by Annette Lyon
Two weeks, and Sofia would be heading back to her village, just as soon as the festivities were over. He sighed and dropped the chalk in its tin mug on a shelf. She needed to go home. Of course she did. No doubt she missed her home and family. Perhaps she had a beau waiting for her. Would that their time together could stretch out somehow like an elastic, or a length of taffy that you stretched and stretched, getting longer and longer. Then they’d have more time together.
With the master plan in place, and everyone clearly assigned to specific tasks, the room tended to be rather quiet, which was why boots stepping on the stones of the corridor echoed so loudly, followed by a voice Antonio recognized immediately.
“How are we doing this fine morning?” Marcell asked with an overabundance of forced cheer.
Antonio gritted his teeth before turning to face the valet. “We are fine, thank you. Are you here for a fitting?” They both knew perfectly well that Marcell’s appointment wasn’t for two more days, but Antonio wanted to skip the pleasantries and get right to the reason for the visit.
“No, no. Nothing like that today.” Marcell drew a pair of gloves across the palm of his hand as he slowly walked about the room as if inspecting the work. As if that were his job.
As if he would know an inset sleeve from a corset.
The workers paused in their duties and watched Marcell take a meandering route about the room. His position as valet to the Crown Prince afforded him rank above what anyone in the basement workshop could hope for. When it became clear that Marcell had no intention of revealing the purpose of his visit without prodding, Antonio approached the man at the cutting table, where Marcell held up a gold-handled monocle and studied the pattern pinned to gold brocade, which was to be made into a man’s waistcoat.
Antonio spoke again, using his most respectful yet urgent voice. “As you can see, we are quite busy. Pray tell, what may I assist you with so you can be on your way?”
“Nothing.” Marcell lowered the monocle and turned to Antonio. “Nothing whatsoever.”
“Then may I ask the purpose of your visit?” Antonio felt quite sure that his expression didn’t appear perturbed, but he certainly felt uneasy, and would until Marcell had left and the workshop had returned to its regular business.
Marcell looked about him with feigned surprise and dismay, as if just realizing that the work had ceased the moment he’d made his entrance. “How silly of me. I simply came to deliver a letter that arrived with this morning’s post. When I heard that it was addressed to our guest seamstress, I supposed that it would be most eagerly received, so I came to deliver it to Miss Torre myself.” He slipped a hand into his breast pocket and indeed pulled out a letter.
Why the sudden benevolence from a servant who thought only of himself and his status? Antonio narrowed his eyes, trying to puzzle it out and refusing to trust that Marcell had no ulterior motive. A glance at Sofia, however, showed her face already lit up with anticipation. Antonio did his best to be happy for her.
“That is truly a letter for Miss Torre?” Antonio asked.
“Written in her brother’s own hand,” Marcell said, waving the sealed envelope under Antonio’s nose. The valet spun on his heel and walked around the table to the corner Sofia typically worked in, just beyond the chalkboard. As he walked, he reached into his pocket for something else, but Antonio couldn’t see what until Marcell had unscrewed the lid and taken a swig from a bronze flask.
“Put that away,” Antonio said sharply. What did it matter if the valet took offense, when he was inches from spilling liquor onto the stack of projects already cut out and waiting to be sewn?
Marcell paid no heed, merely laughing as he turned about and held the flask out to Antonio. “What’s the matter, tailor? Are you worried that I might stumble and stain your precious cloth?” He pretended to catch his toe and mimed spilling liquor, then laughed heartily and took another swig.
“Put it away,” Antonio said evenly, trying hard not to rile the valet further. Disaster led down that path.
“Put it away... or what?” Marcell turned to the table again. He raised the flask and tilted it — a little, then more, and more, and farther still, until it was almost horizontal.
Antonio leapt across the gap and snatched the flask right as burgundy liquid dripped onto the uncut brocade. Gasps rippled across the room as the workers realized what Marcell had done. Antonio stared at the ruined cloth and pattern pieces, eyes wide in disbelief at several fist-sized red stains that slowly spread. So the flask held red wine, not whiskey or some other liquor. Antonio quickly regained his wits and screwed the lid tightly.
“Are you out of your mind?” he cried. “Red wine is nearly impossible to remove from fabrics, and if we manage to save the brocade, you’ve still destroyed several pattern pieces. That length of fabric is worth more than you earn in a month, and the pattern will take hours to replace. Do you really think your Crown Prince would be pleased to hear that you may have cost him his best man’s ensemble because you wanted to have fun with the lesser servants?”
Marcell’s amused smirk didn’t change. He raised both hands as if in surrender, the letter still clutched in his right. “Accidents happen.” He shrugged and walked backward in the direction of Sofia, now without his flask, which Antonio still clutched tightly.
“I assume you will allow me to give this letter to the addressee? Or would you deny me that happiness even though my flask no longer poses any threat to your precious stack of fabric?” His eyebrows were raised with amusement, and he kept taking slow steps backward, not waiting for Antonio’s approval.
Sofia’s knitting — the beginning of another set of stockings, this one for the Queen’s lady in waiting — lay in her lap, and she watched the two men, clearly uncomfortable. Antonio wished he’d thought to grab the letter as well as the flask, or at least that he’d thought to stand between Marcell and Sofia.
