by Annette Lyon
“May I look around?” Sofia asked, already pacing the edges of the workshop and taking in the racks of clothing and shelves of cloth.
“Of course,” Antonio said. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
She nodded in response and continued to inspect every bolt, every shelf, even the shears and pins and thread. Antonio was suddenly glad he’d lit the gas lamps so she could see it all. At times, she fingered a cloth and murmured with admiration over the color, fibers, or weaving. He tilted his head at that; she knew far more about the industry than he’d imagined — possibly more than any other seamstress he knew.
Possibly more than I do, he couldn’t help but think with a smile. He hadn’t seen her knit or sew a single stitch, yet a sense of calm came over him. Perhaps Sofia will be able to help with the wedding preparations after all.
Chapter Four
Sofia felt as if she walked in a dream. Who could have imagined that a single room could hold so many luxurious fabrics and yarns made of such fine fibers? She fingered exquisite silk threads that, at first glance could have been mistaken for the kind she knitted into stockings for landowners and the occasional titled noble. But her eye — and her hand — could tell the difference. This silk was much stronger and more evenly spun than any she’d ever seen.
And oh, the colors — she had no idea that so many shades of red, blue, and purple existed. She imagined the amazing clothing one could make from them — fit for a king or queen, of course. Which made perfect sense intellectually, but Sofia still stood in awe as she took in the scope of the shelves and their contents. She remained dumbstruck at the scope of the workshop and realized with a start that the clothing for the royal family, from generations gone by, had all come from this very place. Their dresses and coats and trousers had been cut out on that very table.
The handsome man who’d welcomed her before — Antonio — was in charge of this workshop. He’d likely spoken to members of the royal family and spent time with them. The idea was beyond imagining. She turned from the shelves and was suddenly aware — keenly so — that Antonio stood to the left of the table, waiting expectantly.
For what? Oh dear. What have I done wrong already?
However, he didn’t wear an expression of disapproval, something she noted with a wave of relief even as she tried to figure out what to do with her hands and where to look. Her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own; in spite of her efforts, they were continually drawn toward Antonio. She had to continually force herself to look elsewhere so as not to stare; he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. She’d seen enough in her few glances to be able to picture him quite fully in her mind’s eye even when gazing out the window at the moon hanging over the dark shapes of the Alps beyond the castle walls.
The moon is beautiful tonight, she thought, but instead of admiring it, or the clouds moving across it, she recalled the juxtaposition between the tailor’s broad chest and, for a tailor, what had to be precise, gentle hands. His stature was suited to working in the fields, breaking horses, or leading expeditions in the mountains, yet he ran a clothier workshop, creating beautiful dresses and suits and more for the castle’s residents.
He had a nice smile, with lips almost too pink, but which contrasted nicely with his straight white teeth. A slight cleft in his chin teased her, making her want to stare at it, and she had to use an inordinate amount of will to keep her gaze trained elsewhere.
Voices and footsteps sounded in the corridor. Sofia and Antonio glanced at the door and moved that direction in unison, both unfrozen from their previous paralysis. For her part, she felt grateful for something to occupy her other than standing before an attractive man and wondering what to say.
Antonio reached the door at the same moment she did; his arm brushed her sleeve, sending ripples of awareness through her. She stepped to the side slightly so he could open the door, which he did, revealing two men, each carrying a tray topped with silver domes. Delicious scents wafted into the workshop, making Sofia’s stomach grumble.
“Josef, Ambro. Come in,” Antonio said. “Wait one moment, please.”
He opened the window seat and pulled out an oilcloth, which he placed over the cutting table. Sofia guessed that at times, workers had to eat meals in the workshop, and the oilcloth was a way of protecting the area from stains. With the surface duly covered, Antonio gestured to it, and the servants deposited their trays. They made a production of lifting the largest dome on each, revealing steak with farfalle pasta covered in marinara. Over the sauce, the servants sprinkled shredded hard cheese with a delicious scent that tickled Sofia’s nose and made her mouth water even more.
One of the men — Josef, perhaps — lifted the smaller domes. “Here you will find a bowl of blueberries and strawberries, picked this morning from our own mountains and topped with fresh whipped cream from the castle dairy.” He gestured toward a bright white linen covering what Sofia guessed was a basket. “Bread and cheese are here.” He lifted the final dome. “And this is a delicious new cake that Cook created this week: chocolate with raspberry preserves. We hope you enjoy your meal.”
With that, the servants bowed and took their leave, closing the door behind them. Sofia stared after them. If servants behaved so formally around one another, how was she, a commoner, supposed to behave around the royal clothier? In all of her mother’s lessons on good manners, nothing had prepared her for anything remotely like castle protocol.
At least I’m assigned to the clothier, and a handsome one at that, she thought, trying to look at the bright side. If she had been summoned to appear before the Queen, Sofia would have surely passed out from fright.
Antonio went to the table and held out a hand, indicating which of two stools she should take. She approached on shaky legs, suddenly aware of how tiring the journey had been and how little she’d eaten that day — not from lack of food, but from nerves. Her anxiety hadn’t abated one whit, but her ravenous hunger was winning the battle. The tailor pulled out her stool.
