My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 7
Antonia’s gotta be loving this.
“Thank you, Patience, for your performance.” At Antonia’s words, I look up, waiting for her to go in for the kill. “I am sure it was not easy being asked to do so without preparation, and while you are still acclimating yourself to Italy. Pray excuse my discourtesy. That was lovely.”
I blink, and then actually rub my eyes. She doesn’t appear to be mocking me. Her face is serious. Well, this is unexpected.
“Thank you, Antonia.”
She nods and sits back down. Alessandra and I exchange looks of bewilderment.
After three more looong performances, the night finally comes to an end. I follow Alessandra out of the room, keeping my eyes on the ground. If I can manage to walk to the carriage without face-planting, I’ll be ecstatic. At the door, we stop to thank the Stefanis for their “graciousness.”
“You simply must hold a ball on Patience’s behalf, Francesca,” Signora Stefani says, her nose held slightly in the air. “Introduce her to Italian society.”
Antonia’s fake smile crumbles, and she turns to me, her gaze scrutinizing me from head to toe. “I sincerely doubt Patience is ready for something like that, Mother. A baby must first learn to crawl, after all.”
As much as I don’t want a fancy shindig held in my honor—um, hello, trying to escape my Sweet Sixteen drama was the whole reason I ended up here to begin with—I almost wish my aunt would host one, just so I could put that sour expression back on Antonia’s face. Obviously she doesn’t like sharing the spotlight. Lucky for her, I have no interest in doing so.
My family starts our descent down the stone steps toward the courtyard. When I spot our carriage waiting at the far end of the square, I barrel past Alessandra, my only thought of ending this night. I’ve almost made a clean getaway when a hand snakes out of the darkness.
“I am sorry we did not get to talk more this evening,” Lorenzo says, stepping into the dim corner of the courtyard. He’s so close I can feel his breath skimming across my hair, and I shiver. “Cipriano is going to arrange a day in the country for the four of us tomorrow, a getaway from all the noise and interruptions of the city.”
All I can do is stare up at him. How, after that horrendous performance, is he still remotely interested in me? Is his overinflated ego that stubborn?
He gazes down at our joined hands and begins rubbing slow circles on my palm. In the dark, with the moonlight causing his golden curls to shine, he almost looks like an angel. The right side of his mouth kicks up.
A fallen angel.
A soft laugh escapes Lorenzo’s lips. “Patience D’Angeli, you fascinate me.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe it, and his eyes travel across my face.
I actually forget how to breathe.
He leans down and kisses the hand he’s holding, then lifts his eyes to scan the area. We’re alone. He stands and presses his lips against my forehead. The seconds meld together as I struggle between needing to push him away and wanting to pull him closer. I take a breath and push my hand against his hard chest.
He steps back, grinning, and says, “Until tomorrow, I shall see you in my dreams.”
The words act like cold water.
Ladies and gentlemen, our player from the piazza has returned.
I shake my head as he ducks back into the darkness. During the entire interlude with Lorenzo, I hadn’t said a single word. I didn’t push him away, act aloof, or tell him the truth…that I’m really not fascinating at all. I was a brainless robot, completely under his spell.
“Patience?” Alessandra’s voice rings out into the night, jolting me to reality.
Giving myself a mental shake, I yell back, “Coming!”
I slide out of the shadows, disgusted, and as I stride toward my waiting family, I try to ignore the happy butterflies dancing a jig in my stomach.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, I wake up before Lucia comes to my room. I sneak a quick toothbrushing with my illicit Crest and ransack my bag for other contraband items. After washing my face with dermatologist-approved soap, scrubbing my body as best I can, and applying deodorant, I almost feel like myself again.
Having accomplished so much on my own, I decide to venture into my huge trunk of clothes. It’s like a little girl’s princess dream come true. There are dozens of surcoats in just about every conceivable color you can imagine. I grab one, then toss it aside for what is beneath, each dress more gorgeous than the next. It’s when I’m in the middle of digging through the assortment—completely surrounded by fabric—that someone knocks at my door.
Please don’t be my aunt, please don’t be my aunt, I beg the universe, looking at the mess I’ve created. Another cultural mistake. I’m sure the average, everyday Renaissance girl isn’t fascinated by her massive silky wardrobe. In fact, she’s probably used to it.
“In a minute!” I call, grabbing as many dresses as I can and stuffing them inside the painted chest. The door opens, and I quickly turn, caught red-handed with a dozen surcoats in my arms.
Luckily, it’s Lucia. She’s dressed in the same outfit as yesterday, plain brown with a starched white apron and matching bonnet, and I’m hit again with how unfair her life must be. She doesn’t seem to be that much older than I am, yet she’s forced to help me get dressed in these luxurious clothes every day. It has to suck.
Suddenly an idea comes to me. I scamper across the floor, leap over the last pile of surcoats, and grab the buttery yellow one on top. With a grand flourish, I present it to her.
“For you,” I say, proud of myself. Lucia looks at me in confusion, and I add, “To thank you for your service to the D’Angeli family.”
When she doesn’t grab the dress from me in uncontainable joy, I snatch her hand and try to place the dress in it, assuming she’s just being shy. But when she fervently shakes her head and wrenches her arm from my grasp, I get the feeling that perhaps I’ve missed something. Lucia backs away from me until she hits the wall, as if I’m holding a poisonous snake instead of a silk surcoat.
Okay, not exactly the reaction I was going for.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, trying not to sound angry. Maybe manners have changed, but where I come from, it’s pretty rude not to accept a gift.
She nods, and her face tenses. “Do they not have sumptuary laws in London?”