Looking at her now, he mouthed the words, I’m sorry, and vowed that the moment Marcell left, the workshop door would be locked and kept that way. No one would be allowed inside without his approval.
The valet bumped into a vacant chair, stumbled wildly, and staggered backward until he hit the chalkboard with a thud. Antonio sucked in a breath and forced himself to remain silent, knowing how easily Marcell was goaded into doing precisely the opposite of whatever one wished.
“Merciful heavens!” Marcell cried. He slid to the floor, dragging his arms and body down the length of the chalkboard. He appeared to be pressing himself against the wall with all of his weight. By the time he reached the floor, the bottom half of the chart — the schedule for the next two weeks — had been smeared into illegibility. Marcell had effectively erased it all.
With three long strides, Antonio closed the distance. He ripped the letter from Marcell’s hand and held it out to Sofia. The moment she had it in her possession, Antonio grabbed Marcell’s shirtfront with both hands and lifted him bodily off the floor, then pushed him against the ruined chalkboard. “You will leave my workshop this instant, and you will never return unless you are summoned by name, which will never happen so long as I have a say in the matter.”
“B — but what about my wedding clothes?” Marcell stammered for the first time in Antonio’s recollection. The man’s face reddened from the pressure of being held against the smeared board.
“I will personally perform your fittings in the servants’ quarters. Perhaps you can stand on a kitchen bench.” He added the last bit to put the valet in his place. Holding his fitting in the kitchen, on a bench, would be humiliating, and they both knew it. Antonio let go. Marcell tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat and put a finger into his collar as if trying to loosen it.
“Go,” Antonio said, pointing at the door.
The valet took one step and then another, appearing smaller with each one. Every person in the room glared at him until he’d left altogether. Antonio slammed the door shut behind Marcell and turned the key, which he pocketed. He faced his staff. Only
then did he realize that his hands were trembling. He ran the back of his wrist across the beads of sweat on his forehead and sighed uneasily.
“I’ll fix the schedule soon,” he said, nodding toward the chalkboard. “Let’s get back to work. Elena, what else did the schedule have you working on today?”
The seamstress who’d been cutting out the waistcoat still clutched her shears in both hands and stared at the brocade with disbelief, as if someone had died. “One of the flower girls’ dresses,” she said. “I was going to cut it out next.”
“Good,” Antonio said. “Do that.”
Everyone lowered their heads and resumed their labors with renewed commitment. Rather, everyone did except Sofia, who gazed at the envelope longingly. Antonio sensed that she yearned to read the letter, but she didn’t want to do so without more privacy than the workshop afforded.
“Sofia,” he called. “Could I see you in the storage closet a moment? I have a question about the yarn for the Queen’s shawl.”
“Of course,” She hopped off the stool, stuck her needles through her work, and came to him.
To his relief, she carried both her work and the letter with her; he didn’t know what he would have done if she had left both behind. He led the way into the yarn closet and closed the door partway, enough for a little privacy but still ajar for propriety’s sake. A small window in the corner provided plenty of light.
“Go ahead and read your letter,” he whispered.
“But I thought I should wait until after working hours, and—”
“Something happy should come of Marcell’s antics. Word from home seems like the perfect thing.” He moved a rectangular footstool used for reaching high shelves. “Have a seat.”
She obliged. She eagerly cracked the seal then pulled out the letter and unfolded it carefully as if it were a priceless treasure, which, he supposed, it was to her.
He moved to the door. “I’ll step outside so you can be alone.” But her arm reached out and touched his. He stopped in surprise and turned back.
“Don’t go,” she said.
Antonio inspected her hand, still touching his arm just above the wrist. He had no desire to leave, and every desire to stay, to feel her touch a moment longer, but he didn’t want to intrude on her privacy. “Are you sure?”
She nodded and scooted over, making a little room for him on the stool. “Definitely. Happy things should be shared.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He took a seat beside her on the edge of the stool. He had to balance to avoid falling off, and they had to squeeze to fit side by side. They sat so close that their arms touched, and he could smell her hair — vanilla and strawberries.
Sofia read the letter aloud, pausing to laugh, explain a joke, or share a story. After a moment, she grew quiet and lapsed into reading silently. Not wanting to invade her privacy by reading over her shoulder, Antonio averted his eyes and distracted himself by counting the hanks of yarn waiting to be spun into skeins.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a spell. “That was rude of me.”
“Not at all. You have no obligation to share your letter with me or anyone.” He nudged her foot with his. “Although I admit that I quite thoroughly enjoyed the bit about how the cow knocked you over during milking.”
She laughed. “In my defense, I was only seven, but Sergio will never let me forget it, even though she hasn’t given milk in months.” She sighed then and traced her finger along a portion of the text. Her voice softened. “This last part is from my mother. Sergio wrote it for her; she can’t hold a pen anymore. I’m surprised she had the strength to dictate these few words.” She held the letter to her chest, as if the action was a surrogate for embracing her mother. “I hope she doesn’t worry about me; she needs her strength to get well.”
