I turned away from the two men and almost bumped right into Chiara and Giovanni, Marco’s manservant. “Get them out of here and into bed,” I managed. “I have had my fill of this nonsense.” I started to walk away, but stopped and turned back. “And see that wherever my husband sleeps tonight, it is not in my bed.”
“But, Madonna,” Chiara protested, “I only readied one of the extra rooms.”
“Then ready another,” I snapped, “or else put them both in the same bed, if you will. It is no matter to me.”
With that I climbed the stairs and returned to my bedchamber, where I barred the door and prepared for another sleepless night.
*
Shortly after dawn I awoke—after what little sleep I had managed to get—with a ghastly headache and with dry, red-rimmed eyes, as though I had been the one who had overindulged in drink. My whole night had been laced with repeats of Giuliano’s words, the words uttered carelessly, thoughtlessly, in a drunken stupor but that nevertheless had the power to upend my entire life. Your favorite whore, that Frenchwoman …
I had assumed—like a fool, apparently—that Marco was a faithful husband to me. After all, why should he not be? Why should I have had any reason to think otherwise? He professed his love for me, often; we made love regularly and certainly with gusto; I ran a proper, efficient home and played hostess whenever he needed me to; I had become accepted among his circle. What could he possibly find lacking in me as a wife? What could be missing? What more did I need to do?
And was I not hailed as the most beautiful woman in Florence? No one in this house knew a day’s peace because of the men calling to me from the street outside, singing to me, begging me for a glimpse or a token. Could this Frenchwoman—this whore—be more beautiful than me? I thought not, for I had not heard of crowds clogging the streets outside her door, whoever she was, to pay her homage.
What more could Marco want in a woman than what he already had?
And thus I came to the crux of it: what was the use of being the most beautiful woman in Florence if I could not keep my own husband faithful to me?
I began to cry.
*
At some point, I decided I had best rise and dress and eat something. I would need to face my husband sooner or later—we did live in the same house, after all.
I unbarred the door to my bedchamber and called for Chiara. She came in and dressed me and pinned up my hair, all as if it were a normal day. She did not speak, though; she only cast worried glances at me in the mirror until I felt as if I might scream at her. Yet none of this was her fault, and so I bit my tongue and did not allow myself to take my frustrations out on her.
Why, she was my most loyal friend in the house. Perhaps my only friend.
I went down to the dining room and saw that the kitchen maid had already laid out some bread and cheese and cold meats for me to break my fast. Judging by the amount of food, it seemed the kitchen staff had been told we had a guest as well.
I sank down into a chair and closed my eyes for a moment. I was angry at Giuliano, as well—for speaking of me in such a crude, disrespectful manner, and for letting slip something I would rather not have known.
Yet maybe I ought to be thanking him: for showing me the truth, that I might see my husband clearly, and without any na?veté coloring my gaze. Apparently I had been very na?ve where Marco was concerned. But no more.
And yet there was nothing I could do. We were married in the sight of God, and if a husband’s infidelity was cause for an annulment, then there were surely no valid marriages anywhere in the world.
Perhaps blissful ignorance would have been better, after all.
I sighed, opened my eyes, and took some food for my plate, eating in silence.
It was not long before I heard footsteps at the doorway, and the clearing of a throat. I looked up to see Giuliano de’ Medici standing before me—still in his rumpled doublet and hose from the night before—wearing a very sheepish expression on his tired, haggard face.
“Signora Vespucci,” he said, inclining his head to me.
I did not rise. “Signor Medici.”
I let the moment stretch out, just long enough for it to begin to be uncomfortable, before inviting him to sit. “Please, do be seated,” I said, “and help yourself. This food is nothing extravagant, but it will serve to break your fast.”
He came and took a seat, leaving one chair between him and me. He pulled a plate toward himself and began filling it with food. His nighttime debauchery, it seemed, had left him with quite an appetite. “I must thank you for your kind hospitality last night, and this morning as well,” he said. “You are a saint among women, truly.”
“Well,” I said, “you were hardly in any condition to get home.” I knew I was not being gracious, yet I could not help myself.
As if reading my thoughts, he spoke. “I wish to apologize to you, Simonetta. Most profusely. Our behavior—my behavior—was most inappropriate last night, and I realize that I said some things that were most offensive to you.”
“You did, yes,” I said. “I would have thought Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni raised her son better than to speak so about the wife of a friend.”
He flushed. “Yes. She would have thought so, too, and she would be deeply ashamed by my conduct last night. As am I. It was not worthy of me and my name, nor of you and yours. And so I must beg your forgiveness most humbly. It is no excuse, of course, but drink—well, you know what it can do to a man. That was not me, not truly.”
I felt myself relent somewhat under his pleading gaze, his handsome face. “You are forgiven,” I said, “though I pray we do not have a repeat incident.”
He looked visibly relieved. “I can assure you that we will not,” he said.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Now please, eat. I would be a poor hostess, indeed, if I sent you away hungry.”
He gave me his usual charming, winning smile and began to eat.
Giuliano was easy enough to forgive. My husband was another matter entirely.
He appeared in the doorway not long after, dressed in clean, simple clothes, and looking much worse for the wear. Someone who had not seen the two men the night before would have had no trouble discerning that Marco had been the deepest in his cups of them both.
“Simonetta,” he said, not quite meeting my eye. “Giuliano. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well indeed, thanks to your wife’s generous hospitality,” Giuliano said.
“And how did you sleep, Marco?” I asked, my voice sweet but barely concealing the barb within. “Very well, no doubt, thanks to the alcohol. Much better than your wife, I’m sure.”
There was an awkward silence—or at least I presume it was awkward for Marco. I continued with my meal as though he wasn’t there at all.
After a moment, he came and took the empty chair between Giuliano and myself. He took a bit of bread, but nothing else.
“Is the meal not to your liking, husband?” I asked. “Shall I have the cook prepare something else for you?”
Marco grimaced and shook his head. “No, thank you. I find I am not so hungry.”