“I had not thought of it that way before, Madonna,” Chiara said.
I knew she was just humoring me, but I went on anyway. “Even Dante and Beatrice. Theirs is considered a great love story, a love for the ages, when, in fact, Beatrice never returns his love, not in any of the poems. What of that? Does how she felt not matter in the least? We remember only Dante’s great love for her, as if that is all it takes to make a great love affair. And so she is remembered only as Dante’s beloved lady. She did not have any choice in the matter.”
“I suppose that is true, Madonna.”
I sighed and bent back over my stitching. Where, indeed, was Sandro when I needed him? He would understand. “And what else do they say?”
“Not much of import, Madonna,” she said. “They … some men have…”
“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently, “out with it.”
“There have been pamphlets circulating, Madonna. Some are written in support of you as the most beautiful woman in Florence, and some say that Lucrezia Donati—Signora Ardenghelli, as she is now—is more deserving of the title.”
“She can have it.” She can have my husband, too, if she wants him, I added silently, remembering the jealousy I had felt toward her on the night I first met her, when she and Marco had conversed so easily.
Chiara gave a small smile. She was well and truly settled in to gossip now. “I also heard that two men fought a duel a few days ago, right on the Ponte Santa Trinita. The cause of the duel is reported to be that one man insulted your beauty, and the other man could not let such an insult pass. And so they fought.”
“Dio mio, but men are fools,” I said. With that, we both went back to our mending and fell into comfortable silence.
*
It was some time before I was able to return to Sandro’s workshop. He was finishing his commission for Santa Maria Novella and so had little time for our project, born of love and without the financial backing of a patron. I briefly considered approaching Lorenzo de’ Medici myself and asking if he wished to finance the remainder of the painting, so that Sandro might be free to devote his time to it again, as I knew he dearly wanted to. But if Sandro had not already done so, he must have a good reason for it. Best to keep this particular painting private—just between Sandro and myself—for as long as possible.
Finally, one evening in early April, when his Adoration of the Magi was done and installed in the church, I was able to see him again. I half expected there to be some sort of awkwardness between us. When last he had seen me, I had been in quite a state; had gone from accusing him to seeking his comfort and help in a matter of minutes.
I should have known better, though. As soon as I stepped inside his workshop—the light dimming with the setting sun—he came to greet me and kissed my hand with a smile. “My dear Simonetta,” he said. “How I have missed you.”
My breath caught in my throat. It was just the sort of greeting one lover might give the other when they had not seen each other for some time.
“And I have missed you. More than I can say.” Much as I wanted to, though, I could not go on from there; could not tell him, as much as I wished to, of all the things I had thought and pondered in weeks past and wanted to share with him. That I missed him because I did not see him every day. I missed him because he was not the one who was sharing my life, though he should have been. Instead, sighing, I turned to the business at hand.
A great canvas had been set up on a large system of supports, and I saw that he had begun to fill in some of the background color. The very center of the canvas beckoned to me, as though it had been waiting all this time for me to step into it.
I shivered, though the room was not cold, and moved to remove my clothes.
“Wait,” he said, placing a gentle hand on my arm to prevent me. “There is something I must say to you, Simonetta, and I must do it before we begin our work.”
“Now?” I asked stupidly, because that was all I could think to say.
“Yes. It cannot wait.”
I turned to face him, my breath a bare whisper in my throat as I waited for him to proceed.
“I … they say in the streets that you are the mistress of Giuliano de’ Medici,” he said. “All of Florence accepts as fact that it is so.”
Disappointment and even a bit of ire slipped into my heart at these words. “Yes, I know,” I said shortly. “My maid has told me the gossip. You, of course, know that it is not true.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I … ah, Simonetta, I apologize. This is not how I wanted to start, not at all…” He spun away from me, his head in his hands.
Instantly my irritation vanished. I took a few steps toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Sandro?” I whispered. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, amico mio.”
He turned back to me, his eyes full of something heavy, as though he could not bear its full weight himself. “I … had I not been there, that day, and seen what a state you were in, perhaps I might have believed it,” he said. “Not because you are a woman of easy virtue,” he added hurriedly. “Not at all, never that. But because such a woman as you deserves a man of the station of Giuliano de’ Medici. Even your own husband is a man in fine standing, from a well-respected family, with a fine name to offer you, and a good life to give you.”
“I suppose that is true,” I said, quite at a loss as to his purpose. “But my life is not some tale of gods and goddesses, as the gossips would have it. Far from it.”
“I know,” he said. “I fancy that I, perhaps, know better than most. My point is…” He took a deep breath before continuing. “My point is that you are a woman who is entitled to the best of everything. You have all of Florence at your feet and so what I am about to say cannot possibly matter. It should not. But I must say it anyway.” He looked up and met my eyes. “I am in love with you, Simonetta. I love you, I sometimes think, more than art, more than life itself. And even if every man in Florence has said such to you, I needed you to at least hear my voice saying it as well.”
My whole body trembled where I stood. I wanted to dance with joy; I wanted to dissolve into a shower of tears; I wanted to kiss him, to touch him; I wanted to pray to God in thanks and to ask for forgiveness; I wanted to scream with frustration; I wanted to commence undressing and let him take me on the floor of his workshop, if he would.
I wanted to speak, but I did not know what to say.