The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence: A Story of Botticelli

The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence: A Story of Botticelli

by Alyssa Palombo

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466882645
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 04/25/2017
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 279,756
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

ALYSSA PALOMBO is the authorof The Violinist of Venice and The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence.She has published short fiction pieces in BlackLantern Magazine and The Great LakesReview. She is a recent graduate ofCanisius College with degrees in English and creative writing,respectively. A passionate music lover,she is a classically trained musician as well as a big fan of heavy metal. Shelives in Buffalo, New York.
ALYSSA PALOMBO is the author of The Violinist of Venice and The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence. She has published short fiction pieces in Black Lantern Magazine and The Great Lakes Review. She is a recent graduate of Canisius College with degrees in English and creative writing, respectively. A passionate music lover, she is a classically trained musician as well as a big fan of heavy metal. She lives in Buffalo, New York.

Read an Excerpt

The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

A Story Of Botticelli

By Alyssa Palombo

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2017 Alyssa Palombo
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8264-5


Genoa, 1469


I heard my mother's voice drift down the hall as she drew nearer. Not too loud — a lady never shouted, after all — but the urgency in her tone was more than enough to convey the importance of this day, this moment.

I met the gaze of my maid, Chiara, in the Venetian glass mirror. She smiled encouragingly from where she stood behind me, sliding the final pins into my hair. "Nearly finished, Madonna Simonetta," she said. "And if he wants you that badly, he will wait."

I smiled back, but my own smile was less sure.

My mother, however, had a different idea. "Make haste," she said as she appeared in the room. "Chiara, we want to show off that magnificent hair, not pin it up as though she is some common matron."

"Si, Donna Cattaneo," Chiara responded. Dutifully, she stepped back from the dressing table and my mother motioned for me to rise from my seat.

"Che bella, figlia mia!" my mother exclaimed as she took me in, dressed in my finest: a brand-new gown of cream silk, trimmed in fine Burano lace, with roses embroidered along the collar and hem. A strand of pearls encircled my neck, and the top strands of my gold hair were artfully pinned back, allowing the majority of it to spill down my back to my waist. "As always," she said.

I smiled the same uncertain smile I had given Chiara, but my mother did not notice. "He is already quite taken with you, and when he sees you tonight, he shall be positively smitten."

I had only met Signor Marco Vespucci once, and at Mass, no less. He was a Florentine, sent to study in Genoa by his father. He was known to my father, somehow, and approached us in the church of San Torpete that day with, it seemed, the intention of being introduced to me. He had bowed and kissed my hand and paid the same extravagant and foolish compliments to my beauty that all men did, so I had scarcely paid him any mind. He was handsome enough, but then many men were handsome.

Apparently, though, he had not forgotten our encounter as easily as I had. He had written to my father shortly thereafter, asking if he might pay court to me.

"But, Mother," I began, thinking that this might be my only opportunity to air the doubts that had been fogging my head, but uncertain how to do so.

"But nothing, mia dolce," my mother said. "Your father and I have discussed it, and Signor Vespucci is a wonderful match for you — why, he is an intimate of the Medici, in Florence! Do you not wish to help la famiglia nostra as best you can?"

"Of course," I said. What else could I say?

"Of course," she echoed. "Then let us go downstairs and meet your suitor. There is no need to fear; you need not say anything at all, if you do not wish to. Your beauty is enough and more."

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes — another thing ladies did not do. As if I would not speak to the man who wished to marry me. And what a foolish notion, that he did not need to hear me speak — did men wish for wives who were mutes, then?

Possibly, I thought, a wry smile touching my lips as I contemplated all the times my mother would chatter on and on, not noticing the somewhat pained expression on my father's face.

Well, if he married me, Signor Vespucci would not be getting a mute for a wife, that was certain, and I would make sure he knew that right off.

I followed my mother down the stairs, Chiara trailing discreetly behind in case I should need anything. Our palazzo was of a decent size, though perhaps not as large as some of the palazzi owned by other members of the Genoese nobility. It was situated far enough inland that one could not quite see the sea from the upper balconies, but I could always smell it: the scent of the sea pervaded the air, the breeze, the very stones, all throughout Genoa. It was the smell of home.

Once on the ground floor, we went out into the open-air courtyard; it was a lovely and mild late April evening, and so my father had seen fit to greet our guest out of doors.

"Ah, here she is," I heard my father say as my mother and I appeared. "Simonetta, figlia, surely you remember Signor Vespucci?"

"Of course," I said, offering my hand. "How do you do, Signor Vespucci?"

