“Indeed,” I said, unable to stop myself from smirking.
As soon as Giuliano had finished wolfing down his food, he rose. “Thank you again, Signora Vespucci, for opening your home to me, and for the meal.” He kissed my hand. “I trust I shall see you again soon, under … more pleasant circumstances.”
I smiled. “Indeed. It is all in the past, good signore.”
With that, he bowed and took his leave, no doubt anxious to be clear of the storm brewing between my husband and myself. Yet I would be damned if I would speak first.
It was a few moments before Marco spoke. Clearing his throat, he said, “Simonetta…”
“Yes?” I asked expectantly. “Do you have something to say to me, husband? I rather think you do. Or you should.” I laughed. “Yes, I can think of a whole host of things you should be saying to me right now.”
“Well … yes.” He looked away. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what, exactly, Marco?”
“Sorry that we came home in such a state, that we behaved so. That we disturbed your sleep.”
“Indeed?” I asked. “And what of the French whore you were with before returning home? Are you sorry for her as well?”
Marco’s face reddened. “I am sorry you had to hear that. Giuliano was drunk—obviously, we both were—and he did not realize what he was saying, nor in front of whom.”
“Oh, so that is what you are sorry for?” I said, my voice becoming louder, harder. “That I had to hear something so indelicate? That I found out you are an adulterer?” I barked out a laugh. “Yes, no doubt you are sorry that I know that now.”
“Simonetta,” he said. He reached for my hand where it lay on the table, but I angrily pulled it back. “I did not mean to hurt you. This is nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, is it not?” I asked.
“You do not understand,” he said, his voice low.
“You are right, I do not,” I said. “I do not understand at all. Am I not enough for you? Do I not please you enough? Apparently I do not.”
“That is not it at all, Simonetta,” Marco said. “I swear to you.”
“What is it, then?” I demanded.
“What do you expect me to say?” he burst out. “It began when you were ill. Giuliano would come to get me out of the house, and he took me to a house owned by a woman he knows. I met a courtesan there, and I took my pleasure as I saw fit. What was I to do? You were ill. A man has needs, Simonetta.”
“Oh, indeed,” I said scornfully. “Are men no better than animals, then? That when your wife, whom you profess to love, is ill at home you must go out and fuck the first harlot who—”
“How dare you speak to me so!” Marco said, pounding his fist on the table. “I will not tolerate it!”
“And I am expected to tolerate you going out to visit your whore, and expected to welcome you back into my bed when you return?”
“Yes!” he all but shouted. “Because you are my wife and that is the way of the world. I am a man and the master of this household and I shall do as I see fit.”
Silence fell over the room. I was certain the servants were listening just beyond the doors, but I could not bring myself to care. I pushed my chair away from the table and rose, determined not to let Marco see that I was trembling—with fury, with despair, with sadness, with jealousy.
“As you wish,” I said. “You are an interesting man, Marco Vespucci. The most beautiful woman in Florence is not enough for you. What am I to make of that?”
I turned and stormed from the room before he could reply. In my haste to leave, I almost knocked over Marco’s mother in the hallway just outside. “Simonetta!” she cried, startled. “I heard yelling—whatever is the matter?”
“Ask your son,” I said curtly, stalking past her.
24
Because I could not think where else to go, I barricaded myself in my chambers again. Let Marco leave the house again, or stay, for all I cared. It would be some time before he would find himself back in my bedroom again, let alone in my bed.
The horrible part was I knew that he was right. This was the way of the world. Men went out and took their pleasure where they found it, and we wives were expected to look the other way, to never notice nor speak of it, and remain at their beck and call as though nothing had happened. As though nothing had changed.
I remembered, with a sickening twist of guilt, the way I had pitied Clarice that night when her husband had invited his mistress to dinner. The way I felt sorry for her, angry on her behalf yet confident in the knowledge that what was happening to her would never happen to me. She had called me a fool that day, and she had been right.
What, then, is beauty good for, if it cannot protect me from feeling like this? I wondered. What good is being desired by every man who sets eyes on me when even my own husband cannot remain faithful? What does this cursed beauty mean? What has it brought me in my life other than despair?
Suddenly I remembered what had haunted my thoughts all the day before, in that other life when I was a different woman from the one I was now.
Maestro Botticelli wanted me to help him. He had had a vision, he said, of a great work of art, with me at its center.
This, then, was my answer. This was what beauty was good for. To create a masterpiece.
A slow smile slid across my lips. I would do it. I would pose for him, naked as the day I was born. If Marco felt no guilt for fornicating with a whore, then why should I feel any guilt for a far lesser infraction?
I would not even give him the chance to object. I would simply do it; I would not hide my actions from him nor volunteer any information. He might never know. And if he did, well, was that not the way of the world? That beautiful women should inspire great artists?
I found a bit of parchment in my dressing room and penned a simple note: I will do it. Just tell me when we begin. I signed it simply Simonetta, and bade Chiara take it to Maestro Botticelli’s workshop. She cast me a quizzical look, but she did as she was told.
To my surprise and pleasure, Chiara returned almost immediately, bearing a sealed reply. I took it and thanked her; she nodded and left without a word.
I eagerly opened the letter and found that it was just as brief as my own message had been: Grazie mille, Simonetta. I am eternally in your debt. Come tomorrow afternoon, and we shall begin.
It was signed just as I had signed mine, with simply his Christian name: Sandro.
I clutched the parchment to my chest, feeling a wide smile stretch across my face and a curious, wild joy bubble up within me. I sensed that when I stepped into his workshop the next day, I would be passing a point from which there could be no return. And yet I did not care. More than that: I would welcome it.
*