The Royals of Monterra_Tailor Made

by Annette Lyon

  “Thank you,” she whispered back, then turned her head to smile her gratitude, only to realize that their noses were nearly touching. Her mind told her to move, that she had no business being so close to a strange man — especially one her superior — but her body wouldn’t obey.

  Only Mrs. Rinaldi’s harsh voice from the corridor, saying, “Come on, then. Do not make me wait,” got Sofia moving.

  “Coming.” She threw a final smile Antonio’s way before lifting her skirts and hurrying after the housekeeper.

  The broad smile Antonio gave in return, plus his masculine scent, his touch, all stayed with her as she followed Mrs. Rinaldi through the passageways of the castle, up and down stairs, then through curving hallways, until Sofia had completely lost all sense of direction. She didn’t mind one bit, however, as thoughts of Antonio danced through her head the entire way.

  Chapter Five

  Being so overcome with the elegant trappings of the castle — and with thoughts of Antonio — Sofia was quite sure she wouldn’t manage to get to sleep for hours and hours after Mrs. Rinaldi closed the bedroom door. Apparently, fatigue from travel, along with the excitement of everything she’d seen, eaten, and otherwise experienced, all combined to exhaust Sofia, for she remembered nothing after climbing between the luxurious, crisp sheets and laying her head on the pillow.

  Next thing she knew, Mrs. Rinaldi was rapping on the door and calling, “Miss Torre? Miss Torre, are you up? It’s well past time you were.”

  “I’m awake.” Sofia called out with a groggy voice; she hoped Rinaldi didn’t notice it.

  The housekeeper must have, because she actually humphed loudly enough to be heard through the door. “Now get yourself washed and dressed. Hurry to the servants’ kitchen for breakfast. You don’t want to be late to work on your first day.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sofia said, hopping out of bed as if Mrs. Rinaldi could see through the door. “I’ll hurry.”

  “Be sure to make your bed. We have high standards of everyone in our employ, and slovenliness will not be tolerated.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sofia quickly turned to the bed and pulled the sheet up, wondering if she’d be able to make the bed well enough to satisfy Mrs. Rinaldi’s exacting eye.

  The housekeeper’s footsteps faded. Sofia sighed with relief and returned to making the bed, smoothing and tucking the wool blanket and comforter until they were as straight and tight as she could make them.

  Beneath the mirror on the wall stood a dresser with a pink jug of water and basin. Sofia washed with them, then put on her work dress, pulled her hair up into a loose bun with a knot, and pinned it into place. On her way to the servants’ kitchen, she got lost briefly down the wrong hall, but she soon found herself settled on a bench at a table with a bowl of porridge and a plate of fried eggs. Two eggs, entirely for her. She could hardly believe that anyone, even the Queen, could afford two eggs per person on a typical morning — even for the lowly servants. How many workers called the castle home? Surely the royal family ate even finer. The number of eggs consumed in the castle that morning alone was staggering.

  She must have hundreds and hundreds of chickens, she mused, taking a juicy bite and closing her eyes in pleasure at the flavor. She’d need to get used to not reacting to such heavenly food; chances were good that every meal for the next four weeks would be far beyond anything she’d ever eaten, seen, or imagined. An everyday meal here far surpassed the bland fare she, Sergio, and Mother subsisted on; an occasional strong cheese amounted to a luxury for them.

  Cook took Sofia’s dishes — a pleasant surprise — and Mrs. Rinaldi, with her key chain rattling at her waist, gestured toward the hall. “Shall I see you to the workshop?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.” Sofia scrambled off the bench in what she suspected wasn’t an entirely ladylike manner. While she didn’t relish the idea of spending additional time with the housekeeper, Sofia knew with certainty that if left to her own devices, she’d get hopelessly lost trying to find the workshop. If she found it at all, it probably wouldn’t be until high noon, and in the interim, she’d be liable to stumble into places she wasn’t supposed to be within the castle walls.

