“Indeed it does,” Lorenzo replied. “Yet Sandro, here, would speak of art as the highest aim in and of itself, without the glorification of God.”
“That all artists glorify God in their work need not be said,” Botticelli replied. “For it is from Him that all our talent comes. Yet do you not find art for its own sake to be worthy as well, Lorenzo?”
Botticelli’s casual use of his patron’s Christian name surprised me; the two men were obviously much closer than I had first realized. Yet they were, after all, of an age, and perhaps had more in common than their stations would suggest. “You know I agree with you, and then some,” Lorenzo said, smiling.
I felt myself relaxing more than I had since arriving—since coming to Florence, in truth. Relaxed enough, in fact, that my tongue felt much looser than usual—perhaps I had the wine to thank for that as well. “I notice, Signor Botticelli,” I said, looking at him, “that you are not surprised that I should have a knowledge of poetical writings, as so many men are when I speak of such things.”
His blue gaze held mine, firm and unyielding. Here, I realized, was a man who had no doubt of his abilities nor of his place in the world. “It follows that where God has created so beautiful a face and form, He would have created an equally beautiful mind,” Botticelli said.
I blushed. With this sort of compliment I had no experience and therefore no response.
“Well said, Sandro,” Lorenzo said. “We shall make a courtier of you yet.”
At that moment, Giuliano de’ Medici appeared at his brother’s elbow. “Now I find you are monopolizing the most beautiful woman present, brother,” he said, grinning impishly. “Beware of making your new bride jealous!”
I blushed again, yet all three men laughed, so I did my best to join in. “Lay the blame for stealing away Signorina Simonetta at the feet of Sandro,” Lorenzo said. “I believe he is already mapping out a canvas for her in his mind even now.”
The two brothers laughed, but this time Botticelli did not join in. Rather, his eyes held mine again for a moment longer, and then he nodded briefly, so small a movement that I was almost not certain as to whether I had actually seen it.
But I had. And though I knew not then what secret accord I was entering into with the painter, I nodded ever so slightly in response.
*
Dinner was served shortly thereafter at the table in the garden. As his father was indisposed, Lorenzo sat at the head of the table, with his mother, as the lady of the house, opposite him. Clarice sat at her husband’s right hand, and I was shown to the seat immediately to his left, with Marco right beside me.
“Do sit by me, Signorina Simonetta,” he said. “You and Marco are our guests of honor, after all.”
I gave what I hoped was a gracious smile at the honor and took the chair he indicated. Giuliano sat across from Marco, and with us thus placed the rest of the company found their seats.
As the pasta was served, Lorenzo engaged Marco in a lively discussion of Florentine politics, and soon the majority of those at the table had joined in, especially Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni. As I knew not of the issues of which they spoke, nor had I met any of the dignitaries to whom they referred, I kept silent and listened, hoping to learn as much as I could of my new home so that one day I might join in such discussions. Lucrezia, I noticed with surprise and admiration, more than held her own, and was listened to attentively by the men present, especially her eldest son. The mothers, daughters, and wives of Genoese noblemen were expected to stay silent when political matters were discussed, and they always did, at least in my experience. Yet I smiled as I listened to the discourse and to Lucrezia in particular. She certainly lived up to her reputation, as did this Florence of which I had heard so much.
One other guest, I noticed, who did not contribute much to the discussion was Sandro Botticelli. He was seated closer to Lucrezia’s end of the table, and on the opposite side from myself. He spoke rarely, and several times I noticed him watching me. His gaze held the same intensity I had noticed earlier: as though I were a mystery for him to solve, as though he sought to see past my face and my skin and my hair to what lay underneath. As though he sought to see my mind, my soul.
Once I caught him studying me, and held his gaze in a challenge. Yet rather than look away, as would have been polite and seemly, he boldly met my eyes, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. After several heartbeats, it was I who blushed and looked away.
My other admirer—though he at times took his attention from me long enough to join in the conversation—was Giuliano de’ Medici. Out of the corner of my eye I would catch him stealing appreciative glances at me, though never was he so bold as Signor Botticelli—indeed, no one else at the table but I likely noticed.
I was used to such attention, but tonight, in this new and unfamiliar place and among new and unfamiliar people, it set me on edge more than usual. I sought Marco’s hand beneath the table and took it in mine for a moment, and he squeezed my fingers, smiling his handsome smile at me. Instantly I felt better, more sure of myself.
The main course was wild boar—abundant in the Tuscan hills, so Marco informed me—seasoned with spices from the Indies, imported via Venice. On my first bite, I had to stifle a most uncouth exclamation of delight. My family had always dined well in Genoa, of course, but I had never tasted anything quite like this before—rich and flavorful and spicy. I forced myself to take small, ladylike bites, even as I became aware of just how hungry I was—I had not eaten since breaking my fast that morning, and staying poised as I met so many new and important people had left me quite famished. A lady never shovels food in her mouth like a peasant, my mother’s voice admonished me in my head.
As the dessert was being served—a flaky, cream-filled pastry, along with a much sweeter white wine—Lorenzo sat back in his chair and beamed at Marco and me. “I am so glad you are able to be our guests tonight,” he said. “I hope that as you settle into married life, we may see much more of you.”
“We would be honored, as we are by your invitation here tonight,” Marco said.
“Tell me,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward in his chair again, gently spinning the stem of his delicate crystal wineglass between his thumb and forefinger, “have the arrangements been made for your wedding yet?”
“Not as yet,” Marco said. “Our parents are in the process of doing so.”
“Why, then,” Lorenzo said, “we must host your wedding. Do you not agree, Mother?” he asked Lucrezia.
“A lovely idea,” she agreed.
“Yes,” Lorenzo said, becoming more excited the more he thought about it. “Yes, you can be married here at the chapel in the palazzo, and then perhaps a country reception at Villa Careggi? If that is agreeable to you both, of course, as well as your families.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. “Truly, signore?” I asked.