Now that I was aware of it, I could read the calculation in his eyes as plain as if it were written on parchment. If he were to forbid me from continuing to pose, Lorenzo de’ Medici would hear of it, and would no doubt take offense at this slight to one of his favorite painters. This, in turn, would not bode well for Marco’s political aspirations.
“I suppose you may as well keep on, since you have already begun,” he said finally. “In the future, though, mind you consult with me about such things.”
“Of course, marito,” I said. With that, I turned and left the room.
*
That night, Marco turned to me in bed, and though I thought to push him away, I did not. I was still upset over our quarrel earlier, true, but that had as much to do with my realization of the bleak reality of our marriage as with anything he had said. Perhaps we could repair what had gone wrong between us. Perhaps it was not too late; perhaps this strife would soon pass.
I opened my legs for him, and as he slid inside me I sighed aloud in pleasure, realizing that I had missed this, had missed him. I moved my hips against him, meeting his thrusts, and I heard his breathing quicken at my response. We moved together, slightly faster now, and we both reached our release at the same time, our voices mingling as we cried out. He let his head fall to my shoulder, and kissed my neck, my cheek, and then my lips before lifting himself off of me.
Yet afterward, and only when I was certain that Marco was asleep, I let tears slide silently down my face. My hopefulness as we had started to make love had gone, and everything now only felt wrong.
26
And so, with Marco’s cooperation—however grudging, however incomplete his knowledge—I continued to go to Botticelli’s workshop and pose. He did another day’s worth of sketches of me in the same pose as the last time, then tried a few variations of it.
“I think I shall keep to my original vision,” he said to me as I dressed at the end of one session. “I am sorry to have wasted your time by being so indecisive. But the good news is that the next time you are here, I can begin to paint.”
I smiled. “Not at all. I am happy to help in whatever way you need. It is not so difficult, after all, standing up there for a time.”
His expression turned serious as he regarded me. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but I still thank you all the same. I know it is no small thing that I have asked.”
The words I wanted to speak sprang to my tongue with such force that I was only just able to hold them back. You could ask of me anything in the world, and I would say yes.
As he had before—and almost as if he had read the words in my eyes—he made a small motion as though to take me in his arms, but did not.
I lowered my eyes quickly, shame flooding through me at all that I was feeling. “I should go,” I said. “When would you like me to return?”
He sighed, and I noticed he took a step back from me. “I shall send word, if that suits. It shall take me a bit of time to find and prepare the proper canvas.” He smiled. “It shall be a very large one.”
I smiled back distractedly, barely hearing him. “Very well,” I managed. “Until next time, then.”
“Indeed,” he said, seeing me to the door. “Buona notte, Simonetta.”
I did not reply, afraid of the words that would tumble from my lips if I did.
It seemed so foolish, that things should change so suddenly. In truth, I had long desired him, ever since I sat for him the first time. It was the reason I had always sought him out at gatherings, the reason why I always knew where he was in a room without having to look. It was why I had wanted to pose nude for him, to let him see all of me, even as the thought frightened me. It was the fear of wanting something I could not have.
It was the reason his eyes burned me as he studied me: because I imagined they were his hands on my body, instead.
It should not have mattered that I had finally formed the words in my own mind. The feelings had been there for years. But somehow, now, just having admitted it to myself, the world around me suddenly looked both brighter and darker at once.
I thought of a section of one of Dante’s poems: “I felt a spirit of love begin to stir/Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;/And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain/(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),/Saying, ‘Be now indeed my worshipper!’”
I shivered as I walked home, even though the night was not cold.
Desire was what I felt, certainly. But what I also felt—even though I should not, even though I had no right to be feeling it—was love.
27
Several days passed, and I had no word from Sandro requesting that I return. He had warned me of this, of course, but in light of my new discovery—about myself, about him—it felt painfully dire. Did he no longer need me? Had he thought better of the whole project?
It was silliness, I knew. I remained listlessly in the house, though one day I did go to the Medici palazzo to take the noon meal with Clarice. We had a pleasant enough time, though it was punctuated by several mild coughing fits I could not contain.
“Are you quite well, Simonetta?” she asked me. “You are not taking ill again, are you?”
I smiled. “I hope not. I have spent quite enough time being ill of late, I think.”
Our talk turned to other things, and I impulsively invited her and Lorenzo to dine with us the following evening, an invitation which she gladly accepted.
“It will keep him out of that Donati woman’s bed, anyway,” she said irritably. “He has scarcely been home of late. How does he think to get another son if he strays from his wife’s bed?”
“Men are fools,” I said. “Even the ones who ought to know better.”
Just then, we were interrupted by the excited arrival of little Lucrezia, who had insisted her nurse bring her in to greet me. It was just as well, for I did not wish Clarice to question me as to my words. I had not told her what I had learned of Marco, and of the strain in our marriage since. I could not bear for her to know the truth; she who had been witness to all of my early, girlish hope and happiness in those days leading up to, and immediately after, my marriage.
Friend though she was, I could not bear to admit to her that she had been right all along.
*
The next morning my cough seemed to have worsened, so I stayed abed that I might recover in time to host Clarice and Lorenzo later that evening. I sent Chiara to the market for everything we would need, then slept most of the afternoon. Indeed, when it became time to dress for the evening I felt much improved, and Marco and I had a lovely time with our friends. It became much easier, I found, to put aside our differences in the presence of company.
Maybe we should move in with Lorenzo and Clarice, I thought to myself with a bit of humor as we lingered over our dessert wine.
However, despite feeling well at dinner, it soon became clear that I was not truly well.