“I am back to Florence at first light, to make everything ready for you,” he said, once we were both seated. “I am afraid we have spent more time apart than we have together in our acquaintance, and it grieves me, but soon we will have our whole lifetimes to be together.”
“Indeed,” I said, before adding boldly, “And even so I shall miss you.” The excitement of my parents, my neighbors, and everyone outside of this room meant little to me, I had found; what I wanted most was Marco’s company. If only, I sometimes felt late at night, to reassure myself that I was not making a mistake.
No, I thought as I smiled at him. This is no mistake.
“I shall miss you, Madonna, more than words can express—even Dante himself could not find the words!”
I laughed. “Now you go too far, signore. There were no words so far to seek that they could not fly to Dante’s pen.”
“Then I must apologize to Signor Alighieri, and hope that his spirit does not take offense,” he said. “Though as he was never in the same room with you, we will never truly know the extent to which he was able to capture beauty in his verse.”
“More blasphemy! You would have me more beautiful than the divine Beatrice, then?” I asked, enjoying—and flattered by—our lively conversation.
“I would, and to the spirit of Beatrice I will offer no apology.”
“Let us hope that she does not come to haunt us in our new Florentine home, then.”
“No,” he said. “I shall not allow it. Only happiness shall we have there. I promise you.”
I smiled at him again as our eyes met. “I look forward to the fulfillment of your promise, signore.”
“Ah,” he said. “As I said, you must call me Marco.”
I hesitated for a moment. I had not yet spoken his given name aloud before him, and it felt almost too intimate. “Marco,” I said softly.
He rose from his chair and came to kneel beside mine. He was tall enough that, with him kneeling and me seated, our eyes were level. “Yes,” he said. “I am yours to command, Simonetta.” He took my hand and kissed it, his eyes never leaving mine.
*
What I did not realize right away amidst all the preparations was that I would not be returning to Genoa before my wedding, and thus perhaps not ever. It did not occur to me until I came into my chambers one afternoon to find my mother consulting with Chiara about the packing.
“Not the bed, nor the coverlets, of course—we shall buy her all new linens in Florence for her trousseau, and they shall have a bigger bed—they will need one.” She giggled. “But, yes, we must have the dressing table sent, and the wardrobe…”
“Why?” I asked, stepping into the room behind them.
My mother turned, starting slightly. “Goodness, Simonetta, what are you doing, lurking at doors like that? A lady never eavesdrops like a common servant.”
“I have only just now come in,” I pointed out, a slight peevishness in my tone that I could not always master when speaking to my mother. “Why shall we need to take all my furniture to Florence with me?”
“For your new home, of course,” my mother said. “What else? Not that Signor Vespucci will not provide you with some marvelous new things, naturally, but no daughter of the Cattaneo name shall come into her marriage looking like a pauper, I promise you!”
“But…” my confusion must have shown on my face, for my mother sighed as if in distress.
“Oh, Simonetta, surely you knew you would not be coming back here?”
“I thought…”
“Oh, my dearest, no. There would be no reason. We shall go to Florence, draw up the betrothal, then set ourselves to planning the wedding. Then you will be married, and move to your new home with your husband. There is no need for you to come back here.”
“I see.” I sat on the dressing table stool, picking up a ribbon that had been left to lay there and twining it idly through my fingers.
My mother came up behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders. “It will be better this way,” she said. “Indeed, once you are in Florence, you will no doubt never wish to come back.”
That night I prayed, as I had not all throughout the last weeks, that Florence would be everything I dreamed, that it would be the paradise of poets and painters that Marco had told me it was. Please, Lord, let me love it there, I thought, feeling too uncertain and childish to even speak the words aloud. Let me love it there at least a little.
And, I reminded myself as I climbed into bed, dragging my cloak of hair behind me and arranging it upon my pillow, Marco would be there. That much I could rely upon.
5
The city of Florence lay sprawled out below us, a mass of both brownstone and red-tiled roofs nestled among the brilliant, vibrantly green, rolling Tuscan hills. Above it all rose the massive dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, Brunelleschi’s wonder, famous the world over. The cathedral rose above the city like a great sleeping dragon, watching over its domain even in its slumber.
We had heard of this modern wonder in Genoa, of course, but seeing it in person was an entirely different matter. The dome was egg-shaped, and had been finished with reddish tiles beneath the great white ribs of its supports. A cross sat at the very top, blessing those who beheld it from below as well as pointing upward into the heavens. As I gazed upon it, I marveled that so great a structure could stay upright without collapsing in on itself. It seemed a frightening thing, that lowly mankind had dared to build something that ascended so close to God.
My father came up beside me. “Beautiful, is it not?” he asked. “It is a lovely city. And every time I see il Duomo, I am struck anew by the majesty of it. Who knew that human hands could build such a thing?”
“God makes all things possible,” I said, “especially such a great work, in His name. The city of Florence must be especially blessed.”
My father was silent for a moment. “One might think so,” he said at last. “And yet there are startling stories coming from the city of late, as well.” He turned a stern face to me. “You must be careful, daughter. A part of me thought it was perhaps not wise for you to marry into this city, and yet we could not refuse such an offer.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, perplexed. “What manner of stories do you speak of?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “It does not do to trouble women with such things. I should not have spoken of it.” He walked away from me and returned to his horse. “Back into the carriage, ladies,” he called to my mother and me. “We shall want to reach our lodgings before nightfall.” Behind him were the two wagons carrying the luggage and our servants—save for Chiara and my mother’s maid, who rode in the carriage with us—and at his words they began to slowly roll forward once again.
I did as I was told, still unsettled by my father’s words. Surely my parents would not send me anywhere dangerous, regardless of how good the match was? Something in his tone, however, had suggested that these “startling stories” were of a danger other than the physical.