as if I might scream at her. Yet none of this was her fault, and so I bit my tongue and did not allow myself to take my frustrations out on her.
Why, she was my most loyal friend in the house. Perhaps my only friend.
I went down to the dining room and saw that the kitchen maid had already laid out some bread and cheese and cold meats for me to break my fast. Judging by the amount of food, it seemed the kitchen staff had been told we had a guest as well.
I sank down into a chair and closed my eyes for a moment. I was angry at Giuliano, as well—for speaking of me in such a crude, disrespectful manner, and for letting slip something I would rather not have known.
Yet maybe I ought to be thanking him: for showing me the truth, that I might see my husband clearly, and without any naïveté coloring my gaze. Apparently I had been very naïve where Marco was concerned. But no more.
And yet there was nothing I could do. We were married in the sight of God, and if a husband’s infidelity was cause for an annulment, then there were surely no valid marriages anywhere in the world.
Perhaps blissful ignorance would have been better, after all.
I sighed, opened my eyes, and took some food for my plate, eating in silence.
It was not long before I heard footsteps at the doorway, and the clearing of a throat. I looked up to see Giuliano de’ Medici standing before me—still in his rumpled doublet and hose from the night before—wearing a very sheepish expression on his tired, haggard face.
“Signora Vespucci,” he said, inclining his head to me.
I did not rise. “Signor Medici.”
I let the moment stretch out, just long enough for it to begin to be uncomfortable, before inviting him to sit. “Please, do be seated,” I said, “and help yourself. This food is nothing extravagant, but it will serve to break your fast.”
He came and took a seat, leaving one chair between him and me. He pulled a plate toward himself and began filling it with food. His nighttime debauchery, it seemed, had left him with quite an appetite. “I must thank you for your kind hospitality last night, and this morning as well,” he said. “You are a saint among women, truly.”
“Well,” I said, “you were hardly in any condition to get home.” I knew I was not being gracious, yet I could not help myself.
As if reading my thoughts, he spoke. “I wish to apologize to you, Simonetta. Most profusely. Our behavior—my behavior—was most inappropriate last night, and I realize that I said some things that were most offensive to you.”
“You did, yes,” I said. “I would have thought Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni raised her son better than to speak so about the wife of a friend.”
He flushed. “Yes. She would have thought so, too, and she would be deeply ashamed by my conduct last night. As am I. It was not worthy of me and my name, nor of you and yours. And so I must beg your forgiveness most humbly. It is no excuse, of course, but drink—well, you know what it can do to a man. That was not me, not truly.”
I felt myself relent somewhat under his pleading gaze, his handsome face. “You are forgiven,” I said, “though I pray we do not have a repeat incident.”
He looked visibly relieved. “I can assure you that we will not,” he said.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Now please, eat. I would be a poor hostess, indeed, if I sent you away hungry.”
He gave me his usual charming, winning smile and began to eat.
Giuliano was easy enough to forgive. My husband was another matter entirely.
He appeared in the doorway not long after, dressed in clean, simple clothes, and looking much worse for the wear. Someone who had not seen the two men the night before would have had no trouble discerning that Marco had been the deepest in his cups of them both.
“Simonetta,” he said, not quite meeting my eye. “Giuliano. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well indeed, thanks to your wife’s generous hospitality,” Giuliano said.
“And how did you sleep, Marco?” I asked, my voice sweet but barely concealing the barb within. “Very well, no doubt, thanks to the alcohol. Much better than your wife, I’m sure.”
There was an awkward silence—or at least I presume it was awkward for Marco. I continued with my meal as though he wasn’t there at all.
After a moment, he came and took the empty chair between Giuliano and myself. He took a bit of bread, but nothing else.
“Is the meal not to your liking, husband?” I asked. “Shall I have the cook prepare something else for you?”
Marco grimaced and shook his head. “No, thank you. I find I am not so hungry.”
“Indeed,” I said, unable to stop myself from smirking.
As soon as Giuliano had finished wolfing down his food, he rose. “Thank you again, Signora Vespucci, for opening your home to me, and for the meal.” He kissed my hand. “I trust I shall see you again soon, under … more pleasant circumstances.”
I smiled. “Indeed. It is all in the past, good signore.”
With that, he bowed and took his leave, no doubt anxious to be clear of the storm brewing between my husband and myself. Yet I would be damned if I would speak first.
It was a few moments before Marco spoke. Clearing his throat, he said, “Simonetta…”
“Yes?” I asked expectantly. “Do you have something to say to me, husband? I rather think you do. Or you should.” I laughed. “Yes, I can think of a whole host of things you should be saying to me right now.”
“Well … yes.” He looked away. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what, exactly, Marco?”
“Sorry that we came home in such a state, that we behaved so. That we disturbed your sleep.”
“Indeed?” I asked. “And what of the French whore you were with before returning home? Are you sorry for her as well?”
Marco’s face reddened. “I am sorry you had to hear that. Giuliano was drunk—obviously, we both were—and he did not realize what he was saying, nor in front of whom.”
“Oh, so that is what you are sorry for?” I said, my voice becoming louder, harder. “That I had to hear something so indelicate? That I found out you are an adulterer?” I barked out a laugh. “Yes, no doubt you are sorry that I know that now.”
“Simonetta,” he said. He reached for my hand where it lay on the table, but I angrily pulled it back. “I did not mean to hurt you. This is nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, is it not?” I asked.
“You do not understand,” he said, his voice low.
“You are right, I do not,” I said. “I do not understand at all. Am I not enough for you? Do I not please you enough? Apparently I do not.”
“That is not it at all, Simonetta,” Marco said. “I swear to you.”
“What is it, then?” I demanded.
“What do you expect me to say?” he burst out. “It began when you were ill. Giuliano would come to get me out of the house, and he took me to a house owned by a woman he knows. I met a courtesan there, and I took my pleasure as I saw fit. What was I to do? You were ill. A man has needs, Simonetta.”
“Oh, indeed,” I said scornfully. “Are men no better than animals, then? That when your wife, whom you profess to love, is ill at home you must go out and fuck the first harlot who—”
“How dare you speak to me so!” Marco said, pounding his fist on the table. “I will not tolerate it!”
“And I am expected to tolerate you going out to visit your whore, and expected to welcome you back into my bed when you return?”
“Yes!” he all but shouted. “Because you are my wife and that is the way of the world. I am a man and the master of this household and I shall do as I see fit.”
Silence fell over the room. I was certain the servants were listening just beyond the doors, but I could not bring myself to care. I pushed my chair away from the table and rose, determined not to let Marco see that I was trembling—with fury, with despair, with sadness, with jealousy.
“As you wish,” I said. “You are an interesting man, Marco Vespucci. The most beautiful woman in Florence is not enough for you. What am I to make of that?”
I turned and stormed from the room before he could reply. In my haste to leave, I almost knocked over Marco’s mother in the hallway just outside. “Simonetta!” she cried, startled. “I heard yelling—whatever is the matter?”
“Ask your son,” I said curtly, stalking past her.