“Thank you, sir,” she said and took her seat. Sofia clasped her hands again and rested them in her lap to keep them from trembling. She was determined to follow the tailor’s actions in learning how to eat the dinner — which foods to eat in which order, and with which utensils. All she knew about such things was that strict rules existed about them, but what those rules were, she had no earthly idea.
“I’m not a knight or a nobleman,” the tailor said, taking his seat. “No need to call me ‘sir.’ I’m just Antonio.”
“Very well... Antonio.”
“And you are Sofia, yes? Or would you prefer I call you Miss Torre?” He scooted closer to the table then shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap.
“You may call me Sofia,” she managed softly, and then copied his movements: she took the folded napkin from her tray, gently shook it out with much smaller movements so her mimicking wouldn’t be obvious, and smoothed the white cloth across her skirt.
“Then I’ll call you Sofia,” Antonio said with a satisfied nod. “Given names are much friendlier, and we’ll be working quite closely, so that seems most natural.” He tossed the breadbasket napkin aside and tore a corner off a small, steaming loaf. To Sofia’s chagrin, he dipped it into the marinara sauce then popped it into his mouth. “Mmm.”
Certainly that wasn’t proper. Sofia stared at her tray, unsure what to do next. She slipped the napkin off her bread basket, but could not quite get herself to dip her bread in the sauce. She identified what might have been a butter knife and used it to spread butter onto a piece of bread — which, alas, she did have to tear from the loaf in what felt like a most unfeminine way.
Fortunately, a few bites of delicious food took the edge off of their hunger, and the ambiance improved considerably. They both relaxed, especially Sofia, as she learned that while the castle might have strict rules for meals, the clothier workshop didn’t adhere to most of them, so she needn’t worry overmuch. After seeing his bread dipped in sauce, she doubted t
hat anything she did over their meal would shock or offend Antonio, short of belching or speaking with her mouth full, and she had been taught since girlhood about both of those.
They lapsed into conversation as they ate, asking each other general questions about the places they’d grown up, the sizes of their families, where they’d learned their trades, and so forth. Sofia took a bite of chocolate cake and nearly moaned with pleasure; she’d never tasted anything so rich and smooth and decadent.
“I had no idea anything could taste so...” When she could think of no way to describe the flavor, her voice simply trailed off.
“Chocolate is particularly wonderful, isn’t it?” Antonio took a bite too, then nodded with satisfaction. “I do believe Cook has outdone herself with this recipe. We’ll have to send our compliments.”
“Definitely,” Sofia said between bites. She swallowed and wanted to take another, but now that she’d been fed, her desire to learn about her duties at the castle trumped even chocolate cake. “I suppose I’ll be knitting stockings for the men in the wedding company?”
Antonio sighed heavily. Sofia bit the corner of her lip, hoping she hadn’t said anything untoward. When he answered, he didn’t sound remotely offended. “Yes. And we’ll need as much help and speed as you can muster, I’m afraid.” He stood suddenly, making Sofia wonder for a moment if she should follow, but he simply went to the other end of the worn table, retrieved a stack of papers, and returned to his stool. He slid his tray toward the center of the table and set the papers on the corner where they could both read the words. “This is the order for the clothing and accessories we are expected to provide for the wedding day.”
She leaned forward and read through the long list, impressed with how much detail the orders contained. She flipped through one page at a time, scanning them.
“You can read, then?” Antonio asked.
“My mother taught me.” Sofia smiled at him. “She felt that being able to read the Bible was an important skill for her children, and she was right, although I’ve found the skill to be quite useful for much more than scripture.”
“It certainly is,” Antonio said with a note that hinted at being impressed. “Reading will definitely help with your work here.”
Sofia glanced his way and then focused on the papers again, her senses heightened and exceedingly aware of how close Antonio was to her — so close that if he’d been a different kind of man, he would have simply closed the distance and kissed her then and there. But she knew he wasn’t the kind who would take advantage of a woman. Besides, even she knew that such behavior wouldn’t be acceptable under even the most lenient of etiquette rules.
Not that I’d mind kissing him, she thought, then blushed and chased the thought away. Goodness gracious! I’ve only just met the man.
She focused on the list of requests, mentally tallying how much time completing everything would take. “I assume you received this list some time ago. Isn’t the wedding in a month?”
“It is, unfortunately.” Antonio’s face darkened. “But I received the order a few hours ago.”
“Surely you’re teasing. No one could possibly—” She read over the papers again in stunned silence.
“I wish I were teasing.” He ran a hand down his face and then raked his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand up. Sofia wanted to run her own fingers through it.
It’s entirely improper to think such things, she told herself, and again forced her gaze away from Antonio, this time directing it back to the orders.
“We can’t possibly accomplish half of this in one month.” Sofia was surprised to hear herself use the word we, as if she already belonged in the workshop.
“And yet those are the orders from Crown Prince Gregorio himself.” Antonio shrugged. “I told his valet that the request was impossible, to no avail.”
Sofia had lived a life in which solving apparently unsolvable problems did happen, and often enough that she believed in things that others deemed impossible. Finding such solutions had often meant the difference between eating and starving. Now it might mean the difference between medicine and death for her mother.
