I would not think of it now, I decided, pushing such thoughts firmly aside as the carriage began to move down the hill toward the city. I was ready to embrace my new life in this place, and while I was sure it would not be without its difficulties, I would deal with them as they came.
We were a greater distance away from the city than it had appeared from our perch atop the hill, and it took us the rest of the afternoon to reach our rented house, which was near to Marco’s family home in the Ognissanti district of Florence, on the banks of the river Arno. Once we entered the city proper, I craned my neck out the window to see the narrow cobblestoned streets, the tall buildings of terra-cotta and stone and wood, the laborers whom we passed and who had to jump out of the way to avoid our carriage. I was thwarted in my desire to see all of the city that I could, though, by my mother admonishing me to bring my head back inside the window. A lady never gawps, after all.
The sun was beginning its descent by the time we reached our rented lodgings. It was not a large house, with its tall and skinny fa?ade squeezed in between the two larger neighboring buildings.
“This is it?” my mother asked dubiously, poking her head out of the carriage window. I had to bite my lip to keep from telling her not to gawp.
“It is just for a few months,” I reminded her. “Did you expect us to take up residence in a palazzo the size of the Medicis’?” Of course, I had never seen the Medici palazzo, but based on what I knew of them I assumed it was large.
“Of course not,” she huffed. “Do not take everything I say so literally, Simonetta.”
Then why do you say such things? I wanted to ask.
We went inside, while my father remained in the street, supervising the unloading of our luggage. We explored the house with its small rooms, which did not take long, then ascended to the top floor to select our bedchambers. “Baths, I think, to wash away the dust of the road,” my mother said to Chiara, following me into one of the smaller rooms that I had deemed as good as any other. “For myself and Simonetta. You shall need to wash Simonetta’s hair, as well.” She turned to me, grinning widely. “We want you looking perfectly fresh tomorrow, when we go to meet Signor Vespucci’s family.”
I had nearly forgotten that the next day we would go to call on my future in-laws. I shook my head slightly. I was far too tired from travel to think about it now. Instead, I napped on my borrowed bed while waiting for Chiara to locate a washing tub, find a source of clean water, and fill it so that she might bathe me. As soon as the ordeal was over I fell back into bed, not caring that sleeping on my wet hair would make for at least another hour of work on it in the morning.
*
The next day, Marco came to call for us in a carriage and took us to his large family home, the same home where he and I would also be residing after our wedding, for the customary dinner with our two families. It was during this time that I would be presented with my betrothal ring. His parents were very kind to us, and made much of my beauty and of me. His mother was rather quiet, and spoke only when she was spoken to—a womanly art that my own mother had never mastered, nor had I. His father seemed the sort to be a stern taskmaster, who had no doubt raised his son to know exactly what was expected of him. His parents had clearly spared no expense on the meal, and we dined well on sliced melon, a rich vegetable stew, fresh trout, and veal. They introduced us to a curious, pronged implement that was all the rage among Florence’s well-to-do set: called a fork, it allowed one to spear and pick up bits of food without dirtying the fingers. It was rather odd to eat with, but I did appreciate the cleanliness it afforded—as well as what I guessed would be additional decorum, once I’d grown more comfortable with it and did not drop morsels back onto my plate quite so often.
The conversation consisted mostly of my father and Signor Vespucci speaking of business and politics, those of both Florence and Genoa. Every now and then Marco would catch my eye across the table and smile at me, and I would try to smile back as much as I dared without seeming immodest. Something about his smile made me wish that the two of us were quite alone, with no parents or chaperones near. Soon enough, I told myself, dropping my eyes from his. The first time we would be alone together, I knew, would be our wedding night, when whatever mysterious thing it was that took place between a married couple would happen between us. Well-read for a woman though I was, I had not come across the details of the marriage act committed to paper, though I was inclined to believe that that was more a result of the literature I had been exposed to rather than any delicacy on the part of writers at large. I was curious, intensely so, yet knew that I would need to wait for my mother to impart this forbidden knowledge to me, like a reluctant serpent whispering in the ear of an all-too-eager Eve.
After the meal, I was given my ring—a modest diamond set in a gold band—and our fathers adjourned to Signor Vespucci’s study for more wine and to begin to discuss the terms of the betrothal. I did not know how long such things took, but I knew the wedding plans would not be delayed in any case—our mothers had already made passing mention of what cloth should be ordered for my trousseau and who should make my new gown for the occasion.
Marco’s mother led us into the receiving room: a rather bare stone room, as any tapestries and wall hangings had no doubt been put away in the heat of summer. Even so, the simple wooden furniture that was there—chairs with embroidered cushions and a few small side tables—was of the finest craftsmanship. Once we were all seated, Signora Vespucci engaged my mother in conversation—something that entailed my mother doing most of the talking, while Signora Vespucci nodded and murmured politely in response—so as to allow Marco and myself to speak to one another without interruption. He drew his chair nearer to mine and leaned toward me.
“I have wonderful news for you, Simonetta,” he said. “I wanted to tell you myself, before anyone else knows. I think you will be honored and excited, as I am. But you must not speak of this to your parents, mind, until we have received the official invitation.”
“Dear Marco,” I said, smiling, “whatever it is, have mercy and do not leave me in suspense!”
His eyes took on a merry glint. “Anything you wish, dearest lady. Upon my return I was invited to the home of the Medici family to dine. They were all so captivated by my accounts of your beauty—understated, as they shall see—that Lorenzo has invited you to dine as well. As soon as our betrothal is made official, I am to present you to him and the rest of his family.”