Why I should be so excited for the esteem and notice of a man I had never met, I could not say—I only knew that my heart began to pound with excitement and nervousness in equal measure. “Truly, Marco?”
“Indeed.” He lowered his voice a bit further. “Lorenzo’s father, Piero, is quite ill—an invalid, for all intents and purposes. Gout—it runs in their family, sadly. As such, Lorenzo has largely taken over as head of the family.” He reached out and squeezed my hand lightly. “You will make a wonderful impression on such an important man.”
I was hardly listening, though I knew his words were important. “Whatever shall I wear? I do not know if I have a gown fine enough.…”
Marco laughed. “You could dress in a nun’s habit and still be the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen. Do not fret, Simonetta. And remember, Florence is a republic. The Medici are not royalty.”
I heard his words, but could scarcely bring myself to pay them any mind. This promised evening—whenever it took place—would be important, I knew it. I was no longer the little Cattaneo girl, the only daughter of a minor noble family. This was my chance to be seen. To be a woman of note and learning, to speak and perhaps be heard in this enlightened city. To be somebody, if only I had the courage.
6
After that first evening with Marco’s parents, the betrothal negotiations continued on unimpeded, as far as I knew, for I was not privy to any of the particulars. All I knew was that before long the agreement was signed and sealed, and Marco sent me a bracelet of small pearls with a gold clasp to commemorate the event.
We settled into our life in Florence—a temporary diversion for my parents, but a true transition for me. Our first Sunday in the city, we went to Mass at Santa Maria del Fiore. The massive dome seemed even more extraordinary when beheld from the ground beneath it; I had heard that though it had stood for years now, many Florentines were still waiting for it to collapse at any moment. I could see why.
The entire structure was enormous, not just the great dome. Up close I was able to admire the intricate marble detailing on the outside, completed in not only white stone but also in stripes and blocks of green and pink. Tall, narrow windows were set into the sides, framed with elaborately carved stonework. Beside the cathedral stood its campanile, nearly as tall as the dome, built in the same multicolored stone as the cathedral itself. The bells rang an urgent yet melodious toll, calling worshippers to Mass.
It was a bit intimidating to step into such a large, grand structure—it made me feel quite small but reverent—and perhaps that was the point: one should always feel unworthy of stepping into God’s house, yet this structure, with its somewhat plain yet mammoth interior, heightened that feeling. Light spilled into the sanctuary from the windows in the walls and set high up near the ceiling, and this, along with the simple, if massive, columns and arches, created a vast, airy space in which to hear the Word of God. Yet, for all the space and light, there was something a bit oppressive about the cathedral as well—perhaps due to the sprawling, elaborate fresco that graced the inside of Brunelleschi’s dome. It depicted the last judgment and, in addition to the Lord welcoming the righteous into the glory of heaven, there was also, as might be expected, depictions of hell and the torments that await the damned. Sinners tumbled naked into hell, where demons tortured them and Satan stuffed them into his mouth, devouring them with his gnashing teeth.
The beauty and horror of the fresco captivated me, and I confess I spent much of that first Mass craning my neck to look upward, unable to tear my gaze away, trying to take in every detail of the beautiful and hideous artwork. I could not even begin to count the numerous figures in the fresco, from saints and angels and kings sitting in attendance on the Lord Jesus to the human souls being judged and the demons of hell; it was a riot of color and activity. Several times my mother pinched my arm, a not-so-gentle reminder that my mind should be firmly on the service. Yet for what other purpose was the fresco there, I reasoned, than to fascinate and terrify the faithful? To both inspire and instill fear? It was, I thought, much more effective than any sermon.
*
A few days after my betrothal gift arrived came a note. We are invited to dine at the Medici palazzo a week from tonight, so it went. I shall come to escort you, with your maid for chaperone, if that is pleasing to your parents.
At the bottom of the parchment he had written, Do not worry. No matter what you say or do, you shall enchant them. There is no woman, on earth or in Heaven, more charming than you.
My mother, when I showed her the note, was quite beside herself. “In the name of all the saints, whatever shall you wear?” she exclaimed. “Nothing too elaborate, no; they have such pesky sumptuary laws in Florence. The cloth must be of the best quality, though; yes, these Florentines are cloth merchants all, they will know inferior quality from a yard off when they see it. We’ve no time to have anything made, have we? What have you brought with you? Quickly, let us see—Chiara! Come, child, we shall need your help. Simonetta, you must try a few things, and we shall see what flatters you best.”
I had, of course, brought all my clothes with me from Genoa, save those that were too worn or no longer fit. As such there were several possibilities from which to choose, and my mother had Chiara lace me into all of them so that we might best decide.
In the end we chose one of pale pink silk, of the finest cloth but simple design. The bodice and long, wide sleeves were embroidered with small sprigs of flowers, and a cream band ran beneath my breasts, with the same floral embroidery. It was determined that this gown flattered my creamy skin and golden hair better than any of the others, as well.
When the appointed day arrived, I rose early, so that Chiara might bathe me and wash my hair. I then sat in the sun on the roof of our house, my trusty hat in place, so that the sun might dry my hair. Once it was dry—hours later—Chiara sat me in front of the dressing table and artfully twisted up and bound certain strands, pinning them about the crown of my head, while leaving the rest to flow freely down my back, as was appropriate for an unmarried woman. The final result took much more time than one would guess from looking at it, which was perhaps the point. She then dressed me in a clean shift, petticoat, and, finally, the gown. My neck was left bare, but I donned a pair of pearl earrings of my mother’s, and finally clasped Marco’s bracelet about my wrist.