"Abundantly well, donna, now that I am in your presence once more," he said, bowing low over my hand as he kissed it. He straightened up, a small, nervous smile playing about his thin lips. I cast my eyes quickly over his person again. Yes, he was handsome, and young; perhaps nineteen or twenty to my sixteen years. His dark hair and pointed beard were neatly trimmed, his eyes were large and kind, and his nose proportionate to the rest of his features. His clothes were sober grays and browns, but made of the finest stuff.

"Do come inside, Signor Vespucci," my father said, "and take a glass of wine with us."

"I would be honored, Don Cattaneo," he said.

We adjourned into the receiving room, and my mother sent a servant for a bottle of our finest vino rosso. I sat on one of the carved wooden chairs, careful not to wrinkle my skirts.

I could feel Signor Vespucci's eyes on me, but directed my gaze modestly to the floor, pretending not to notice. Are you going to speak to me, signore, or merely gaze at me all evening as though I were a painting? I wondered crossly.

"You are a vision, truly, Madonna Simonetta," Signor Vespucci said at last. "I wonder that the sun dares shine and the flowers dare bloom in your presence."

I bit forcefully on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing. All men, it seemed, fancied themselves poets, but few were worthy of the name. Signor Vespucci was no exception.

"I thank you, signore," I said after a moment, once I had mastered myself. "Your words are too kind."

"And quite lovely," my mother interjected, from a seat at an angle to my own. "Ah, you young men and your poetry!"

I bit down on my cheek again and was glad to return my gaze to the floor.

"All men — young and otherwise — can only dream of such a muse to inspire them," he said, still looking at me. Despite decorum, I lifted my eyes and met his straight on, trying to read his sincerity. He surprised me by holding my gaze for a moment, as though he were appraising something other than my beauty, if only briefly. Yet then I saw his cheeks flush, and he looked away.

"So tell us how your studies go, Signor Vespucci," my father said, once the wine had been poured.

My suitor took up this topic eagerly, telling us in great detail everything he was learning about the art of banking, and how he hoped his new skills would serve him well when he returned to Florence, the city of those famous master bankers themselves, the Medici.

I could not bring myself to be interested in his talk — numbers and ledgers and accounts were hardly my forte. Yet what intrigued me was the light in his eyes as he spoke, the life in his voice and his enthusiastic hand gestures. He sat on the edge of his seat as he went on, leaning forward toward my father, as though his excitement was such that it was all he could do to keep to his chair.

I softened a bit toward him then. Maybe he found in his numbers and ledgers the same thing I found in poetry: a love of something outside oneself that nevertheless felt like it was a part of one's very being. And at that moment, that spark of recognition, as though I could see his soul, was far more attractive to me than his handsome face.

As the hour grew later and the conversation dwindled — perhaps through my parents' design, I had not, in fact, had much chance to say anything — Signor Vespucci noticed the book left on the varnished wood table nearest him. "Ah, of course," he said, noting the title. "La Divina Commedia. And who is reading Dante?" He glanced up at my father, assuming he already knew the answer to his question.

"I am," I said.

Signor Vespucci looked startled as he turned to me. "You, Madonna Simonetta?"

I had received only a rudimentary education: reading and writing, and simple figures. Yet I had often persuaded my tutor — an old and kindly priest — to let me read the histories of such figures as Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. And from there we went, naturally, to poetry.

Yet when I'd reached the age of thirteen, my parents had sent Padre Valerio away, saying it was an unnecessary expense to continue to pay him. I had already learned as much and more as was needed to be a lady and a wife. "No man wants a wife as well learned as he is," my father had said, with my mother nodding emphatically beside him. "And a girl as beautiful as you has no need of books."

They would not let me continue my lessons, no matter how I begged. So I began to read on my own, my father's volumes and those I asked him to purchase for me. The copy of Dante that had caught Signor Vespucci's attention, however, had been a gift to me from Padre Valerio — one of several such gifts, bless him.

"Indeed. I wonder at your surprise, signore. Because so many noblewomen are uneducated, did you assume that I was among their number?"

My father frowned at me in warning, but I paid no heed.

"Why, no," Signor Vespucci said, recovering. "It is just that it is quite the tome, and one does not always expect a young lady —"

Narrowing my eyes at him, I quoted, "'Good Leader, I but keep concealed/From thee my heart, that I may speak the less/Nor only now has thou thereto disposed me.'"

My mother laughed nervously. "Simonetta ..."

Yet Signor Vespucci ignored her, and again met my eyes. "'So I beheld more than a thousand splendors/Drawing towards us, and in each was heard: "Lo, this is she who shall increase our love."'"

