I smiled. “I shall stay as long as you need.”
Immediately a look of intense focus came over his face. “That expression, there. Hold it, if you can. Per favore.” He turned back to the easel and applied himself to the canvas.
It was not hard to hold the smile, as he bade me—his excitement and enthusiasm were catching. I had hoped we might have more time for conversation before we began, but far be it from me to interrupt the muse who, it seemed, was speaking most eagerly to the painter even now.
The same spell as before seemed to fall over us again, and I embraced it fully. Even the clattering about and whispered conversations of Botticelli’s apprentices could not break it, could not disturb this wordless connection being woven between us once again.
Somewhat to my dismay, the easel partially concealed him, and the way in which I was positioned left me facing away from him, so I was unable to study him as I had previously. But I could feel his eyes on me. And when I knew his eyes were trained on the canvas, I would sneak a glance at him, at his tousled blond hair, at his strong hand gripping the brush. If he noticed, he did not react at all.
After perhaps an hour, he sighed and laid down his brush. “I shall let you take a break now, Madonna,” he said. “I should have done so last time, and I do apologize for the lapse.”
“It is quite alright,” I said, rising from my chair. Ah, but it did feel good to stand.
He rose as well, flexing the fingers of his painting hand. “Giovanni,” he called, to the younger of the two apprentices. “Bring me that yellow paint you were mixing.”
The boy obliged, and Botticelli looked satisfied as he examined it. “Well done,” he said. “You’ve gotten it right this time. Do you know what you did differently?”
Young Giovanni launched into a recitation of the different proportions he had used in mixing the paint, and where he had made his mistakes the last time. Botticelli listened attentively, then clapped the boy on the back when he finished. “Good,” he said. “Very good. You and Luca may go find some lunch now.” The boy eagerly scampered off, and Botticelli watched him go, chuckling.
“You are a good teacher,” I observed.
“I try to be,” he said. “Being beaten and berated for mistakes never taught me anything, that much I know. So I take a different approach.” He met my eyes and smiled. “It is a lovely day, Madonna Simonetta. Worthy of your beauty, even. Perhaps you would like to join me in a short stroll before we return to our work here?”
“That would be wonderful,” I said, both surprised and elated.
Botticelli opened the door of his studio for me and allowed me to precede him outside, into the bright Tuscan sunshine. He offered me his arm, and we began to stroll through the dusty streets in the general direction of the Arno. I was beginning to learn my way about this city, a fact that filled me with pride.
“I took your advice, maestro,” I told him as we walked.
“Oh?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at me. “And what advice was that?”
“To partake of certain books as I might find in the Medici library,” I said. “Lorenzo was kind enough to lend me a volume by Plato. I am finding it most enlightening.”
“And which volume is this?”
“The Republic.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I am not surprised that you read Latin, nor that you have sought out such a worthy tome.”
“So you are familiar with it? I had thought you might be.” I blushed at admitting that I had been thinking about him.
“Indeed, I am. I am most eager to hear your thoughts.”
“It is like nothing I have read before,” I said, “which I suppose is to be expected.”
“What?” Botticelli demanded, in mock surprise and outrage. “You mean your tutor did not teach you pagan philosophy?”
I laughed. “To be sure he did not, so it is a good thing I have come to Florence. That I might learn.”
“And here I thought you came here to be married.”
I paused, uncertain how to navigate this abrupt change in topic. “I did, of course. But I must confess, Marco’s description made me all the more eager, for he told me of all that Florence has to recommend her.”
The painter went silent, and I could tell there were words poised on his tongue that he wished to speak, but was holding back.
“What is it you wish to say?” I asked him. “Are we not friends, my dear Maestro Botticelli?”
“We are,” he said.
“Then why can you not ask me anything you wish, when you have extended the same courtesy to me?”
He gave me a half-hearted smile. “You are kind to make me such an offer,” he said. “But the difference in our stations dictates that such a reversal is not always appropriate.”
I waved his words aside. “I care not for such things,” I said. “What difference is there between us at this moment, maestro? We are two friends out for a stroll through Florence’s streets. That is all anyone who looks at us shall see, and all that I wish for either of us to see as well.”
His smile widened. “I should say that most people, looking at us, are seeing only you, Madonna Simonetta.”
“Maybe so, but I am used to it, and so I take no note of such things,” I said. “Now, I shall say it again: you may speak as freely to me as I do to you.”
“Very well,” he said, chuckling. “Yet now that you have talked me ’round, I find that I have quite forgotten what I meant to say.”
“Liar,” I teased. “You have forgotten nothing.”
“I should know by now that your beauty and your wits are equally matched.”
“Stop trying to distract me with flattery.”
“Very well,” he said again. His face grew serious before he spoke. “You said that your husband’s description of Florence, and all to be found here, persuaded you to leave your home. But what of Marco himself? Did you not marry him because you love him?”
I drew in a breath sharply. I had been expecting such a question, since he had been so reluctant to voice it. So why had I prodded him into asking it anyway?
The painter did not speak, only watched me as I considered what to say next.
“You must understand,” I said. “Many women are not so lucky in marriage as I am: to be offered for by a man for whom they feel affection. Marco came to me, speaking of Dante and poetry, and he seemed the romantic hero. Then he spoke of this city, this Florence, and the Medici and the artists and poets and all there was to be learned. It seemed that he was offering me everything I had ever wanted, but had never dared to hope for. I did not know him well enough to love him, at first.”
Botticelli was silent for a moment before speaking again. “So you are happy?”