My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century

by Rachel Harris

  Before coming here, I would’ve said I was fairly modest, but in comparison to Alessandra, a nun could be an exhibitionist. I know I should climb out of the tub, quickly and wordlessly, and start getting ready. But the girl is just so fun to tease.

  Gathering the remaining sudsy bubbles into a mound, I scoop them into my palms and say, “Hey, Less?”

  Instinct takes over, and she looks, timed perfectly with my sharp exhale of blasted air that showers her with tufts of sparkling foam.

  She freezes, as if in utter disbelief, then, with a laugh, she skims her hand over the top of her head and sniffs the collected suds. “Your satchel contains the most pleasantly scented items,” she says, holding out the towel and averting her eyes again so I can step out. “I should enjoy exploring them more fully after the ball.”

  I wrap the coarse linen towel around myself and run my fingers through my freshly shampooed hair. “You got it. I’d suggest a makeover tonight, but I don’t think your world’s ready for makeup from the future.”

  Cosmetics, like tattoos, have been around for forever, but luckily I’ve been able to avoid the look many of the girls around town are sporting. An alabaster face, neck, and cleavage, paired with bright crimson cheeks, is not a good style choice for anyone.

  I slip my still-damp body into my robe, run the towel over my hair, and quickly scrunch a quarter-sized dollop of gel into my loose curls before our servants arrive. The knock on the door coincides with me sliding my bag back under the bed, and I look up at Alessandra and wink.

  Lucia lets herself in, joined by a short, heavyset woman who I assume is Alessandra’s servant. I compare the two while they silently lay out our garments and notice how much younger Lucia is than the other woman; in fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize she’s the youngest female servant in the entire house, which means she’s probably the newest addition to the staff.

  An interesting coincidence—two newbies stuck together.

  Watching the older servant manhandle poor Alessandra, I smile gratefully at Lucia. She may not be experienced, and she may’ve been a bit rough the other day when I was late, but she’s always been kind. Maybe both being outsiders has helped us bond.

  Tonight I forgo the linen shirt and begin the multilayered dressing process with a long white gown. The neck is wide and the skirt full. I run my hands along the scratchy fabric, expecting Lucia to hand me my beautiful ball gown next. But I look up to see the most-feared contraption in period clothing, a torture device I’d believed I’d escaped.

  She sees my expression and tilts her head. “Your corselet, Signorina.” Her voice carries a lilt of humor, as if she understands my shock.

  From the front, it appears innocuous enough. Glancing down as she wraps it around me, I see that it basically looks like a long girdle with an attached bra. But as she tightens the laces, forcing the flat bones running throughout the cruel undergarment to expel all my oxygen, its true evil identity is revealed.

  I draw a ragged breath and jerk back as she pulls another lace taut. “A man—” I say, the words coming out in short, stilted pants, “had to—invent this.” I grunt as her fingers climb my upper back. “No woman—would do this—to herself.”

  Lucia pulls the last lace, and I see spots on the edges of my vision. I hunch over, attempting to re-teach my crushed lungs how to breathe.

  “Is the corselet different than you are used to, cousin?” Alessandra asks, her gaze darting to the servants and then to me in concern.

  I wave weakly. “I’m fine,” I huff. “Just catching my breath.”

  Standing back up, I cup my hands around my shrunken waist. It has to be at least three inches smaller, and my boobs are pressed flat, creating mounds of cleavage where there never was any before.

  At least I can look like a Kardashian while hyperventilating all over the dance floor.

  Lucia slides my royal-blue ball gown over my new figure as I fan myself, trying to lower my body temperature. The cone-shaped skirt and long train glide over my body. Jewels edge the square neck of the bodice, and silver embroidery loops under my chest, swooping down the dipped waistline.

  The surcoat has separate sleeves, which Lucia slides over the linen gown underneath, attaching them at the shoulder with ribbon bows. Wide and billowed at the top, tapered to fit snugly at the wrists, the sleeves mimic the silver detailing, outlining each slash in the silk fabric. Lucia pulls puffs of white gown through the slashed sleeves, adding a striking contrast of color. Then she pins a large sapphire-and-pearl brooch on the bodice.