Neither of us looked away for a long moment, longer than was appropriate. I felt a strange skip in my heart. It was nothing like the tormented passion Dante described, and yet still I felt my skin flush and my breath quicken.

This time it was I who looked away first.

"You would be in high favor among the Medici circle, Madonna Simonetta," Signor Vespucci said after a moment of heavy silence, a faint huskiness in his tone. "You have in abundance the two things most prized there: beauty and poetry."

"Indeed?" I asked, struggling to compose myself.

"Si. Lorenzo de' Medici is following in the tradition of his grandfather, the great Cosimo, and is gathering about him the brightest and most gifted minds he can find: poets, scholars, artists. Nowhere in Italy — in the world, no doubt — are the arts held in such high esteem."

I allowed myself to imagine it. Brilliant men, artists, all in attendance on the Medici, discussing their ideas and their art. Would they welcome a woman in their midst? Perhaps, for even here in Genoa we had heard of the formidable Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni, mother to the Medici brothers Lorenzo and Giuliano, an intelligent and well-read woman in her own right.

"I should like to see it," I said, smiling at my suitor.

I did not realize it then, but in the weeks that followed I would look back on that moment as the one in which I had made my decision.


Of course, it was not as simple as that. Signor Vespucci dined with us again after that, at which time — once my mother and I had retired for the evening — he made his intentions known to my father. Before he could make a formal offer, however, he had to return to Florence — he was almost finished with his studies, in any case — and receive the permission of his family. Apparently he foresaw no difficulty, once he told them of my virtue, my goodness, and my beauty. Especially my beauty.

And so I waited, as was, I supposed, the lot of women.

In those first days after Signor Vespucci's departure from Genoa, I found myself missing him. Our discussion of Dante had left me with a fondness toward him, and I appreciated that my cleverness in such things was not off-putting to my suitor — quite the reverse, in fact.

And so I missed him and perhaps, more so, I missed the conversations we had not yet had. I knew that we would have nothing but time for such things once we were married, but even so.

And yet, as the days wore on, and we did not hear back from him, that very idea of marriage began to grow ever fainter and more alien to me, like the page of a book one has pored over so often that the ink begins to fade. Perhaps it would be for the best if I heard no more from him, for what did I know of marriage, or of men? Or, more specifically, of this particular man? Knowledge of poetry, a fine mind, and a handsome person did not a good marriage make. Or did it? What more was there, really? I knew I was lucky to have such a young and handsome suitor. Most girls my age were married to men much older than they.

And every so often I would remember what he had said about Florence, about the society there, and about what I could expect to find. I did want that: to meet those wise and learned men that Signor Vespucci had spoken of. I did not want to remain in Genoa with my parents all my life, seeing and learning nothing more of the world than my own town.

Yet who knew if Signor Vespucci had spoken in earnest about taking me to Florence, and presenting me to the Medici's circle? Why should men like Lorenzo de' Medici care about a simple nobleman's daughter from Genoa? Signor Vespucci had spoken no more than a few words on the subject, and I was ready to tumble right into the marriage bed. As far as wooing went, he had not needed to try very hard. And perhaps that's all his words had been — weightless words meant to woo a naïve maid.

Just over a week after Signor Vespucci's departure, my friend Elisabetta came to visit me. Quite the gossip, she was a year older than me and still unmarried, which perhaps accounted for our friendship more than anything else: we were the only noble girls of age who had yet to be married or confined to a cloister. Elisabetta was nice enough to talk to, and to visit the merchants with, but often I could only spend so much time in her company before the spite that worked its way into her gossip began to wear on me.

We sat outside in the courtyard, wearing wide-brimmed hats to shield our faces from the sun, yet with the crowns cut out so that our hair could be pulled through and left to fall down our backs, that it might lighten to a dazzling shade of gold. That was what the Venetian ladies did, anyway, and it was said Venetian women were the most beautiful in the world.

"Any word from your handsome suitor?" she inquired as soon as we were seated.

"No," I answered. "And what of you? Does your father still have his heart set on Count Ricci?"

Elisabetta made a face, and I saw that my words had stung her in a manner I had not intended. The latest gossip about town (for I had Chiara to keep me informed when too much time had passed since Elisabetta's last visit) was that Elisabetta's father, after failing to broker her a marriage between any of the younger scions of the local families, had offered her to Count Ricci, a childless widower nearing fifty. I had not thought there was any truth to the tale, but the look on Elisabetta's face told me otherwise.

"God forgive me, but I should rather be a nun," she said, primly crossing herself.

