“The honor is all mine,” she said, removing her cloak and handing it to the servant. “I hope I am not intruding, to arrive unannounced like this.”
“Not at all.” I turned to my mother. “May I present my mother, Cattocchia Cattaneo. Mother, this is Clarice Orsini de’ Medici, wife of Lorenzo de’ Medici.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Donna Cattaneo,” Clarice said.
“A pleasure and an honor to meet you as well,” my mother responded. “And welcome to our house, temporary though it is.”
“It is a lovely house,” Clarice said. “I hope you all are comfortable, and are enjoying your stay in Florence?”
“Oh, very much,” my mother said. “Simonetta has told us of your husband’s very generous offer to host her wedding to Marco—to Signor Vespucci, that is. So very kind. We are honored beyond words.”
“It is our pleasure, that we might bring joy to our friends,” Clarice said softly, and I remembered, with some discomfort, her look of pique the night before when Lorenzo, together with his mother, had spontaneously offered to host the wedding.
“In any case,” my mother said as, much to my surprise, she began to move toward the door, “I shall leave you young women to your talk. So very lovely to meet you, Donna Medici.”
“Likewise,” Clarice murmured, and my mother left the sitting room.
I had thought for certain that my mother would wish to stay, to listen in on our gossip, and to cultivate a connection of her own to the Medici family. Yet perhaps she wished for me to become accustomed to receiving and entertaining my own callers, as I would soon need to do as Marco’s wife.
“Please, sit,” I murmured, and Clarice took the seat my mother had just vacated. “I shall send for some wine.”
“That would be lovely,” Clarice said.
I quickly stepped outside the room and sent one of the maidservants to the kitchen with instructions. Then I returned to the sitting room and took up my chair again.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” Clarice said in her soft voice.
“Not at all,” I said. “I must thank you again for yours last night. It was so wonderful to meet some of my future husband’s friends.”
“Indeed,” Clarice said. “And no doubt you shall be seeing much more of them from now on. Lorenzo likes to keep his friends close.”
“I gathered as much. I was also introduced to a few writers, I believe, as well as a painter, Sandro Botticelli.”
“Yes,” Clarice said. “Signor Botticelli is a new find of my husband’s. Lorenzo has yet to favor the man with a commission himself, but he has been about a good deal of late. I believe he is establishing his own studio in Florence.”
“How lovely,” I said, not sure how else to respond, nor how to inquire about him further without seeming improper.
“Indeed,” Clarice said, as though she did not care one way or the other about Signor Botticelli and his work. “And you no doubt met Marsilio Ficino as well, the scholar.”
“I believe so,” I said. “In truth, Madonna Clarice, I was introduced to so many new people last night that I do not know if I could identify the face which belongs to each name.”
She smiled. “I am not surprised,” she said. “Signor Ficino was a great friend of my husband’s grandfather, and was one of Lorenzo’s own teachers. He keeps him and many other scholars and artists always about.” She sighed. “I have found it somewhat wearisome, being always in the company of men.”
I found it telling that she did not mention Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni, but I kept my silence.
“This is why I was so happy to make your acquaintance, Madonna Simonetta,” she said, her expression brightening. “It will be so nice to have another woman to converse with.”
I smiled. “And I was equally delighted to make your acquaintance,” I said. “What friends I had I left behind in Genoa.”
“Of course,” she said. “And I cannot imagine—” she broke off. “Forgive me. I do not mean to be so forward.”
“No, please,” I said. “If we are to be friends, you must speak freely, Madonna Clarice.”
“If we are to be friends, you must call me Clarice.”
“Only if you will call me Simonetta,” I said, smiling. “But I pray you, Clarice—you may say whatever you wish.”
“Indeed,” she said. “This may be quite inappropriate of me, but I—well, I shall be frank, as you wish. Upon seeing how beautiful you are, I thought that I should hate you. But that would be quite wrong of me, because you—why, you are lovely, both within and without.” She blushed. “I am sorry. I should not have—”
“No, no,” I said. “I confess that I have never been able to count many female friends—I suppose for jealousy. Though God in His wisdom has given me a face and form that many consider beautiful, there have been times when I wished that He bestowed His blessing—if indeed it is—on someone else.”
Clarice laughed. “And so the beauties of the world pray to be plain, and the plain girls pray for beauty.”
I laughed as well. “Perhaps it speaks more to the contrary nature of women than anything. Though I would venture that men are contrary enough, in their own way.”
“I can promise you they are.”
“As I will learn, soon enough,” I said. “I do not know much of men nor their ways at present.”
“As a wife, you shall learn all too quickly,” Clarice said.
Here our conversation paused, and we both smiled at each other good-naturedly. Here was a woman—a friend—who would understand my concerns, my troubles, perhaps even my sorrows, and could teach me to fit in within Florentine society in a way that Marco never could, recent arrival though she was herself.
Just then, the maidservant came in with the carafe of wine and two glasses, and she served my guest first, then me. She curtsied and withdrew, and Clarice and I each took a sip, letting the silence continue.
“You must tell me of Rome,” I prompted after a moment, remembering that she had come from one of the great noble families of the Eternal City.
Clarice smiled, pleased to be reminded of her home. “To be frank, I had thought that when I left Rome, I would not miss it in the least.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “It is not half so beautiful as Florence. There are beautiful churches, of course, and the palazzi of the great nobles—my family included—are sights to behold. Many of the cardinals live in splendor as well, though no palazzo is so grand as that of the Holy Father, as is only right.”
“And have you visited the palazzo of the Holy Father?” I asked, diverted. “Have you had audience with him?”
“Oh, of course,” Clarice said, “with more than one pope. My family—the Orsini—are second only to His Holiness in Rome.” She wrinkled her nose. “No matter what any of the Colonna might tell you.”