Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

The smell of the food left me dangerously close to gagging. Yet I smiled until my cheeks ached. I was told a hundred times that I was the most beautiful bride ever seen in Florence. I answered mindlessly, always giving the proper, courteous reply while meaning none of it.

There were toasts, including a popular one for newlyweds, that I should become pregnant on my wedding night. I lifted my goblet to my lips but kept them pressed together; the smell of the wine so nauseated me that I held my breath.

I ate nothing but some bread and a small piece of cheese, though my plate was full. I maneuvered the food artfully so it would appear I had taken more.

After the food came dancing, with music from a quartet of players Francesco had hired. With the ritual and the meal behind me, I felt a temporary relief. I was exhausted, but I laughed and played and danced with my new nephews and nieces, and looked on them with newfound wistfulness.

I turned once to find my father watching me with the same emotion.

But when the sun began to set, the revelers left, and my father went home to his house, empty of family-even Zalumma had left him. And my bravado waned with the light.

I was numb as Francesco introduced me to some of his servants: his chambermaids, Isabella and Elena; his valet, Giorgio; the cook, Agrippina; a kitchen maid, Silvestra; and the driver, Claudio. Most of them slept across from the kitchen, on the ground floor in the southwest wing, which opened onto the back of the palazzo. I repeated the names aloud even as I knew I would not remember them long; my heart was beating too loudly for me to hear even myself clearly. There were others I did not meet-stablehands and the stablemaster, a second cook who had taken ill, an errand boy.

Elena, a sweet-faced woman with chestnut hair and the serene gaze of a Madonna, led Zalumma and me up the stairs to the third floor, past Francesco’s rooms on the second, to the vast chambers that now belonged to me. Holding a lamp aloft, she led me first to the nursery, with its forlorn cradle beneath a painting of a stiff Mary and her manlike child, and its empty nursemaid’s quarters; the room was so achingly cold I decided no fire had ever been built in its hearth.

We then toured my sitting room, which had chairs, a table bearing a lit lamp, a desk, and a shelf with books suited to a lady’s taste: love poetry, psalms in Latin, primers on classical languages, volumes of advice on how the mistress should run her household, how she should conduct herself in regard to her husband and guests, how she should treat common ailments. No fire burned here, either, but the room was warmer, given that it rested two floors above the dining room’s blazing hearth, and one floor above Francesco’s chambers.

The sitting room and nursery sat at the front of the house, with windows that faced north; Zalumma’s quarters (which she shared with Elena and Isabella) and mine sat at the back, facing south. Elena took us to the servants’ chambers and allowed me a swift, cursory glance inside; my own bedroom at home had not been as large or well appointed.

Then we crossed the corridor and Elena opened the door to the bridal chamber, my chamber.

The room was unabashedly feminine. The walls were of white, the floor of variegated cream, pink, and green marble, the mantel and hearth made from white granite that glittered in the light of a generous fire. Two delicate lady’s chairs, their padded seats covered in pale green brocade, faced the hearth; on the wall behind them was a large tapestry of a pair of women plucking oranges from a tree. The bed was covered by scattered dried rose petals and an embroidered tasseled throw of the same blue velvet as my gown. Matching curtains, trimmed with gold, hung from an ebony canopy; the inner curtains were made of armloads of sheer white chiffon, cunningly draped. French doors opened onto the south and, I assumed, a balcony.

On either side of the bed stood tables; one held a white basin, painted with flowers and filled with fragrant rosewater. Above it hung an oval mirror. The other table held a lamp, a silver plate of raisins, a flagon of wine, and a silver goblet.

The room’s appointments were so new, so clearly made expressly for me, that it was hard to believe I was not the first owner.

Elena showed me the iron chain hanging from the ceiling near the bed, which, if pulled, would sound a bell in the servants’ quarters across the hall.

“Thank you,” I said, by way of dismissing her. “I have everything I need. I will undress now.”

The small smile on her lips, which had never wavered during our tour, did not change. The lamp still in her hand, she curtsied, then left, closing the door behind her. I stood and listened to the scuffle of her slippers on the marble, to the sound of the door across the hall opening and shutting.

Zalumma unlaced my sleeves and my bodice. The cumbersome gown with its heavy train dropped to the floor and, clad only in the shimmering camicia, I stepped out of it with a low groan, exhausted.

I sat fidgeting at the foot of the bed and watched as Zalumma carefully folded the sleeves, the gown, and set them upon a shelf of the large wardrobe. She gently removed the diamond hairnet and put it in the trunk, along with my other jewelry. Then I took my place in front of the mirror and let her unloose my hair. I stared at my reflection and saw my mother, young and terrified and pregnant.

Zalumma saw her, too. She tenderly lifted the brush and brought it down, then smoothed the hair with her free hand. Each stroke of the brush was immediately followed by another stroke of her hand; she wanted to comfort me, and this was the only way she had.

At last, the brushing stopped. I turned to face Zalumma. Her expression now reflected my own: falsely brave, intent on cheering the other.

“If you need anything-” she began.

“I will be fine.”

“-I will be right by the door, waiting.”

“Will you come afterward?” I asked. Despite my dread, I had noticed that Francesco had ignored one of my requests: There was no cot here for Zalumma. While it was the fashion for servants to sleep apart from very wealthy masters, Zalumma had always slept on a cot near my mother’s bed, in case she suffered a fit. After my mother died, Zalumma’s presence was a comfort to me. And it would be my one comfort now, in this heartless house. “This room is too large, and this bed; I cannot bear to sleep alone.”

“I will come,” she said softly.

I nodded. “I will call for you.”

I turned away so that she could leave.

Francesco arrived a quarter of an hour later. His knock was hesitant, and when I did not come at once, he opened the door and called my name.

I was sitting on the stone hearth staring into the fire, my arm wound round my legs, my cheek resting on my bent knees, my bare feet pressed against the warm, rough granite. Had I been any closer, the heat would have burned my skin, but it could not dispel the cold that enveloped me.

I rose and walked toward him. Still dressed in his wine-colored wedding clothes, he smiled sweetly, shyly, as I stopped two arm’s lengths away. “The festivities went quite well. I think our guests were pleased, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Do you find your rooms satisfactory?”

“They are beyond my expectations.”

“Good.” He paused. “I have a gift for you.” He drew a silk pouch from his pocket.

I reached for it, took it. I fumbled with the drawstring, my fingers clumsy, numb, as if I had been swimming in icy water. Francesco laughed softly and loosened the drawstring for me; the contents spilled into my hand.

It was a lady’s brooch. A large one, made of an acorn-sized garnet surrounded by seed pearls and set in silver.