  I collapse onto my stool as black stockings laced with silver thread slide up my calves, held in place by ribbon garters adorned with little silver iris pendants. My feet slip into a pair of soft slippers.

  Finally dressed, I spin around on the stool so Lucia can get to work on my hair. “Well, that was fun. And it only took us, what, an hour?”

  Alessandra laughs and looks over from her stool next to mine, making her servant grumpy in the process. “You look stunning, C—Patience,” she tells me, biting her lip at her almost slip-up. She mouths an apology and turns her head back to the wall. “You shall surely have your pick of dance partners this evening.”

  I shake my head, and Lucia palms either side of my face to hold it still. “I only want to dance with Lorenzo.” My previous fantasy fades before it can even fully materialize, a sudden thought knotting my stomach. “Hey, Less? Speaking of dances, what if I can’t?”

  “Whatever do you mean? You said yourself, you love to dance.”

  “Right, I do, but that was, um, back in London,” I say, emphasizing the last word in the hopes she gets my meaning. “What if I can’t follow the steps here?”

  Alessandra turns to me, her hair twisted in knots with a sheer veil resting on top. “Everything will be perfect. Most of the dances are effortless; you simply follow your partner. If one is deemed complex, a dance master shall lead the entire party. Do not let needless anxiety burden you so.”

  “Burden?” asks a bubbly voice behind me. “What is burdening my children on such a night as this?”

  Aunt Francesca brushes past and turns to face me while Lucia finishes my hair. My heart twinges. Her wine-colored dress is the perfect accent for her olive complexion, and as I smile in acknowledgement of how beautiful she looks, I can’t help but see my mother standing before me.

  “Patience was inquiring in regard to Italian dances, Mama. She fears she will be unable to follow our unfamiliar footwork.”

  My aunt shakes her head and beams at me. “With the right partner, it shall feel as though you are gliding on air. Signor di Rialto is a talented dancer, and I am certain he would be honored to share a dance with you. He appeared quite impressed with you at dinner.”

  “Niccolo?” I ask in surprise. It’s a shame to admit, since he did hook me up with meeting my idol, but I haven’t thought about him since we said good-bye yesterday.

  “Sì, Niccolo. He is a good man, Patience. Did you not think so?”

  “No, yeah, he’s great,” I say, trying to get a glimpse of what Lucia’s creating on my head. When her hands tighten, effectively holding me in place, I sigh and smile at my aunt. “It’s just that I plan to have my dance card filled by Lorenzo.”

  A wave of confusion passes over her face.

  Lucia pats my head, letting me know she’s done. I lean down, and the small mirror perched on my stand reflects a sheer, shimmering veil draped over a crown of braided hair. “It’s beautiful,” I tell her, skimming my fingers over the filmy veil. “Thank you.”

  She nods and curtsies, then scurries out the door. I turn back to see my aunt and cousin exchanging a weighted look. But before I can ask what I missed, Aunt Francesca opens her arms and throws them around my shoulders.

  “You are both visions of loveliness. Tonight the D’Angeli women shall show Florence how one properly throws a ball!”

  She steps out of the embrace and stoops down, making it so she’s even with my stool, and gently runs the b
ack of her finger along my cheek. Her smile is eerily reminiscent of Jenna. “Patience, I will do all that is in my power to minimize your distress this evening, though I have every confidence you will shine with the utmost grace and poise. Nonetheless, I shall remain by your side for as long as you need me.”

  Nodding, my aunt taps my chin and stands up. Alessandra joins her, and they gaze down at me, still seated, unable to move.

  My heart hammers. It’s showtime.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rumble of voices, clinking silver, and soft music swells through the landing as we stroll toward the ballroom. With each step taken down the stone stairs, my legs tremble more. I bunch the silk fabric of my dress in my hands and then smooth it back down again, breathing in shallow, quick gasps that strain against the unforgiving bones of my corset. I pause at the last step and close my eyes.

