I was a wife. Marco was my husband, and never would we be parted as long as we should live. I would live in his house and be always at his side, to serve and please him. And possibly, last night or even just this very morning, we had made a child whom I would raise to make him proud.
Perhaps two hours later, Marco awoke again and sat up. “I could spend the rest of my life in bed with you,” he said, “but I suppose we must do our duty as guests and appear downstairs soon.”
“I think you are right,” I said.
He got out of the bed and stretched. “Did you sleep any more, my darling?” he asked. “We must journey back to Florence again today.”
“I did not,” I said. “Too much excitement, I fear.”
He smiled. “Let us pray that God grants us much more excitement and happiness in our life together.”
“Amen,” I said.
He leaned across the bed and kissed me. “I shall leave you to dress, then, and will go do the same. When you are ready, we shall go downstairs to break our fast.”
With that, he left, retreating back into the same dressing room from which he had emerged the night before.
I lay back against the pillows for a moment, stretching languidly. I felt as though now I could fall right back to sleep, and sleep the day away. Yet Marco was right: we must be gracious guests, especially after all the expense the Medici family had gone to on our behalf.
I got out of bed and padded into the maid’s room that adjoined the dressing room, rousing a still sleeping Chiara. “Mi scusi, Madonna!” she cried, tumbling out of bed. “I did not know what time—”
“Do not worry,” I interrupted her. “It is of no consequence. It is a strange day, I think. As soon as you are ready, I must dress.”
I wandered back into the dressing room and sat before the dressing table. My reflection looked wan, tired. It was indeed a strange day, preceded by a strange night. I studied myself carefully, wondering if becoming a married woman evoked some sort of change in my visage. Yet other than weariness, I looked the same as I always had.
Chiara bustled in, more apologies tumbling from her lips, which I waved aside. She helped me change into fresh underthings and then into a soft, simple country gown that would be appropriate for the morning and for the journey back to the city. She then braided my hair and pinned it up. Already it was becoming another hot Tuscan summer day.
I wondered, idly, if Signor Botticelli had also stayed the night. Perhaps he had, as a particular favorite of the Medici family? But why did it even matter? I shook away the thought, the image of Marco beaming at me as we said our marriage vows overtaking me. I smiled to myself, remembering.
Once I was ready, I stepped cautiously out into the hallway, only to find Marco already waiting there for me.
“Ah,” I said. “I did not mean to keep you, husband.”
He took my hand and kissed it chivalrously. “A man could wait forever for beauty such as yours, and consider himself lucky to do so.”
“I had best treasure such compliments now,” I teased, “for soon we shall be a disgruntled old married couple who do naught but disagree.”
I had thought to make him laugh, but his smiling brown eyes turned serious. “Never,” he said, with all the solemnity of one swearing a most sacred oath. “That shall never be us, my Simonetta. I promise.”
Even in the summer heat, I felt as though someone had brushed a cold finger down my spine. I shivered slightly, but I ignored it as I took Marco’s arm and let him lead me downstairs.
*
We found our parents already at table downstairs, as well as the Medici family. No Signor Botticelli, I noted, and I pushed away my nonsensical pang of disappointment. Everyone rose and applauded when they saw us.
“Sit, sit,” Lorenzo said, showing us to our seats beside his own. I sat directly across from Clarice, and she gave me a broad smile.
“I trust you both had a … pleasant evening?” Lorenzo asked, his polite tone belied by the wicked grin on his face.
“The most pleasant one I have yet known,” Marco said, causing everyone to laugh pointedly and me to blush. I did not like to hear something so private mentioned in public, yet I knew I must get used to it.
Once we had broken our fast, Lorenzo invited us all to follow him outside for a tour of the grounds. The sun only served to sharpen my headache, but I did my best to pay it no mind. Lorenzo, Marco, and Giuliano walked on ahead through the extensive gardens, while Marco’s and my parents and Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni followed behind, exchanging chatter and gossip. Clarice slipped her arm through mine, and we brought up the rear.
“So?” Clarice murmured to me, when the rest of the party was out of earshot. “How did it go?”
I must have made a face, for she laughed softly. “Not that badly, surely?”
“It was not bad,” I said quickly. “Just … strange.”
She smiled. “I thought the same as a new bride. I am sure every woman does, the first few times. I can promise you it will get easier—and more enjoyable—with practice.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Practice?” I repeated. “I just … I do not know, Clarice. Marco told me I pleased him enormously, but I did not do anything, and I felt as though there was something I should be doing.”
“That is where the practice comes in,” Clarice said, her smile widening.
“But how am I to know—”
“Answer me this, Simonetta,” she interrupted. “Do you love your husband?”
“Of course,” I answered.
“There is no of course about it. Many women are not so fortunate as to love their husbands. But very well. You love him, and you find him handsome, yes?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Then that is all you need. When he comes to your bed, do not think—quiet that active mind of yours. Instead, just let yourself feel the things he makes you feel, and your body will know how to respond. You will begin to sense the things he particularly likes, and, in turn, he—if he is a good lover—will sense what brings you the most pleasure.”
My entire body grew flushed at this conversation. “I shall take your words into consideration.”
She laughed. “Indeed. I think you are considering them already. So much so that I think I ought to send you back to your bedchamber, and send your husband in after you.”
I smiled. “The second time, it … was not unpleasant.”
“Dear Simonetta, it can be so much better than ‘not unpleasant.’ I promise you.”
As though somehow prompted by our words, by my thoughts, Marco turned from where he walked on ahead with the Medici brothers and gave me a smile full of warmth, love, and what I now recognized as desire.
I returned the smile, certain that mine was brimming with the very same things.
*
We walked to the edge of the Medici property, then turned to make our way back to the villa. The day had become almost punishingly hot, and I was sweating even in my light, simple dress.