  She followed Mrs. Rinaldi through halls and staircases, keeping the respectful distance of a step or two behind while trying to memorize the path. Doing so proved particularly challenging, as the trappings of the castle continued to draw her eye toward elaborate tapestries, painted landscapes, and what she supposed must be electric lighting in some areas. Enormous chandeliers, some that still used candles, hung in other areas. Everything was exquisitely elegant and refined, and never ostentatious or gaudy. Even the rugs felt luxurious beneath her slippers.

  The moment they reached the corridor leading to the workshop, Sofia recognized the curve to the right, with its distinct arch and gentle downward slope. Mrs. Rinaldi stopped at the beginning of the turn and nodded in the direction of the workshop. “I presume that as this passageway leads to only one place, you are capable of finding your way from here?”

  “I am, thank you,” Sofia said, dipping into a curtsy. Was that the proper thing to do? Or were curtsies to be reserved for royalty?

  “I shall be off,” Mrs. Rinaldi said. “Good day.” Rinaldi swept away without another word.

  Sofia faced the arch of the corridor, and suddenly the reality descended on her that she wouldn’t be working only in the royal workshop, but working with and for Antonio. In her memory, he was almost too good to be true, like a young girl’s dream.

  His voice now carried to her — he sounded as if he was calling to someone — and the image of his face returned to mind with perfect clarity. It was as if she’d left his workshop only seconds before rather than the previous night.

  I should have spent more time on my hair, she thought as her stomach tightened with nerves. What do I say? How do I behave? What will the other workers think of me? What will Antonio think of me with the new day?

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure she could walk the remaining steps if the Queen herself ordered it. Which, in a manner of speaking, she had.

  For Mother, Sofia thought, then squared her shoulders. Yes. For Mother, I could face anything, even a dragon. And a workshop is hardly a dragon’s lair. She could certainly face a room full of seamstresses and tailors, even if the man in charge happened to be devastatingly good looking.

  When she entered, a flurry of activity made the room appear to be in constant motion. She tried to count the number of workers, but after reaching eight, and starting over twice because people kept moving, she stepped farther inside and hoped someone would notice her. She tried to catch the attention of a middle-aged seamstress carrying a bolt of blue satin, but the woman moved so quickly Sofia didn’t get a sound out before she’d passed by. The woman stopped at the cutting table, right where Sofia and Antonio had eaten their dinner — right where Antonio now stood, eyeing the end of the bolt as if estimating how much fabric remained on it.

  “Definitely use this for the lining of the duke’s coat as well as Enrico’s,” Antonio was saying. The woman nodded and whisked herself off to another table to work, as Antonio made a note in his book.

  A man with a measuring tape about his neck approached Antonio with a question. While the man talked, Antonio nodded, then in answer, turned as if to point at a specific shelf across the room, but his motion stopped as noticed Sofia. She froze, a stiff smile pasted onto her face, and waited expectantly. Surely he’d come over and give her an assignment or show her around the room, all unobtrusively, she hoped.

  As if fate knew her wishes and decided to mock them, however, Antonio clapped three times — loudly — and called to the entire room, “People!” Followed by three more loud claps.

  The room quieted so quickly that it felt as if all sound had been sucked into the walls. The workers were clearly used to stopping whatever they were doing, including conversation, to listen to the head tailor.

  “Everyone, we have a new seamstress with us temporari
ly. She came highly recommended from Provenza, and she has been summoned specifically to aid in wedding preparations.” He crossed the distance to Sofia, gently took her by the elbow, and led her to the center of the room. “Everyone, this is Miss Sofia Torre.”

  Completely unnerved, Sofia gave the room a little wave, hoping her mouth was still smiling. She wasn’t sure, as her face felt numb. “Hello,” she managed. Never had so many people all stared at her at the same time.

  “The next weeks will still be difficult, but we will succeed.” Many of the workers — Sofia now counted twelve in addition to herself and Antonio — nodded or smiled their appreciation. Antonio clapped once more, loudly, and said, “All right. Back to work!”

