“Ah.” Marco’s parents were certainly kind enough, but usually on the occasions when we all dined together, Marco and his father discussed Marco’s work at the Medici bank at length, leaving his mother and me to eat in silence. I would much rather have enjoyed Marco’s company on my own, or better yet, been invited to dine with the Medici family again. Perhaps next time they invited us to dine I would contrive an invitation from Clarice. She would not mind if I dropped by unannounced.
Marco released me and stepped back, and we both sat down. “But how have you spent your day, wife?” His eyes darkened slightly. “You have not been at Botticelli’s workshop all this time, have you?”
“I have.”
“Dio mio,” Marco said, his tone a bit sharper than I thought strictly necessary. “Has he completed your portrait by this time, then?”
“No,” I said. “He merely took some sketches today. I am to return the day after tomorrow.”
“An awfully long time to be sketching one woman.”
“And yet that is what he was doing,” I said. Unbidden, I recalled Botticelli’s eyes studying me so intently, how I had gloried in his gaze. And how I, in turn, had delighted in studying his handsome face. Guilt sharpened my tone and made it more defensive than perhaps was warranted. “I am confused, Marco. Did you not tell me that you are not a jealous husband who does not trust his wife?”
“I did. But—”
“Then why are your words, and their tone, reminiscent of a jealous husband?” I inquired innocently. “I cannot be sure, of course, having never before been possessed of a jealous husband—or am I?”
“I do not mean anything by it, Simonetta. It just seems like a longer stretch of time than is necessary to sketch someone.”
“Are you an artist now, Marco? Do you know how it is done?”
“No. But I—”
Yet I was becoming angry now. Why had he agreed to let me sit for Botticelli, only to then behave this way? “Are you trying to ask me something, Marco? To accuse me of something, perhaps?”
“No,” he said, a response that was gratifyingly swift. “I would never.”
“Good. Then stop giving lie to your own words.”
“For the love of God, Simonetta!” he burst out. “How can you accuse me of being jealous? I let you go there alone, did I not? Giuliano de’ Medici flirts with you with his every breath, and I say nothing. I do not even mind, not truly. I know how the game is played. Yet I am a man, mortal and flawed. I know how beautiful my wife is, and I know that other men notice.”
I rose to my feet. “You had best get used to other men noticing me, husband,” I said. “Artists, lechers, noblemen, what have you. It has been happening since I was a child, and will no doubt keep on until I age and my beauty fades.” I stalked from the room, only pausing briefly in the doorway to glance at him over my shoulder. “And remember that it is you whom I married.”
It was our first argument as a married couple—or ever. I was glad that we were dining with his parents, as it gave me an excuse to ignore him. Yet the lack of conversation around the dinner table in which I could participate meant that I found my mind wandering back to the light touch of Sandro’s hand on my face as he adjusted my position, the warmth his fingers had left behind. It was almost as though I could feel his touch again; and, after a moment, when I remembered where I was and glanced up again, I was relieved to see that no one seemed to notice my blush.
That night, when Marco and I went to bed, I turned my back to him and stayed that way. It was the first night since my illness—save for the days when I was suffering my monthly courses—that we did not make love. I lay awake most of the night, anger and guilt churning in my gut.
*
The next morning, as though in acknowledgment of how silly we’d been and of his desire that we return to normal, Marco reached for me in bed, and I went to him willingly. He took me hungrily, bringing me to pleasure with such force that it left me gasping. Maybe a little jealousy was good for a man, after all. I found myself feeling quite bereft when he had to rise and make ready to leave.
Yet even so, I spent the day happily engrossed in the book of Plato’s writings that Lorenzo had lent me. In a way, it felt rather like studying with Padre Valerio again: I found myself making mental notes of certain points or lines that I wished to discuss later—either with Lorenzo or with Maestro Botticelli, whom I was sure had read this book as well. I would ask him the next day, I resolved.
Eager to discuss the book even further, I suggested to Marco that night over dinner that he might read it as well, and we could exchange our views. “I wish that I could, Simonetta,” he said, “but I think that I shall be far too busy in the coming days. You must read it and tell me of it.”
I did my best not to allow my disappointment to show.
*
The following day, I had Chiara dress me in the same gown I had worn to my first sitting, and returned to Maestro Botticelli’s studio. I was even more eager than I had been the first time, and a part of me could not help but continue to wonder why.
Maestro Botticelli and I are friends, I told myself. I wished to discuss Plato’s writing with him. And it would be lying to say I wasn’t excited for this portrait, and to see the finished product when it was ready. That was all.
When I arrived at the studio I let myself in, and found a bit more activity than two days ago. Two apprentices bustled about the room: the boy who had dashed past me last time, and a somewhat older boy whom I assumed must be the recalcitrant Luca. Both looked up as I came in, and both stopped dead in the midst of their activities and stared at me.
I laughed. They made quite a picture: one carting an armload of rolled canvases, and the other holding a pot of yellow paint, which was smeared on his hands and arms; yet both looked at me with the same comically shocked, open-mouthed expression.
“Do not let me distract you from your work, gentlemen,” I said sweetly. “What, have neither of you seen a woman before?”
“They have, but never one such as you, Madonna Simonetta,” Botticelli said, emerging from the back room and coming toward me. “And that is not quite fair, for you to use that tone on them.” He took my hand and kissed it. “Welcome back.”
“It is good to be back,” I said.
He turned around and cuffed Luca on the back of the head as he did so. “Enough of that. Back to work.”
With a mumbled, “Mi scusi, maestro,” the boy did just that, and his younger counterpart followed suit without a word.
“Over here, if you please, Madonna Simonetta,” Botticelli said, gesturing me toward where a chair and easel had been set up right in front of the window. “The light is best here, I find. I have everything ready, so we can begin as soon as you are settled.”
“I am ready when you are, maestro,” I said, sitting in the chair.
“Very good. If I may position you, then? Turn so that you are sitting at an angle—yes, just so. Now raise your chin slightly—” Here he reached out and touched my chin lightly but firmly with his fingers, lifting it. “Yes. Just so.” He retreated back behind the easel and picked up a brush. “I was able to make a start with the sketches I took last time,” he told me. “I cannot say how long I shall keep you today—sometimes the muse is kind and I quite lose track of time.”