  It’ll be over soon. Lorenzo is waiting for me.

  I meet Alessandra’s concerned gaze and nod as I lean in to whisper, “Let’s do this.”

  We enter the crowded room, and my aunt pulls us to the side where we can watch from a shadowed corner. Servants in white frocks brush past our hiding space, carrying trays of delectable treats and extra candles. The immense room is aglow in candlelight showering down from the rows of golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Near the front of the room is a makeshift stage where a quartet of musicians stand playing a lively, lilting tune. A flute, mandolin, harpsichord, and drum provide the soundtrack to what could end up being the best night of my life or my worst nightmare.

  I’m seriously hoping for the former.

  Another servant walks by carrying a tray of wineglasses, and I reach out and snag one, hoping to rekindle the warm buzz that faded during the long and painful dressing process. The sickly sweet aroma tickles my nose as liquid courage pours down my throat. When that doesn’t immediately calm my nerves, I pluck a pastry off the next passing tray. Fried dough, shaped like a pinecone, tasting of honey. If nothing else, the sugar rush should at least give me some happy endorphins.

  The cool night breeze blows through the wall of opened doors to my right that lead out into the courtyard, ruffling the hem of my dress. I devour my calorie-packed treat and stand on tiptoe, twisting my head to search for Lorenzo’s golden curls among the crowd. Just a glimpse of that side grin of his will replace all my anxiety with nervous energy of a completely different sort. But the only thing I see is an endless row of bodies.

  My aunt squeezes my hand, and I pull my eyes away from the terrifying den I’m about to enter. She purses her lips and wipes her now-sticky hand on her dress. “It is time.”

  I sneak one last sip from my still-full wineglass before she pries it from my fingers and hands it to a passing servant. Cipriano and Uncle Marco join us, and my uncle offers his elbow. I close my eyes, count to five, and exhale. When I open them, my uncle is smiling down at me. “Signorina, shall I escort you into your ball?”

  With a weak nod, I thread my arm through his and take a shaky step. Then another. The crowd turns to watch as Aunt Francesca and my cousins fall in behind us, and we float to the makeshift stage. At least, it feels as though we’re floating because I cannot feel my feet. They are moving forward without my permission. I dare a glance into the crowd and see smiling faces sprinkled throughout a sea of appraising ones. It’s just as I thought. They’re watching, waiting for me to mess up.

  I channel my inner blasé, straightening my shoulders and pasting a sunny smile on my face as we turn at the front of the room.

  “It is with great honor I present my niece, Signorina Patience D’Angeli,” Uncle Marco says in a loud, booming voice. “Although she has been abroad for many years, she has come home to Italy. Let us welcome her this evening.”

  The crowd breaks into applause, and I curtsy in lieu of standing frozen like a statue. My family remains by my side as a wave of people rush us. I stand silently as they talk over me, almost as if I’m not standing right here in front of them, sharing memories of when Patience was younger, and stories about her parents. Alessandra looks behind my aunt and rolls her eyes.

  When the people do acknowledge me directly, my aunt actually helps me through it. She whispers names under her breath before they reach us, coaches me on what to say, and directs the conversation to safe, comfortable topics. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for me to say the wrong thing or embarrass myself, but with Aunt Francesca’s guidance, I don’t even have the chance to “pull a Cat.”

  The last one to greet us is Niccolo. As he talks with my uncle, I lean back and grab Alessandra’s hand. “Have you seen Lorenzo?”

  She shakes her head. “He is known for his unpredictability. I am sure he will arrive shortly.” Her gaze shifts in front of us, and she bolts back into place.

  “Signorina Patience,” Niccolo says, bowing over my hand, “you are breathtaking this evening. A vision that would make even the esteemed Michelangelo weep.”

  A bit of an overkill, but sweet nonetheless. Understanding the rules of society better now, I curtsy in reply. “Thank you, Signore.”

  He continues to hold my hand, and every eye in the room zeroes back in on me. Alessandra watches through squinted eyes, and my aunt nods at me encouragingly.

  Um, okay. Confused, I give my aunt a small smile and nod back.