  He took Sofia’s arm again and led her to a large chalkboard hanging on a wall past the cutting table. She had a vague memory of seeing it last night, but was quite sure it hadn’t born the complicated chart and writing on that it did now.

  “This,” Antonio said, waving an arm toward the board as if showing off a priceless antique, “is the master schedule. You can see how I’ve listed each item in a column at the left, and across the top are the days each is to be completed.”

  “And the letters in the boxes?” Sofia asked, stepping closer for a better look.

  “For the workers’ initials. So everyone knows what is complete and what they are to work on each day. I write their initials for assignments, and when they’re done, they cross it out. As you can see, if we can maintain this schedule, we’ll finish with one day to spare.”

  Sofia nodded. “One extra day to make alterations or fix anything that might need it.”

  He grinned as if glad she understood him and his methods so well.

  She tilted her head back to better read the top of the board, searching for her initials. “What is my first assignment?”

  “The Prince’s gloves.” He took a piece of chalk hanging from some twine and wrote her initials in one of the boxes.

  She gulped, even though she’d suspected that her work here would be this very thing. Thousands of people would see the Crown Prince wearing those gloves. They had to be perfect. She stood there staring at the letters ST, unsure whether to be flattered or terrified at the trust Antonio was placing in her.

  For Mother.

  “What supplies should I use?” She hoped her lack of confidence didn’t show in her voice. “And where would I find His Highness’s measurements?”

  “Come this way, and I’ll get you everything you need.”

  He led her to what he called a closet, but which was more of a small room filled with yarns and threads of all kinds of fibers and colors, from coarse, gray wool to silk thread in skeins of bright yellow, red, and even pink. She couldn’t immediately identify many of the fibers, but she wanted to learn about each one, and she wanted to work with them all. She moved about the space, her fingers gently trailing across the skeins. She could have stood in the small room for hours without getting bored, imagining the yarns sliding along her fingers as she knitted them into beautiful fabrics.

  Antonio found the perfect thread for the groom’s gloves, a blue silk so pale it was almost silver, and a deep red for the design on top. He showed her where to find knitting needles of all sizes, from ones thinner than a stalk of wheat to ones thicker than her thumb. Needles made of metal, wood, bone. She’d never seen so many beautiful needles in one place. Surely Antonio would think her an inexperienced country maid, what with her mouth agape as she took in the sights of what others deemed a mere storage area. But he didn’t think her silly. Or if he had such thoughts, he hid them, for which she was utterly grateful.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said as they left the closet.

  “Of course.” Antonio paused at the door. “I’ll show you where to find all of the household members’ measurements, so you can refer to them any time you need to.”

  He led her to a shelf near the fitting platform, where he pulled off one of several leather-bound volumes and showed her how to find a specific person’s information. “Let me know if you need something or have any questions at all,” Antonio said as he replaced the volume. “The others will be more than happy to help too, but I’d...” His voice trailed off for a moment, and his gaze held hers briefly, as it had the night before. “I’d like to do anything I can to make your time here easier.”

  Simple words, yet they carried far more meaning than they hinted at on the surface.

  “Thank you, I will,” she said, clutching the thread and needles. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re very welcome.” Someone in the workshop called Antonio. He glanced over his shoulder. “Angeline has a concern. Have a good day, Sofia.”

  She watched him walk away, and in her mind, she heard him speak her name again and again. The tone he’d used sent a shiver of warmth up her arms. She bit back a smile as she watched him cross the room to Angeline, who turned out to be a rather buxom seamstress.

  As he reached her side, the other woman looked up, noticed Sofia, and raised her eyebrows as if in challenge. Angeline sidled closer to him as she explained her concern, pointing to a seam in a pair of trousers. She positioned herself so Antonio couldn’t help but see her low-cut dress and exposed cleavage.

  To his credit, he kept his gaze on the garment and gave his recommendation in a matter-of-fact tone. He didn’t smile at Angeline as he’d smiled at Sofia. That fact alone made her laugh inwardly — and respect Antonio all the more. Not that Angeline noticed; instead of paying attention to Antonio’s words or to where he pointed at her stitching as he spoke, she never took her eyes off Sofia except to bat her eyelashes at Antonio and strategically position herself yet again.

