Once again, the picture unfolded in my mind, of Marco and me alone together. And yet … as moments passed and my imaginings continued, the thought of him touching me, of his hands on my body, of him kissing me freely with no one to censure us, caused heat to rise in that very spot between my legs.
Quickly I crossed myself and knelt to pray, realizing that this must be the sin of lust. I must now list this sin among the rest when next I went to confession. Yet, before the words of prayer could come to my lips, I paused. Surely it could not be a sin to feel desire for one’s own husband, could it? Even if he was not yet my husband, he would be, and for us to engage in this act would be holy and blessed; commanded by God himself, just as my mother said.
A slight smile curved my lips as I rose from my knees. I would not speak of this to my confessor.
11
The day of the wedding, I rose with the sun, as did Chiara. I bathed, then put on a soft dressing gown and sat before my mirror for Chiara to put up my long hair. For my wedding day, the longer-than-waist-length tresses must be styled much more elaborately than for any simple dinner party, even one with the Medici family. Today all the eyes of Florence—all the eyes that mattered, anyway, or so I’d been told—would be on me, and I must look a goddess. Nothing less would do.
It took Chiara a few hours to braid dozens of strands of my wavy hair, and to pin each one perfectly into place about my head, like a crown. Woven through these braids were fine strands of pearls, each one carefully nestled amongst my tresses so as to shimmer and catch the light no matter which way I might turn. Between the pearls and the natural gold of my hair, I would have a halo of light around my head in the candlelight.
Once my hair was complete, Chiara helped me dress in my new silk shift—purchased especially for my wedding, and for my wedding night—and then in my gown, of pale yellow satin with elaborate cream silk brocade: embroidered flowers and vines wove their way all over the fabric, finely worked so as to draw the eye and enhance the cut of the gown, but not to distract from my face, my form. The seamstress had assured me so when she had delivered the stunning final product.
My mother was in the room as Chiara laced me into the gown, and her eyes, when they met mine in the mirror, were rimmed with red. “You have never looked more beautiful, Simonetta,” she said, voice wavering, once Chiara had finished and stepped back. She came to stand beside me, brushing two fingers against my cheek, as though to reassure herself that I was still her daughter, even in my new finery befitting a goddess. “You are a woman now. You will make your father and me very proud today.”
“I hope so,” I said. I knelt for her blessing, which she gave.
She smiled through her tears as I rose. “Now let us go downstairs to present you to your father. Then it will be time for us to go to the chapel.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “You are ready, si?”
At her question, doubt stabbed through my breast, just for an instant. I was but sixteen; what did I know of love or marriage? But my parents had wanted this match, had arranged it; and I had to trust that they knew what was best for me, even if I did not know myself. Besides, it would be Marco waiting for me in that chapel—my dear Marco, and he would not change into some different, hostile man to fear simply upon becoming my husband. Quite the reverse, surely.
But since confessing my doubt would change nothing in this moment—perhaps only cause my mother grief—I only smiled and said, “Si, Mama. I am ready.”
*
The close confines of the chapel only permitted a few witnesses to the ceremony itself—my parents, Marco’s parents, and Lorenzo, Clarice, Giuliano, and Lucrezia. They all rose from their seats as I entered, and I seemed to hear a collective gasp at the sight of me. Standing by the small altar with the priest, Marco took me in as I moved toward him, his eyes as round as coins.
He was dressed as richly as I was, in a silk doublet of vibrant red trimmed with pale yellow to match my gown. He looked awestruck as he beheld me, fear and desire and pride and disbelief all mingling on his face. As I approached him, he reached out to take my hand gingerly, carefully, as though he was afraid that in touching me he would find me not real after all, only some vision. I smiled reassuringly at him as he began to lead me the final few steps to the altar, wondering if he could hear my heart pounding beneath all the fine fabric I was wearing.
We knelt before the priest, and the nuptial Mass began. The Latin words blurred together as I tried to steady my breathing and slow my heart. Before I knew it, we were standing again, and I was facing Marco and promising to love and honor and obey him, and he was promising to love and honor me, and then there was a ring on my finger and Marco was kissing me and the witnesses were applauding.
And we were married. We were husband and wife, before both God and man.
And my future was set.
*
We traveled to the Medici villa at Careggi in a litter with Lorenzo and Clarice. From the way that Marco kept my fingers twined with his and cast me longing glances, I was sure that he wished we had a litter to ourselves, but I was glad of our friends’ company. Lorenzo paid extravagant compliments to my beauty, and soon he and Marco were talking of business, leaving Clarice and myself free to chatter on as we would.
“It was a most touching ceremony, truly,” she told me, “and I am sure you do not need me to tell you that you look a vision. You look as though you are not quite real.”
I smiled. “I am all too real, I’m afraid. And I must confess, I do not remember much of the ceremony. This day has already been … a bit overwhelming.”
“I know what you mean. My wedding day was much the same. Still, try to enjoy it. Do not let yourself become too preoccupied with…” She cast a glance at the men to make sure that they were safely absorbed in their own conversation and lowered her voice. “With what comes later. Tonight, that is.”
I nodded quickly.
“You do know what—”
“Yes,” I cut her off. “My mother informed me.”
“Good. Well, try to put it from your mind for now.” A slight flush rose in her cheeks. “Some women enjoy it.”
“So I am told,” I said. “I should like to speak to one such woman.”
Clarice’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Come see me tomorrow, Simonetta, and we will talk. It would not do for married ladies to share such secrets with virgins, now, would it?”
I smiled, but a part of me wished she would not be so coy. I had been prepared for pain and discomfort and endurance, yet so, too, was pleasure hinted at. No doubt there is pleasure to be had—a great deal of it—or this act would not contain such potential for sin, I thought. Surely there is more to men and women making fools of themselves over love than chaste words and staring into each other’s eyes—and beauty. Surely there is something else.