“God forgive me, but I should rather be a nun,” she said, primly crossing herself.
I laughed off my discomfort. “Let us hope it does not come to that. Do not worry yourself, amica. Surely your father will look elsewhere for a match for you—Pisa, perhaps, or Florence.”
Elisabetta waved my words aside. “Bah. Pisa is full of nothing but scholars and priests. Florence, though—Florence, it seems, is the place from which husbands hail.” She very nearly leered at me. “As you would know, my dear Simonetta.”
“I have no husband as yet, from Florence or elsewhere,” I said.
“You will soon enough, or so I hear.”
I shrugged in a rather unladylike way. My mother would be appalled. “Perhaps.”
I could feel her eyeing me from beneath the brim of her hat. “Was he not pleasing to you?” she asked.
“Pleasing enough,” I said, remembering that strange moment of kinship. “It is just … I do not know that I want any husband yet.”
Elisabetta laughed. “What else could you do but get a husband?”
“What else indeed,” I murmured, but I knew the answer as well as she did: nothing. The most I had ever dared hope for was that I might find a husband tolerant enough to permit my continued study and reading of poetry, and wealthy enough to keep me supplied with books. Signor Vespucci was just such a one.
“You could never be a nun,” she continued. “You are far too pretty.” When she said it, it sounded as though she were accusing me of being a witch.
“A convent might not be so terrible,” I said, leaning my head against the wall behind us and closing my eyes. I knew even as I spoke that my parents would never allow me to take holy vows. As the only child of the family, I was expected to make an advantageous marriage—and with my beauty, so I had been told many times, I would no doubt be able to make the most fortuitous of matches. Yet the nuns were allowed to read, and the most skilled of them even copied manuscripts.
Elisabetta was still watching me. “I heard he has a mistress,” she said suddenly.
I opened my eyes. “Who? Count Ricci?”
“No,” she said, her gaze still fixed on me. “Your Signor Vespucci.”
I felt as though the pleasant feeling Signor Vespucci had planted in my stomach suddenly went sour. “What of it?” I asked, belying my discomfort—or so I hoped. “Most men do.”
“She is a courtesan in town,” Elisabetta went on, as though I had not spoken. “Her name is Violetta. Apparently she is very beautiful, and much sought after for her particular … gifts.”
I could not believe Elisabetta was insinuating such things—it was as near to vulgar as I had ever heard her. “And so?” I asked, my voice a bit sharp. “What am I to do about it? Not marry him because he once bedded a courtesan? If such were grounds for refusing a husband, every woman in the world would remain a spinster.”
Elisabetta turned her head away slightly. “I just thought you should know.”
I narrowed my eyes. I knew jealousy plain enough when I saw it. Yet Elisabetta seemed to credit me with having more control of my own fate than I did. I may have fancied that I had made a decision in regard to Signor Vespucci, but so long as my father saw an advantage to the match, betrothed I would be. Really, the only thing for me to decide was how much resistance I would offer up.
I closed my eyes again, face tilted up to the sun, the creaminess of my skin be damned. Neither of us spoke again for a long while, and when I finally broke the silence it was only to ask Elisabetta if she might like some wine.
*
Three days later, a letter arrived from Florence. Signor Vespucci had spoken to his parents and was returning to Genoa, so the missive went, where he hoped he might have the privilege of coming to call upon my parents and me at once.
I scarcely heard my mother exclaiming in happiness, nor my father proudly booming about what an excellent match it was, an excellent match indeed. No, instead I felt that same warmth sprawl through my lower abdomen, accompanied by something else, something that—I thought—might be joy. And if it wasn’t, perhaps it would be, one day.
3
Signor Vespucci arrived one fine spring morning, and immediately sought a private audience with my father. I was awake, dressed, and groomed as perfectly as a queen—my mother had seen to that—for we had known that Signor Vespucci would come this day. My mother paced my bedchamber restlessly while we waited to be summoned downstairs to my father’s office.
“What can be taking so long?” she burst out, after half an hour had passed. “Surely they cannot be haggling over the dowry already?”
I said nothing, having no answer and knowing my mother did not expect one from me. What if he had come to tell us he had changed his mind? It was the question I dared ask only of myself. Or to tell us his parents had not given their consent? What then?
Well, at least Count Ricci is still available, as he remains unmarried to Elisabetta or anyone else. Yet at this, my heart only began to beat harder. Surely Signor Vespucci brought good news. Why else would he have been so eager to return?
I fought the urge to get up and pace with my mother.
Fifteen minutes later, my father’s manservant came up to fetch us. “Madonna Cattaneo, Madonna Simonetta,” he said, bowing, “Don Cattaneo requests your presence in his study with his guest.”
My mother could not quite stifle her unladylike cry of glee, but managed to compose herself. “Grazie, Giorgio. We will be along directly.”
He bowed again and left the room.
My mother came to me and clutched my hand in hers, pulling me from my chair. “This is it, mia bella Simonetta,” she said. “Are you ready?”
She did not wait for an answer, but chattered on. “You are about to become betrothed! Your life is beginning!”
I smiled. “Perhaps we should go downstairs now, Mama. It would not do to keep my … suitor waiting.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “It does not do to appear too eager. We shall go, then, but slowly. A lady never runs.”
I followed my mother, my hand still in hers. We descended the stairs to the first floor, where my father’s study was. My mother paused outside the door—squeezing my hand for just a moment—before pushing it open and stepping inside.
My father and Signor Vespucci both looked up as we entered, nearly identical expressions of delight on their faces. They had a decanter of wine between them on the desk, with just a splash left in each of their glasses. “Ah, there they are!” my father said. “Ladies, do come in, so we might share the good news.”