Signor Vespucci drew up chairs for us, sweeping a bow as he returned to his own chair. Once we were both seated, my father spoke again. “Simonetta, Signor Vespucci has, having received the blessing of his parents, just now made me an offer for your hand, and I have accepted.” He seemed not to notice my mother’s sigh of happiness, and continued on. “The formal betrothal shall take place posthaste, and you shall be married before the end of the year. What say you, my dear?”
“I am quite pleased, Papa,” I said, my eyes modestly on the floor. Yet for just an instant, because I could bear it no longer, I glanced up at Signor Vespucci, allowing him to see my eyes, my smile, so that he might know I spoke truly.
His face was positively rosy; his joy a visible, living thing. I looked back down, almost afraid to look upon his happiness, and afraid of my own response. Was this what Dante had written of, then? He had, after all, only ever loved his Beatrice from afar. Was it this feeling that had inspired him to write, this sensation as though I had stepped off of a high cliff and was falling, tumbling, yet with the sure knowledge that when the moment came, I would be able to spread wings and fly, like a bird soaring over sparkling blue waves?
My father was speaking again, and I had to struggle to pull my mind from my delicious descent. “We thought we should pour ourselves some wine and toast the happy occasion,” he was saying. “We’ve glasses for you two as well; go on, then, signore, pour for your future bride, won’t you?”
Signor Vespucci obliged, filling my glass, then his own. He lifted it to me, and tapped it against my own. “To your health, Madonna,” he said. “And to our future happiness.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, holding his eyes as we both drank. Then I looked away, flustered. What could I be thinking, making cow’s eyes at a man in the presence of my parents?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, we were to be husband and wife. What did it matter anymore?
“Marco,” my father said, familiarly addressing his future son-in-law, “tell my wife and your intended about the offer you and your family have so graciously extended to us.”
“Of course,” Signor Vespucci said. He shifted in his chair to more completely face my mother and me. “Once they had given their blessing to my marriage, my parents asked that I invite the three of you to Florence. That way the details of the betrothal contract can be worked out in person, and Madonna Simonetta can begin to become accustomed to her new home. We have already found a house at which to lodge you.”
“Why, we should be delighted!” my mother exclaimed. “We will be able to make the journey, will we not, my dear?” She directed her question to my father.
“I am certain Genoa can spare me for a few months,” he said. “I told Marco we are honored to accept.”
Signor Vespucci’s eyes sought mine again. “I shall be able to introduce you to my circle in Florence, Madonna Simonetta,” he said. “And, of course, I shall present you to the Medici brothers, as well as their esteemed parents.”
I felt my wings begin to stretch, to flex, ever so slightly. “I should like nothing better, Signor Vespucci.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “Please,” he said, “just Marco.”
I knew that, very soon, I would be flying.
4
The household was, naturally, thrown into complete upheaval following Signor Vespucci’s—Marco’s—momentous visit. There was much to do in preparation for our departure for Florence, and my parents were determined to go sooner rather than later. “My family and I will be ready and delighted to welcome you at any time,” Marco had said.
Yet we could not go too soon—not only because of all there was to be done, but also because my mother and I must receive calls from the rest of the ladies in Genoa, who sought to congratulate us and give me their best wishes (and, of course, marriage advice).
Each of these visits was much the same: glasses of watered wine with a matron whom I scarcely knew, and who was usually a great deal older than me. They advised me in everything from running a kitchen to choosing the best kinds of cloth to choosing a wet nurse for my children. Almost without variation, they exclaimed over how beautiful I was, and how I was certain to make Signor Vespucci the happiest of men, their tones and expressions hinting at something dangerous, scandalous, something of which we were not to speak.
Of course, Elisabetta and her mother came to visit as well. Once the usual congratulations had been made, our mothers drew their chairs up next to each other and began to chat away happily, paying us no mind.
Elisabetta smiled thinly at me. “So it is as I said. You have got your Florentine husband.”
I smiled, in the open, honest way I had not allowed myself to when speaking to all the noblewomen of the city. “Yes,” I said. “Or will have, at least. The betrothal is not yet signed, of course, so it is not official, but…”
She waved away my words. “Oh, come, Simonetta, do not be so coy. It is official, for all intents and purposes. You have won.”
“Won?” I laughed. “What contest was I entered in without my knowledge?”
“The contest of being a woman, of course,” she said, and I was surprised to see a hint of a sneer around her lips. “It has ever been a competition between us women, from the moment that Lilith was cast out of paradise in favor of Eve. You have your beauty, of which no one ever ceases to speak, and now your fine Florentine husband with his Medici friends. You, Simonetta, have won it all.”
I was taken aback. “But I do not—”
“No need to know you are in a contest if you are always winning, is there? It is of no consequence. But mark my words, Simonetta Cattaneo—the Florentine women never forget what game it is they are playing, and they know the rules as well as they know their catechism. So beware.”
Anger flared in me. “And what do you know of Florentine women and their rules, Elisabetta Abruzzi? You have never left Genoa any more than I have. What is this nonsense you speak, of contests and competitions and winning? If there is any victory here, it is not of my doing.”
I paused, seeing Elisabetta’s face flush red. I bit my lip in consternation. “I am sorry,” I said. “I do not mean to speak harshly to you, my friend.”
“Nor I to you,” she said, the color still heightened in her cheeks. “It is just that … I will miss you. I am sad you are going. Truly.”
I reached out and took one of her hands, where it lay in her lap. “Come to my wedding,” I said. “I shall send you an invitation. You must come to Florence. It will be wonderful.”
She remained still for a moment, then withdrew her hand. “I will see if my parents agree,” she said softly.
I knew, right then, that it would be the last time I saw her.
*
Marco only remained in Genoa for two short weeks following his offer of marriage. Amidst all the congratulatory calls and visits, he came to take his leave of me one quiet afternoon. Now that we were betrothed, my parents left us alone in the receiving room with only Chiara for a chaperone.