  Poor Antonio, Sofia thought, returning to her work.

  At last he extricated himself and made rounds about the room, taking notes in his leather book, consulting the shelves filled with bolts of cloth, counting out buttons, measuring lace, and more. Sofia found a stool in a corner by a large window, where she had plenty of sunlight to aid her in the crucial beginning rows of the Crown Prince’s gloves. She did her utmost to ignore the bustle around her, in large part to avoid any more glares from Angeline.

  Several hours later, Sofia’s fingers had tensed up far more than usual. She figured it had to be from her worry over making every stitch perfect and even. The tension was also due to the darts Angeline glared whenever Antonio came near Sofia. She couldn’t entirely avoid seeing such looks, and she couldn’t avoid Antonio. Not that she wanted to.

  Yet every time Sofia made the mistake of looking up from her work, Angeline was staring back with a possessive, angry expression that only got worse if Sofia happened to let her eyes stray toward Antonio — something she couldn’t help but do at times. Her eyes were simply drawn to him. And then back to Angeline, even though Antonio clearly had no interest in her.

  Again and again, Sofia lowered her head, focused on her stitches, and tried to pretend that she sat in a room all by herself. But in her imagination, she could never imagine being alone.

  For any time she pictured herself in this room, Antonio inevitably sat beside her.

  Chapter Six

  For two weeks, the workshop maintained the schedule Antonio and Sofia had created that first night. Teresa returned from her vacation, only to be thrown into frantic preparations.

  When day-to-day changes occurred to the schedule, Antonio adapted the chart as needed. Such was the case when the suit of a groomsmen was delayed because he’d taken to his bed with a cold, or when they had to start over on a dress for one of the bridesmaids because the wrong measurements had been sent from Florenzia. Even with minor bumps along the way, the prospects for finishing on time continually improved.

  With a flourish, Antonio crossed off “Enrico: Sash,” which had Sofia’s initials ST in the corner of the box. One more item complete, one step closer to success, one more reason he was grateful that Sofia had been found and sent to his workshop. He stood back and surveyed the master chart. While he couldn
’t help but be proud over what they’d accomplished, he knew that every day checked off was also a day closer to Sofia’s departure. Her time at the castle was half over, yet she’d become such a fixture of the workshop that he couldn’t imagine the space without her. He was already fond of her, and he admired her wit, skill, and work ethic.

  Except that fondness and admiration hardly touched the emotions he’d begun to acknowledge. Sofia was far more than a colleague. She was a friend and a confidante, someone who lifted his spirits simply by entering the workshop each morning. His heart sped up slightly whenever he saw her, and every time a wisp of hair came free of the knot at the nape of her neck, he had to resist the desire to cross the room and tuck it behind her ear. He didn’t, of course. The others would interpret such a gesture — correctly — that he’d come to have deeper feelings for Sofia. Another reason was that he doubted his ability to merely tuck back a lock of hair. His hand would likely linger, cupping her face in his palm, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.

  So he refused to let himself touch her hair no matter how disheveled it became. Which was just as well, for another reason: the sunlight from the windows forever glowed from behind her, lighting up her hair like an angel’s halo. He often felt as if she’d brought a piece of heaven with her from Provenza. Her absence would make the place feel darker to him, colder than before. Just as a room lit with large candles that provided light to all around would feel when the flames were blown out, plunging the room into a darkness that felt thicker and more oppressive than it would have without the candles.

  He absently rubbed his thumb along the side of the chalk, thinking of last night’s dreams. And those from the previous night, and if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, the night before too. He’d spent virtually every night since Sofia’s arrival dreaming of her. Feeling her presence every waking moment they worked near each other, finding excuses to draw near to her to strike up conversation. All the while, of course, he forced himself to not touch her hair or otherwise show any undue regard that the other workers might look askance at.