I laughed off my discomfort. "Let us hope it does not come to that. Do not worry yourself, amica. Surely your father will look elsewhere for a match for you — Pisa, perhaps, or Florence."

Elisabetta waved my words aside. "Bah. Pisa is full of nothing but scholars and priests. Florence, though — Florence, it seems, is the place from which husbands hail." She very nearly leered at me. "As you would know, my dear Simonetta."

"I have no husband as yet, from Florence or elsewhere," I said.

"You will soon enough, or so I hear."

I shrugged in a rather unladylike way. My mother would be appalled. "Perhaps."

I could feel her eyeing me from beneath the brim of her hat. "Was he not pleasing to you?" she asked.

"Pleasing enough," I said, remembering that strange moment of kinship. "It is just ... I do not know that I want any husband yet."

Elisabetta laughed. "What else could you do but get a husband?"

"What else indeed," I murmured, but I knew the answer as well as she did: nothing. The most I had ever dared hope for was that I might find a husband tolerant enough to permit my continued study and reading of poetry, and wealthy enough to keep me supplied with books. Signor Vespucci was just such a one.

"You could never be a nun," she continued. "You are far too pretty." When she said it, it sounded as though she were accusing me of being a witch.

"A convent might not be so terrible," I said, leaning my head against the wall behind us and closing my eyes. I knew even as I spoke that my parents would never allow me to take holy vows. As the only child of the family, I was expected to make an advantageous marriage — and with my beauty, so I had been told many times, I would no doubt be able to make the most fortuitous of matches. Yet the nuns were allowed to read, and the most skilled of them even copied manuscripts.

Elisabetta was still watching me. "I heard he has a mistress," she said suddenly.

I opened my eyes. "Who? Count Ricci?"

"No," she said, her gaze still fixed on me. "Your Signor Vespucci."


Excerpted from The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence by Alyssa Palombo. Copyright © 2017 Alyssa Palombo. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
Part I: La Bella Simonetta,
Part II: Venus,
Part III: Immortal,
Author's Note,
Discussion Questions,
Preview: The Violinist of Venice,
Also by Alyssa Palombo,
Praise for The Violinist of Venice,
About the Author,