Sofia lowered her head, and tears tumbled down her cheeks. Antonio reached out to her cheek closest to him and wiped them away with his thumb. Hopefully she wouldn’t be cross with him for taking such a liberty; he simply wanted to comfort her. Instead, she gave him a wan smile as if thanking him for the gesture.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “What ails your mother?”
She raised both hands to clear her tears and sniffed again. “We aren’t entirely sure. Something is wrong with her lungs — consumption, most likely. She hurts everywhere and is very weak. She sleeps a lot. She can’t walk any longer, and she coughs something terrible, often bringing up blood, and her fevers—” She cut off and shook her head helplessly.
“What has the doctor said?”
“Not much.” She dabbed at her eyes with the back of a finger. “He came once and recommended medicine we couldn’t pay for. He said she should be in a hospital, which we certainly cannot pay for. We’re lucky if my knitting brings in enough to eat every week. Sergio works for a cheese maker, has ever since our cows stopped producing, but it’s not enough. The doctor won’t come again until we’ve paid his fees from the first visit.”
“Which you can’t,” Antonio filled in.
“Exactly.”
He’d known she missed her family, but the picture he now had of her home, her worries, and stresses, were all far bleaker than he’d suspected. More than ever, he understood why she wanted to go home. And more than ever, he wished she needn’t return to such a lifestyle, scrimping and scraping by meal to meal, unable to pay for needed medicines and who knew what else.
“That’s one reason I was so eager to come to the castle,” Sofia said. “I was promised enough money that when I return, I’ll be able to take Mother to a hospital where she can get well. We’ll buy more cows and a new house with a roof that doesn’t leak.” She lowered her head and sighed. “My greatest fear is that I won’t see her again in this life. That while I’m gone...”
Instead of finishing her sentence, Sofia covered her face with both hands. Instinctively, Antonio put his arms around her. She leaned in, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He held her tighter as she cried out her worries.
“You will see your mother again.” Emotion overcame him as well, and his voice became husky as he tried to contain it. “You will yet see her healthy, standing on her own, perhaps laughing as Sergio is knocked over by a new, younger cow.”
That elicited a slight laugh from Sofia. She gently pulled back, so he released her. “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said. “Thank you, Antonio.”
Chapter Seven
Sofia didn’t want to leave the warmth and quiet of the yarn closet. She didn’t want to leave the footstool, either, because that would mean no longer being so near Antonio. The moment they stood and returned to the workshop, they would resume work in different areas. Once again he’d belong to everyone in the room. Here, she felt as if he belonged to her. Here, the worries from home melted away, and she could almost believe that at this moment, Mother was kneading bread and doing dishes as she once had. Sofia could almost believe that for years to come, she and Antonio would be together, not for only two more weeks.
“I need to go into the city on some workshop errands,” Antonio said quietly. He leaned to the side, peering around the door into the workshop and then straightening again. “I’d like some company, and I suspect that you have a good eye for quality threads and fabrics, so you would be a great help in replacing what that dolt ruined.” He grinned broadly at her and lifted his brows in question.
Time away from her needles sounded quite tempting. And time in the capitol with Antonio sounded like a slice of paradise.
“I’d love to.”
“We’ll probably miss dinner,” Antonio said, “so we’ll need to eat in town. I know of a delightful place with the best bread and cheese you’ve ever had.”
“Sounds divine.” Butterflies erupted in Sofia’s middle. If she didn’t know better, she have thought Antonio was trying to court her.
One can dream, she told herself. And I’ll enjoy the dream while I can.
They left the closet. Sofia went to put her knitting away for the day.
Antonio stood in the middle of the room and clapped loudly to get everyone’s attention.
“I’ll be going into town to find replacement brocade and to check on other wedding details,” he called. “Sofia will be coming along to lend her expertise. It’s likely that we’ll return after dinner. In our absence, I beg of you to please leave your work here and eat on the grass outside. We cannot afford to have any other stains or mishaps. Greasy fingers and spilled sauces do not contribute to the elegance of a royal wedding. I’m talking to you, Max.” Chuckles rippled around the room. Max, who had his measuring tape about his neck, as usual, nodded sheepishly. Antonio withdrew the workshop key from his shirt pocket and handed it to Donya, a seamstress adding beadwork to the bodice of the Queen’s dress. “Be sure to lock the door after we leave and let no one in while we’re away.”
“Of course,” she said, slipping the key into her apron pocket.
“Thank you. Be sure it’s locked during dinner and again after hours. Give the key to Max before retiring for the evening so he can slip it under my bedroom door.”
“Consider it done,” Donya said.
“Max?” Antonio called, hoping the tailor had been listening.
“You have my word.”
“Excellent.” Antonio turned to Sofia. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
As promised, Donya locked the door behind them. Antonio led the way through hallways new to Sofia until they reached a door that led outside near the stables. They exited and headed toward the castle gates.
Confused, Sofia pointed over her shoulder at the stables. “Aren’t we taking a buggy or something?”
“Nope. The shops aren’t that far,” Antonio said, taking long strides. Sofia hurried to catch up. “From here, the way is all downhill, so it’s an easy walk.”