  Uncle Marco waves to the seated quartet, and they stand, conferring with one another.

  “The first dance of the evening shall be Branle des Lavandières,” my uncle announces, and an excited hum bubbles from the crowd.

  As couples pair up, I move to clear the dance floor, but Niccolo steps in front of me, blocking my path. He bows again and says, “Signorina, may I have the honor of the first dance?”

  I quickly scan the room, hoping to see Lorenzo making his way toward me. But he’s not here. My aunt gives me a not-so-gentle nudge, and I shrug. What harm can a dance do? Besides, I still don’t know what kind of business associate he is. Not dancing with Niccolo could very well cause a problem. I curtsy again—really getting the hang of it now—and say, “I’d love to.”

  The crowd parts for us as Niccolo guides me to the center of the floor. He pulls me next to him in line and grabs my hand. The music begins, and just as he did on the way to David yesterday, he spouts his wisdom, explaining the steps to me like I’m an idiot. The man really does love the sound of his own voice, but at least in this case it’s warranted, since I am clueless.

  Standing side by side and holding hands, we take two steps to the left and then two to the right. We do that again before Niccolo spins to face me, and we take turns wagging a finger at each other. I know I have to look ridiculous, but I can’t help a small laugh at how silly Niccolo looks, staring at me so intently while shaking his finger at me like I’m a naughty five-year-old. At the sound of my laugh, the woman next to me glances over and gives me a meaningful smile.

  My eyebrows furrow when Niccolo takes his place again at my side. As I clap along with the crowd and jump in a circle, kicking my feet, I notice other women giving me the same smile or winking like we share some kind of secret. If we do, I wish they’d let me in on it.

  With the staring completely unnerving me, I decide to make small talk so I can focus on anything else. Niccolo returns to my side, and I say, “Um, thanks again for yesterday, introducing me to Michelangelo. That was amazing.”

  His blue eyes reflect back the lit candles above as he wags his finger at me. “The pleasure was mine. I enjoyed witnessing your enthusiasm for the art.” He pauses and leans his mouth near my ear so I can hear him over the music. “I look forward to discovering more shared passions in the future.”

  My step falters at what his words could imply, but luckily the notes fade and the dance ends. I turn and study him. Niccolo’s serious icy blues stare back before he breaks into a smile. I shake off the weird vibe and take a step, only to jump as he places a searing hand on the small of my back.

  He nods to the trays of goodies set up along the wall. “S
hall we partake of the refreshments?”

  Across the room, my uncle watches us intently, probably hoping I don’t find a way to mess up his business arrangement. Refusing to go with Niccolo will cause my uncle embarrassment, so with still no sign of Lorenzo in the dispersed crowd, I sigh and let Niccolo escort me to the tables lining the far wall.

  As we walk, I watch the way others respond to him. Especially women. Nodding, following him with their eyes, posing and lighting up in his presence.

  Apparently I’m the only one getting a bit of a creeper feel rolling off him.

  We stop at one of the four buffet tables covered with white tablecloths and trays of delectable food. “You’re well respected in Florence,” I tell him, stepping quickly from his hand. I get a good foot away and continue. “Everyone seems to love you. I’m curious what it is that grabs their attention. You’re not royalty, are you?”

  I wave my hand at the adoring crowd and catch a glimpse of Antonia a few feet away. Her eyes are slits of death directed straight at me. Why, I don’t know. I’ve failed to insult Italian wine or pierced any eardrums so far this evening. I turn back to Niccolo, and he chuckles.

  “No,” he says, motioning toward a tray of radishes carved into animal shapes. I shake my head, and he plucks a duck and hands it to me, anyway. “But it is my belief that one gets back what he puts out. The only way to truly earn regard is to conduct oneself with the utmost honor and respect.”

  I stare at him, trying to figure him out. If his goal is to gain public respect, then he does a good job. Everyone here seems to worship him—including my own family. Maybe our problem is a century barrier. What comes across as patronizing and chauvinistic to me may be perfectly acceptable to women from his time.