“I should very much like us to be.”
I smiled, warming to the open, inviting look on his face. “I should like that as well. And I … I would be most happy to sit for you. You must seek my husband’s permission, of course.”
“Per che? No disrespect to your husband, but it is not he whom I wish to paint.”
The hint of mischief in his eyes made me laugh. “I will ensure that he is agreeable all the same,” I said.
“I appreciate it.” He took my hand and kissed it. “Had Dante had you as his muse instead of Beatrice, he would have been an even greater poet,” he said. “And that, Madonna Simonetta, is both fact and flattery.”
With that, he took his leave of me, leaving me to dwell on his words, and the way that his lips had shaped my given name.
14
Dinner passed in a mostly congenial manner, much like the first we had spent at the Medici palazzo. The only difference was the heightened tension due to the presence of Lucrezia Donati, though it was possible that I, seated next to Clarice, was one of the only ones who noticed it. If anyone else marked it, they most expertly pretended they had not. Even so, Clarice and I adhered to my plan and spent most of the meal in conversation with each other, ignoring the troublesome woman altogether. Still, I did not like the self-satisfied smirk that played about her lips; it seemed to be her habitual expression. I itched to slap it off of her face.
Yet once the meal ended and everyone rose from the table, continuing to mill about the garden and the courtyard, I saw Lorenzo draw Lucrezia discreetly to one side. It was not obvious enough to draw untoward attention, yet they were far enough apart from the rest of the company that none of us could overhear their words—neither her husband nor his wife.
Well, this would never do. I squared my shoulders and moved toward them. I would accomplish two objectives simultaneously.
“Lorenzo,” I said sweetly. “And Signora … Ardenghelli, was it not?” I asked, pointedly using her married name. “I beg your pardon; I did not mean to interrupt your conversation.”
The look Lucrezia tossed me told me that I had done just that, but Lorenzo’s answering smile was genuine. “Not at all, Simonetta,” he said familiarly. “I am so happy that you and your husband were able to attend.”
“It was so kind of you to invite us,” I said. “Yet I fear I must impose on your kindness a bit further. I should like to take you up on your offer to make use of your library, if I may.”
“Why, of course,” Lorenzo said. “You need not even ask.”
“You are an exemplary host and friend,” I said. “Might I trouble one of your servants to show me the way?”
“We are all servants in the face of such beauty as yours,” he said gallantly. “I shall escort you myself, if that is agreeable to you.”
“You are too kind,” I said, taking the arm he offered.
“Do excuse us, Signora Ardenghelli,” Lorenzo said, giving her a quick smile.
God forgive me for my vanity, but I gave her a swift, triumphant look over my shoulder as I allowed Lorenzo to lead me from the garden. I could hardly stop Lorenzo from carrying on with his mistress, but at least I could stop him from so blatantly seeking her company in front of his wife and my friend.
“Is there a particular book you are seeking?” Lorenzo asked as we made our way through the maze of hallways.
“In a way,” I said. “I had the pleasure of conversing with Signor Botticelli at some length before dinner. He referred me to the writings of some of the ancient Greek and Roman thinkers.”
“Ah,” Lorenzo said. “I am not surprised that Sandro spoke of them to you, nor that you are eager to seek out such works. Do you read Greek, Simonetta?”
“I do not,” I said. “My education was a bit more limited. I am fluent only in my native tongue and in Latin, I’m afraid.”
“Not to worry,” he said. “My own Greek is not what it ought to be, and so I rely upon translations—such as those done by my friend and teacher Poliziano—of the original Greek into Latin. We shall find you one such.”
“Do you think such works might even be translated into Tuscan?” I asked.
“It is my dream that it should be so,” Lorenzo said. “The more who have access to such wisdom, the better. We shall never cease to need the wisdom and teachings of the Church, of course, but it behooves us all to learn as much as we can in our lives, I think.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.”
By this time we had reached the library, and Lorenzo opened the door for me. “If you will permit me to make a recommendation, Madonna,” he said, following me and striding quickly toward one of the shelves, “I believe I know just the book for you to begin with.” He withdrew a volume from the shelf, and I flipped it open to the title page. “Plato,” I said aloud, examining the Latin title. “The Republic.”
Lorenzo smiled. “You may read it at your leisure, Madonna Simonetta, and I look forward to discussing it with you.”
I closed the book, my face alight with excitement. “I shall look forward to that as well.”
*
As Marco and I made our way home that evening, he himself brought up the topic I had been struggling to broach. “I saw you in conversation with that painter, Botticelli,” he said. “What did he want?”
“He wished to speak to me about sitting for him, as we discussed at our wedding,” I said. “But it was not just that. He and I had a most interesting conversation, and he recommended some reading material to me.” I held up the book Lorenzo had lent me.
“Hmph,” Marco said. “We did say you would sit for him, did we not?”
“We did,” I said. “It would not do to go back on our word now.” I turned my most winning smile on to him. “And I would so enjoy it, Marco. To sit for such an artist. It would be most thrilling, caro.”
He sighed, not unhappily. “I think I can deny you nothing when you smile at me like that, Simonetta. Very well. I shall arrange it. I trust Lorenzo knows where the man can be found.”
I leaned back in my seat. “No doubt he does,” I agreed, my calm words belying the thrumming of my heart. I had never had my portrait painted before, and I had the irresistible suspicion that Signor Botticelli would paint me in such a way as I had never before seen myself. I would see myself as he saw me, and I could not say why such a thought excited me so.
15
Marco was true to his word, and arranged everything within the next few days. Lorenzo passed along his enthusiasm for the commission, and sent us directions to Signor Botticelli’s fledgling studio. We then wrote directly to the painter, inquiring as to when would be most convenient for me to come and sit for him.
His response was almost instantaneous; he sent our messenger back with a reply that I could come to his workshop on Monday, in just five days.
“He is extremely eager to have you sit for him,” Marco said, frowning at the hastily scrawled reply. “’Tis almost unseemly.”