I hid a smile. In his history lessons, Padre Valerio had made many mentions of the Orsini and Colonna families of Rome, and their fight for dominance over the Eternal City and even over the pope himself.
“No, but…” Clarice trailed off, as though beginning to lose herself in the past. “Despite its occasional splendor, Rome is quite different from what you must be imagining, Simonetta. It is dirty and violent and dangerous. The Tiber floods and kills people every year, and when it does not flood it is a cesspool of waste and garbage and things a good woman should never think of. The popes and their court were in Avignon for far too long, and when they returned, the city was nearly past saving, it seems. One pope after another has striven to set the city to rights, but it will take much more time than I am likely to be granted in this lifetime. It will be many years before Rome is worthy of the title Holy City again.”
I remained silent, disappointment washing over me. I had always been taught that one must strive to see Rome in one’s lifetime; to go and pray before the site of St. Peter’s burial; to seek an audience with the Holy Father and ask for his blessing. The picture Clarice painted was not at all what I had expected.
“And so, as I said, I did not expect to miss it,” she went on. “Especially not once I saw how beautiful Florence is, and how clean in comparison. And when I saw the state of my husband’s family, well—I thought I should be quite happy here.” She cast a sad smile at me. “But perhaps this is yet another example of those contrary ways of women you spoke of. I miss my home, even if it is not what it ought to be. Even if there is nothing here but reasons for me to be happy.”
“Surely no one can fault you for missing your home,” I said. I noticed she had spoken of all the reasons she had to be happy in Florence, but had neglected to mention whether or not she was truly happy.
“Perhaps not, but a woman must do her duty no matter what she feels inside,” Clarice said. “It may be that I am as yet not completely used to Florence. I do not know. The society here is so different. The things my husband and his friends speak of sometimes, why … no one speaks so in Rome. No one could. It is heresy, the things they say.”
I was unsure how to respond. I was fairly certain that I had engaged in just such a conversation last night, with Lorenzo and Signor Botticelli. I could hardly admit that to Clarice, nor could I confess that I hoped to engage in such talk often enough in the future, for it thrilled me to the core, even as it made me nervous.
“But that is enough of my melancholy,” she said, reaching for her wine again. “You must tell me of Genoa.”
I warmed to the new topic instantly, describing for my new friend the bustling, busy port; the way the sun sparkled and shimmered on the sea; the way the sun set into the sea each night, bathing the water and the buildings in a brilliantly colored glow.
“It sounds beautiful,” she said when I had finished. “Far more so than Rome. I should like to visit sometime, with you as my guide.” She smiled. “If our husbands can spare us, of course.”
“We shall implore them to do so,” I said, “for I should very much like to show you my city, and my parents would be honored to have you as a guest.”
Our talk then turned to other things, of what foods Clarice recommended I try, and what seamstress she recommended for my wedding gown. We laughed and sipped our wine, and the maidservant, unbidden, brought us a plate of olives and cheeses as well. Soon, half the afternoon had passed without us so much as noticing.
“Goodness,” Clarice said, taking note of the slant of light through the windows, “I suppose I must take my leave and not impose upon your hospitality any further. I am to dine with my husband and his mother and brother soon, in any case.”
“And Lorenzo’s father?” I inquired. “I have heard that he is not well.”
“He is not,” Clarice said bluntly. “I fear that he will not last the year, though—” she broke off, as though she had been about to say something she should not. “It would be a great sadness for Lorenzo and Giuliano and their mother, and for me as well,” she said instead. “Piero has been nothing but kind to me since my arrival in Florence.”
“How sad, that he should be so ill,” I said. “You and your family have my sympathies.”
“I thank you,” she said, rising to take her leave. “It has been difficult.”
I rose to see her out. “Do give my regards to your husband, as well as to Giuliano and their mother.”
“I shall,” she said. “And I shall see to it that you are invited to dine with us again soon.”
“I will look forward to it,” I said, as we moved to the front entryway. “Your husband probably told you, but he also extended use of his library to Marco and myself. I do not wish to trespass on his generosity, but I hope very much to take him up on his offer.”
Clarice went still, for just a moment. “He did not mention it,” she said lightly, “but it does not surprise me. Lorenzo is very generous to his friends. And I do hope you will make use of the library. It shall give us another excuse to spend time in each other’s company.”
“Then I should like nothing better,” I said. “Books and companionship are two of life’s greatest pleasures, I find.”
Clarice laughed. “What an interesting creature you are, Simonetta. I have never been one for books myself, and I cannot see that you, beauty as you are, have much need of them.”
I smiled. “So I have always been told, but I cannot seem to help myself.”
She laughed again. “When next we meet we shall drink a toast to books and companionship, then.” She stepped out into the street and clasped my hands in hers. “I thank you again for hosting me, and I hope to see you again very soon.”
“I hope for the same,” I said, squeezing her hands. “And it was my pleasure.”
Clarice climbed into her carriage and waved one hand out of the window, then was gone.
I turned and went back into the house, unable to stop a smile from spreading across my face. A friend—and a female friend, at that. Hopefully she would prove to be a true friend.
Elisabetta’s words before I left Genoa returned to me, unbidden: 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.
Clarice Orsini de’ Medici certainly did not seem to fall into the mold of Florentine women of which Elisabetta had spoken. Of course, I thought, as I had asked Elisabetta at the time, what would she know of fashionable Florentine women? She knew no more and less than I, as Clarice had just proven.
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