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The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence: A Story of Botticelli 4.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
Anonymous 6 months ago
Simonetta Cattaneo moves to Florence to marry Marco Vespucci and quickly becomes known as the most beautiful woman in town. She is admired by everyone she meets, not only for her beauty but also for her love of art and poetry. Simonetta catches the eye of painter Sandro Botticelli, and she becomes a model and muse for his work. Ultimately Simonetta must chose where he heart lies as she risks her marriage and reputation to pose for The Birth of Venus. It is refreshing to read books based on historical events that center around the women of the time period and how the may have felt in their societal roles. Palombo does a lovely job of interjecting feminism and a strong sense of sexual empowerment. Beautifully told and clearly well researched.
KrittersRamblings More than 1 year ago
Check out the full review at Kritters Ramblings Another historical fiction book that completely took me into this place and time and I loved every minute of it. The Birth of Venus is a famous painting, I would be surprised to hear of anyone who can't bring a picture of it up in their minds and to read a story inspired by the inspiration of the painting was so interesting. To read of the drama that went behind that painting made me appreciate that painting more and maybe even made me want to find more stories about the creation of other paintings and how they came to be.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really enjoy the description and detail that goes into these books. It makes me want to visit Italy.
Mirella More than 1 year ago
Was there really a love between Simonetta and Sandro Botticelli? No one will ever know for certain. Although this is only deemed a rumor, author Alyssa Palombo explores this possibility. The prose is lovely, filled with wonderful descriptions of Florence with its location, fashions, and famous personages. The author truly did a fabulous job of weaving a fascinating tale, especially once the conflict kicked into high gear. Simonetta is truly a likable character, aware of her great beauty, but never vain, never one to flaunt it or use it to her advantage. Sandro Botticelli was portrayed as simply enchanting, honorable, respectful. But my highest praise is for the author who chose a lesser known woman in history and recreated her vibrant life. It was a real pleasure to read about someone other than the same over-used female figures such as the Tudor wives. Highly recommended!
bjdoureaux More than 1 year ago
Simonetta Cattaneo knows she is beautiful. She has been told so all her life. So, when Marco Vespucci shows interest in marrying her she knows that is part of it, but she also finds in him a man who is not turned off by her love of literature and learning. She happily agrees to marry the handsome young man, and she and her parents move to his hometown of Florence until the wedding. Marco is friends with Lorenzo de Medici, a wealthy and powerful man who entertains artists, philosophers, and poets. It is at one of his parties that Simonetta meets the painter Sandro Botticelli, where he asks that she pose for him. The two form a close bond as she sits for his painting, leading to an intimate relationship and her likeness being capture in Botticelli’s famous painting, The Birth of Venus. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about Palombo’s writing that draws me in and refuses to let go. There’s something about it that can take the happenings of everyday life and make it feel magical, yet very, very real. She writes characters in such a way that even in the middle of their worst flaws you can’t quite hate them. Her descriptions are just enough to help you see everything in your mind, and so well done that you see quite vividly. Like her first novel, The Violinist of Venice, I couldn’t put this one down. There were mixed feelings of wanting to get to the end to see how it all turned out, yet not wanting it to end. As for content, there are a couple of instances with harsh language, and the love scenes in this one are more descriptive than The Violinist of Venice, but they are not drawn out and do not dominate the novel. Ms. Palombo knows how to tell a story that will keep the pages turning, and I look forward to her future novels.
whatsbetterthanbooks More than 1 year ago
This is an intriguing interpretation about the life of Simonetta Cattaneo, a young, intelligent girl who became known as the “Most Beautiful Woman of Florence” and who developed a close, intimate relationship with the famous Renaissance painter, Sandro Botticelli. It is a story about familial responsibilities, duty, strength, coming-of-age, friendship, art, passion, desire, loss and love. Simonetta was a feminist ahead of her time who understood quickly that her beauty was both a gift and a curse, and who ultimately longed and strived in her regrettably short life to be known and loved for her knowledge and mind instead. The prose is smooth and fluid, and the storyline takes us back to the mid-to-late 1400s to the city of Florence when politics, learning and the liberal arts were revered and who you knew was certainly more important than what you knew. This certainly is a well written, vivid, rich story, and even though there is not much known about Simonetta’s life and the events that led up to Botticelli’s immortalization of her in his famous painting, Palombo has done a remarkable job of taking those historical facts and surrounding them with fiction that is passionate, alluring and incredibly captivating.
FeatheredQuillBookReviews More than 1 year ago
Beginning in Genoa in April of 1469, we find Simonetta Cattaneo, her mother and maid preparing her for one of the most important moments of her life - or so she is told. Signor Marco Vespucci, a Florentine man and an intimate of the Medici circle, has asked her father if he may court her as he has the intention of marrying her. As a member of Genoese nobility and as an extremely beautiful woman, Simonetta is no stranger to the attention of men, however, she craves to be known for more than simply her beauty. She wants to be known and admired for her mind as well. Upon meeting with Signor Vespucci, Simonetta finds herself bored by his subjects of speaking but intrigued by the light in his eyes as he speaks of what he loves. When he notices a copy of La Divina Commedia by Dante, he mistakenly assumes it is being read by her father, and much to his surprise, Madonna Simonetta is the owner of this book. Unwilling to sit by and let it be assumed she is uneducated, she quotes a passage and is met with the following passage being recited back to her. In this moment, she makes her decision. If asked, she will be married to Signor Vespucci and she will revel in the opportunity to be invited into the educated, artistic and gifted Medici circle. From the very instant I opened this book, I was completely drawn in. The story of Simonetta and her life in Genoa was expertly tied into how her life would be in Florence. We could always see that Simonetta craved more out of life and love than many do - she wanted to be respected and loved for her mind and not simply her beauty, as beauty is fleeting. She had such a strong desire to be a part of something bigger than herself, while in those days many women were just content to be married and had no need to be educated. This is still such a relevant issue today and I love how this book deals with multiple issues that can be applied to life as it is right now. The lessons and thoughts tied into this book will be relevant for years and years to come and I found myself staying up too late to continue reading, in suspense of what would happen next. I have never read a work of Alyssa Palombo’s before, however after reading this and craving more of the same style, I could hardly hold myself back from purchasing The Violinist of Venice. If it is anything like The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence, I cannot, and will not, be disappointed. Quill says: Beautifully written and poetically told, The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence will leave you in tears and rushing to get your hands on anything else written by Alyssa Palombo.
crystallyn More than 1 year ago
I have always loved the works of Botticelli, and have seen the famous painting of the Birth of Venus in the Uffizi. I was not prepared, however, for the way that Alyssa yanked me into her story and kept me there, so smitten was I that I stayed up far too late in the night to find out what happened to the beautiful Simonetta and her love, Sandro. I will never again be able to look at a Botticelli and not think of this novel. The characters are masterfully wrought, the setting of Florence bright and visual, and the love story is one that will warm your heart.