“Come,” Lorenzo said, steering me away from the trio. “I would introduce you to my esteemed father.”
My surprise at these words erased my instant enmity for Lucrezia Ardenghelli. Lorenzo led me to a man seated in a chair beside a fountain at one end of the garden, no doubt placed there for its proximity to the cool mists in this August heat.
Piero de’ Medici looked much older than he could have been—no doubt his long battles with illness accounted for that. His legs were swollen by gout, and his face—a somewhat weaker blend of his sons’ very different features—was twisted in a permanent grimace of pain. Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni hovered by his side in case he should need anything, the very picture of a dutiful wife.
“Ah,” Piero said as I approached on Lorenzo’s arm. “This must be the famous Simonetta Vespucci.”
“That I am, signore,” I said. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“I am sorry that I was too ill to attend your wedding,” he said. “I am told it was a most lovely affair—though with my son and wife at the helm, I should expect nothing less.”
“It was indeed, signore, and I must thank your family again for their kindness and generosity.”
“Think nothing of it.” A smile split his face, and I could see that he had no doubt been handsome, once. “You are as beautiful as they say. That husband of yours is a lucky man.”
“You are too kind,” I replied. “And I am most lucky in my husband.”
“Beautiful and a loving wife,” Piero said. “Dear Marco is doubly blessed.”
“Beg pardon, father-in-law, husband.” Just then, Clarice appeared at my side. “Might I beg your indulgence to steal my friend away for a time?”
“Why, of course, my dear,” Piero said, smiling indulgently at his daughter-in-law. “You young ladies talk, enjoy yourselves, have some wine. Dinner will be served soon.”
“An honor to meet you, signore,” I said again, over my shoulder this time, as Clarice dragged me away to an as-yet-unoccupied corner of the garden.
“Whatever is the matter?” I asked. Now that I had a moment to study her, Clarice looked quite out of sorts, as though she could not decide whether to weep or fly into a rage. “Clarice?” I prompted, when she did not speak.
She still did not answer; instead, she waved over a servant, who brought us two glasses of fine Tuscan red wine. She took a long, fortifying sip before speaking. “That woman,” she growled, her eyes narrowed at the cluster of party guests a few paces away. “I cannot believe he had the audacity to invite her here.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Lucrezia Donati,” she snapped. “Do not let her husband’s name fool you. That marriage is all a ruse of respectability, one my most revered husband helped arrange.”
“Clarice, whatever do you mean?”
Her eyes met mine, and this time I was shocked by the depth of the pain within them. “She is his mistress,” she whispered. “Lorenzo’s.”
Relief flooded me, that I need not worry that this Lucrezia had any designs on my husband—with a husband and lover of her own already, she surely had no time to contend with one more man. This relief was quickly replaced by guilt, however—that my release should be my friend’s sorrow.
“Oh, Clarice,” I said, reaching out to take her hand. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I am certain,” she said harshly. “Lorenzo has been in love with her for years, before he ever met me. But he could not marry her because it was not politically expedient. I was the most advantageous match that could be found.” She took another long sip of wine. “Do you know,” she continued, “that he threw a joust here in Florence to celebrate our betrothal, back before I came from Rome? And at this very joust in celebration of our upcoming marriage, he named her,” she sneered in Lucrezia Donati’s direction, “the Queen of Love and Beauty.” She shook her head, as if bewildered. “And he has the gall to invite her here. To our house. To my home.”
My guilt gave way to heartbreak and anger on my friend’s behalf. “Oh, Clarice,” I said again. In truth I could not think what else to say. I had long wondered about Clarice’s feelings toward her husband, this man brought to her by politics and family alliances. Yet it seemed that she must feel at least something for him, to be so enraged by this woman’s presence. “And that she should have the nerve to accept the invitation, and be presented to you as his wife.”
“Why should she mind about that?” Clarice said. “They have been friends since childhood. She is friendly with his parents, with Giuliano. Lorenzo was hers first. In her eyes, it is I who am the interloper.”
“It does not matter how you look in her eyes,” I said firmly. “You are Lorenzo’s wife, not she. And they will need to answer for their sins someday.”
She turned her gaze back to me. “Oh, Simonetta,” she said. “You beautiful, innocent fool. You are happy in your marriage now, but just you wait. Someday you will find that even Marco is not what he seems.” She closed her eyes and turned away. “Forgive me. I did not mean that.”
“You did,” I said, feeling as though I had been slapped. “You did, or you would not have said it.” I began to move away from her, but Clarice quickly reached out to grasp my arm and prevent me.
“I am sorry, Simonetta. Truly I am,” she said. “I am hurt and so all I can think to do is hurt those around me. I did not mean it, I swear.” She bit her lip. “You are my one true friend in all of Florence, I think. I should be lost without you.”
I relaxed somewhat. “Of course I shall always be your friend,” I said.
“Please forgive me.”
I shook my head. “There is nothing to forgive. You are upset, as you say, and rightfully so.”
She sighed. “Thank you. I do not know how I shall endure this evening, though. Watching her and her knowing smile. The pity in her eyes when she looks at me.”
“We shall not give her the pleasure of our discourse,” I said.
“Lorenzo would not be happy with me if I was rude—”
“Oh, he would not?” I demanded, arching an eyebrow. “And does he expect his wife to make pleasant conversation with his mistress?”
“I suppose he could not, in truth, expect such a thing,” she said, with a small smile.
“No, indeed. And so you must make certain I am seated beside you at dinner, and we shall converse, and not pay any attention to her whatsoever.”
Clarice leaned forward and hugged me around the shoulders. “Thank you, Simonetta,” she whispered in my ear. “You are indeed a good friend.”
“As are you,” I replied. I gestured toward where Lorenzo stood, still talking with his father. “Now go. Claim your place beside your husband so that she might see it, and mark it well.”