The household was, naturally, thrown into complete upheaval following Signor Vespucci’s—Marco’s—momentous visit. There was much to do in preparation for our departure for Florence, and my parents were determined to go sooner rather than later. “My family and I will be ready and delighted to welcome you at any time,” Marco had said.
Yet we could not go too soon—not only because of all there was to be done, but also because my mother and I must receive calls from the rest of the ladies in Genoa, who sought to congratulate us and give me their best wishes (and, of course, marriage advice).
Each of these visits was much the same: glasses of watered wine with a matron whom I scarcely knew, and who was usually a great deal older than me. They advised me in everything from running a kitchen to choosing the best kinds of cloth to choosing a wet nurse for my children. Almost without variation, they exclaimed over how beautiful I was, and how I was certain to make Signor Vespucci the happiest of men, their tones and expressions hinting at something dangerous, scandalous, something of which we were not to speak.
Of course, Elisabetta and her mother came to visit as well. Once the usual congratulations had been made, our mothers drew their chairs up next to each other and began to chat away happily, paying us no mind.
Elisabetta smiled thinly at me. “So it is as I said. You have got your Florentine husband.”
I smiled, in the open, honest way I had not allowed myself to when speaking to all the noblewomen of the city. “Yes,” I said. “Or will have, at least. The betrothal is not yet signed, of course, so it is not official, but…”
She waved away my words. “Oh, come, Simonetta, do not be so coy. It is official, for all intents and purposes. You have won.”
“Won?” I laughed. “What contest was I entered in without my knowledge?”
“The contest of being a woman, of course,” she said, and I was surprised to see a hint of a sneer around her lips. “It has ever been a competition between us women, from the moment that Lilith was cast out of paradise in favor of Eve. You have your beauty, of which no one ever ceases to speak, and now your fine Florentine husband with his Medici friends. You, Simonetta, have won it all.”
I was taken aback. “But I do not—”
“No need to know you are in a contest if you are always winning, is there? It is of no consequence. But 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.”
Anger flared in me. “And what do you know of Florentine women and their rules, Elisabetta Abruzzi? You have never left Genoa any more than I have. What is this nonsense you speak, of contests and competitions and winning? If there is any victory here, it is not of my doing.”
I paused, seeing Elisabetta’s face flush red. I bit my lip in consternation. “I am sorry,” I said. “I do not mean to speak harshly to you, my friend.”
“Nor I to you,” she said, the color still heightened in her cheeks. “It is just that … I will miss you. I am sad you are going. Truly.”
I reached out and took one of her hands, where it lay in her lap. “Come to my wedding,” I said. “I shall send you an invitation. You must come to Florence. It will be wonderful.”
She remained still for a moment, then withdrew her hand. “I will see if my parents agree,” she said softly.
I knew, right then, that it would be the last time I saw her.
* * *
Marco only remained in Genoa for two short weeks following his offer of marriage. Amidst all the congratulatory calls and visits, he came to take his leave of me one quiet afternoon. Now that we were betrothed, my parents left us alone in the receiving room with only Chiara for a chaperone.
“I am back to Florence at first light, to make everything ready for you,” he said, once we were both seated. “I am afraid we have spent more time apart than we have together in our acquaintance, and it grieves me, but soon we will have our whole lifetimes to be together.”
“Indeed,” I said, before adding boldly, “And even so I shall miss you.” The excitement of my parents, my neighbors, and everyone outside of this room meant little to me, I had found; what I wanted most was Marco’s company. If only, I sometimes felt late at night, to reassure myself that I was not making a mistake.
No, I thought as I smiled at him. This is no mistake.
“I shall miss you, Madonna, more than words can express—even Dante himself could not find the words!”
I laughed. “Now you go too far, signore. There were no words so far to seek that they could not fly to Dante’s pen.”
“Then I must apologize to Signor Alighieri, and hope that his spirit does not take offense,” he said. “Though as he was never in the same room with you, we will never truly know the extent to which he was able to capture beauty in his verse.”
“More blasphemy! You would have me more beautiful than the divine Beatrice, then?” I asked, enjoying—and flattered by—our lively conversation.
“I would, and to the spirit of Beatrice I will offer no apology.”
“Let us hope that she does not come to haunt us in our new Florentine home, then.”
“No,” he said. “I shall not allow it. Only happiness shall we have there. I promise you.”
I smiled at him again as our eyes met. “I look forward to the fulfillment of your promise, signore.”
“Ah,” he said. “As I said, you must call me Marco.”
I hesitated for a moment. I had not yet spoken his given name aloud before him, and it felt almost too intimate. “Marco,” I said softly.
He rose from his chair and came to kneel beside mine. He was tall enough that, with him kneeling and me seated, our eyes were level. “Yes,” he said. “I am yours to command, Simonetta.” He took my hand and kissed it, his eyes never leaving mine.
* * *
What I did not realize right away amidst all the preparations was that I would not be returning to Genoa before my wedding, and thus perhaps not ever. It did not occur to me until I came into my chambers one afternoon to find my mother consulting with Chiara about the packing.
“Not the bed, nor the coverlets, of course—we shall buy her all new linens in Florence for her trousseau, and they shall have a bigger bed—they will need one.” She giggled. “But, yes, we must have the dressing table sent, and the wardrobe…”
“Why?” I asked, stepping into the room behind them.
My mother turned, starting slightly. “Goodness, Simonetta, what are you doing, lurking at doors like that? A lady never eavesdrops like a common servant.”
“I have only just now come in,” I pointed out, a slight peevishness in my tone that I could not always master when speaking to my mother. “Why shall we need to take all my furniture to Florence with me?”
“For your new home, of course,” my mother said. “What else? Not that Signor Vespucci will not provide you with some marvelous new things, naturally, but no daughter of the Cattaneo name shall come into her marriage looking like a pauper, I promise you!”
“But…” my confusion must have shown on my face, for my mother sighed as if in distress.
“Oh, Simonetta, surely you knew you would not be coming back here?”
“I thought…”
“Oh, my dearest, no. There would be no reason. We shall go to Florence, draw up the betrothal, then set ourselves to planning the wedding. Then you will be married, and move to your new home with your husband. There is no need for you to come back here.”
“I see.” I sat on the dressing table stool, picking up a ribbon that had been left to lay there and twining it idly through my fingers.
My mother came up behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders. “It will be better this way,” she said. “Indeed, once you are in Florence, you will no doubt never wish to come back.”
That night I prayed, as I had not all throughout the last weeks, that Florence would be everything I dreamed, that it would be the paradise of poets and painters that Marco had told me it was. Please, Lord, let me love it there, I thought, feeling too uncertain and childish to even speak the words aloud. Let me love it there at least a little.
And, I reminded myself as I climbed into bed, dragging my cloak of hair behind me and arranging it upon my pillow, Marco would be there. That much I could rely upon.