“Do you have more paper? And a pencil?” As soon as she asked, she felt silly for posing the question; of course a clothier had such necessities as paper and pencils.
But Antonio didn’t roll his eyes or say anything dismissive about a foolish woman, things she’d heard far too often in Provenza. He simply said, “I’ll fetch some,” and went to a desk in the corner, where he found a pencil. He brought it back to his stool, where he sharpened it with his pocketknife. He handing it to her, and then from the end of the cutting table, he slid a large sheet of paper meant for patterns. He folded it in half to a more manageable size before setting it before her.
“One month,” she said, writing at the top of the paper. “Does that mean thirty days or thirty-one? What is the actual date of the wedding?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” Antonio searched the papers until he reached the last one, where the date was scribbled in pale pencil. “June eighth.” He consulted a calendar on the wall. He groaned. “Four weeks from tomorrow. Twenty-eight days. Less than a month. Impossible.”
“I don’t use that word,” Sofia said, consulting the requisitions and making her notes, where she clustered the orders by type of clothing. She made a list for full dresses, then another each for skirts, shirtwaists, petticoats, cloaks, shawls, and gloves for the women. “Surely a milliner can take care of hats and fascinators, yes?”
She looked up at Antonio, who smiled back with a modicum of interest, and perhaps a bit of respect. “Yes, I’m sure we could find a good milliner in town, provided we give specific enough instructions, perhaps drawings, and if we select the materials in person.”
“Good.” Sofia made a big X on her paper below the words Hats and Fascinators. “That removes quite a bit of the burden, don’t you think? I assume the same could be said of boots and shoes? Surely the Crown Prince wouldn’t expect a tailor’s shop to double as a cobbler.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Antonio said, scooting in his chair more and taking a closer look. She felt her skin prickle deliciously at his nearness. “I read over the order dozens of times and never once thought about either of those things.”
She smiled at him, pleased that she could lift his burden even a little. “Let’s see what else we can do to make this more manageable.”
With Antonio’s eager encouragement, she happily dove into the smaller details of the list. She asked how many stockings and trousers the workshop had on hand, whether in storage, waiting to be picked up, or partially completed.
“Whoever is waiting for those orders,” she said, “will have to wait a little longer, if doing so means the royal family and retinue will be properly outfitted for the wedding.”
“Yes. Brilliant.” Antonio shook his head in amazement and leaned against his stool. “I spent the day worried sick, and in a matter of minutes, you shrank the list by a third. It’ll still be a tense four weeks, but failure no longer seems to be the only possibility. We may succeed after all.”
Sofia set the pencil down. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Really, you’re amazing.” His voice suddenly had a softer quality to it, a tone implying that she was amazing in other ways as well. His gaze, which held hers for several seconds, seemed to say the same thing. What thoughts and emotions lay behind those chocolate-brown eyes? She felt as if they saw into her very soul. She couldn’t look away this time — didn’t want to. Her whole body was riveted to the spot, and she wished she could stay here, with this man, in the workshop forever. She felt comfortable with him in a way she’d never experienced so quickly with anyone.
“Thank you,” Sofia finally managed. Her cheeks felt as if they were aflame. She finally broke eye contact and lowered her face, but she couldn’t hide her smile. She only hoped that Antonio wouldn’t think her overly forward for a temporary castle worker.
Leaving home had wrenched
her heart, mostly out of worry for her mother, but suddenly, with Antonio at her side, four weeks didn’t seem long enough.
“No, thank you,” Antonio said, resting a hand on her arm. His touch practically burned through her sleeve and warmed her skin.
The private moment was rudely interrupted by the door slamming open and a woman with a severe black bun marching in. Antonio and Sofia flew apart.
“I’ve been waiting for the arrival of Miss Torre,” the woman said, a fist on one hip and an eyebrow raised at Antonio, much like Sofia had seen nuns glare at misbehaving boys at Mass.
“I’m Miss Torre,” Sofia said, standing. “I apologize for the delay. I was brought to the shop right away. Cook sent us dinner so Antonio could help me understand the work I will be doing for the wedding.” She stopped speaking and prayed that her attempt at goodwill would be received.
The woman lifted one eyebrow. “Oh, ‘Antonio,’ is it?”
He rose from his seat and moved closer to Sofia. “I asked her to call me that. Everyone in my shop uses given names. I forget that such is not the case in other areas of the castle, Mrs. Rinaldi.” He emphasized her family name as if making a point. “Sofia, this is Mrs. Rinaldi, the housekeeper.”
The woman sniffed and lifted her chin slightly, peering down her nose at Sofia as if measuring her worth. “Given names?” She sighed with disdain. “I suppose that if such is the custom down here, I cannot change that. Miss Torre, if you would come with me.” She spun about and headed for the door. Sofia pointed at her trunk, her mouth open with an unspoken question.
Antonio leaned in close enough for Sofia to smell the musky scent of his hair — almost like burlap, but softer, like wool mixed with chamomile. She felt a flutter in her middle as he whispered, “Go with Rinaldi. I’ll send for Josef and Ambro and have them bring the trunk to your quarters before they clear the trays.”