Again with the historic lingo I don’t know. I have no clue what sumptuary laws are, much less if they were part of London’s legal system. “Um, no?” I answer, trying to keep the confusion out of my voice and failing miserably. I drop the dress to the floor, my plan an obvious failure. “Why? What are they?”
In reply, she looks down and points toward the table and stool. I tramp across the room, wondering if I’ll ever get an answer from my silent servant, and plop down. I turn around and catch her pointed look at the smear of blue-and-white paste still clinging to the washbasin.
Oops.
Lucia runs her fingers through my hair, and all annoyance flies out my open window. It isn’t until my eyes are closed in pure bliss that I get my answer.
“Sumptuary laws keep commoners from imitating the aristocracy.” I stay silent, trying to understand, and she explains further. “They could arrest me for wearing my mistress’s surcoat.”
My eyes bug out, and I sit straighter. “Arrest you? Are you serious?”
“Sì,” she answers, pulling the brush through a mass of tangles.
That is crazy! I can’t believe how messed up things are in the sixteenth century. No wonder she looked at me as if I were giving her a death sentence instead of a dress. Here I was trying to do her a favor, and instead, I ended up looking like an inconsiderate jerk.
“I can’t get anything right.”
First the fork incident yesterday at breakfast, then the wine debacle at dinner, not to mention the countless verbal mistakes I’ve made over the last two days, and now this. I’m a walking advertisement for Idiots ’R’ Us. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I blink fast t
o keep them from falling.
“You did not know,” she says softly.
I shake my head, and her hands tighten to hold me firmly in place. “That doesn’t matter.” I snort. “Back home in, uh, London, my parents were well known. Especially Mom. Before we’d even met, people would have made up their minds about me. I don’t have the luxury of making mistakes like other people. I have to be perfect.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I clamp it shut. My cheeks burn. I don’t know what possessed me to tell her that. She might feel familiar for some reason, but the truth is she’s a complete stranger, and I just spilled my guts to her.
The brushing stills, and I wait for the lecture, the “you need to get your act together” and “everyone has it rough” speeches. I tell them to myself every day. I know I have a dad who loves me, and I’m lucky to come from such a wealthy family.
It doesn’t make the rest any easier to live with, though.
“Pardon me for saying so, Signorina,” she finally says, her voice soft but strong, “but you are no longer in London.”
Lucia resumes brushing and I stare into the small, round mirror, thinking, Yeah, no duh, lady. But after a moment it hits me. Replace London with Los Angeles, and the point is, people don’t know me here. And they don’t know my parents. Here in Renaissance Florence, I don’t have to combat Mom’s reputation and failure with my perfection. I can just be me.
Patience D’Angeli.
…
The vigorous rocking of the carriage over the deep ruts in the road lets me know I’m not in Kansas anymore. Gone are the cobblestone roads, crowded markets, and noisy patrons. The Tuscan countryside is a whole other world.
We pass a man in a short brown garment plowing his field with an ox. A variety of farm animals stroll along either side of our carriage, and mop-haired children chase one another with sticks. The tree-filled landscape is interspersed with rolling hills of wildflowers, just like the mural at my favorite Italian restaurant in Malibu, Grissini—only much better because this is real.
I shake my head and lean farther out of the open window, a content sigh escaping my lips. Alessandra giggles, and I turn to see my fellow travelers exchanging amused looks at my expense, but I don’t mind. It’s hard to care about anything—much less silly propriety—in this kind of setting.
Our driver steers the horses to the right, and we follow a well-worn path through the olive trees to a clearing. I snag a shiny leaf and inhale the clean scent of flowers and sunshine. Birds are singing and chirping happy tunes, and in the meadow before me, vibrant red poppies explode against the deep jade of the grass and the lush gold of the wheat fields.
You just can’t get this kind of scenery in Hollywood.
The carriage stops, and before I can worry about how a proper young sixteenth-century lady would act, I jump out and run for the fields. I throw my arms wide, skimming my fingers along the passing flowers, and laugh.
This is what freedom feels like.
Ever since this morning’s epiphany with Lucia, all I’ve been able to think about is living without the worry of judgment constantly pressing down on me. Here in this ancient world, I’m not just free from unwanted parties and ridiculous future stepmothers. I’m actually free to become the Cat I’ve always wondered about and wished to be.
The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.
Alessandra shoots past, giggling like crazy, and I glance at the boys strolling leisurely behind us. Lorenzo shakes his head and flashes a devastating grin, and my mouth goes completely dry. I exhale and drag my eyes back around. Just because I can be a new me here, it doesn’t mean I should go falling for the local hottie. I just have to keep repeating to myself: He’s a player, he’s a player, he’s a player.
Alessandra turns and runs backward, never missing a step. She lifts her hands in the air and shouts, “You cannot catch me, fair cousin!”
Her playful energy, much like her smile, is infectious. Laughing, I shake my head and cup my hand over my mouth. “Challenge accepted!”
I hike up my long skirt, and her squeal rings out across the countryside. We run across the crimson poppy field and through a meadow filled with wild daisies, the intoxicating aroma of fresh flowers filling my head. The warm sun seeps into my skin, and as a cool autumn breeze whips loose strands of long brown hair across my face, I smile what might possibly be my first-ever authentic smile.
In two long strides, I cover the remaining distance and tackle Alessandra to the ground. “Oomph!”
She rolls me off her and gives me a playful push. “Your mother,” she says, pausing to catch her breath and straighten her skirt, “must have descended from the Goddess of Victory.”
I draw a ragged breath and shrug. “Nah, I’m just that good.”
Alessandra wrinkles her nose but then smiles brilliantly. She begins gathering daisies into a pile as Cipriano plows into Lorenzo’s back a few feet away. I watch them both nosedive and disappear into the overgrown flowers, laughing and taunting each other. As my throat grows thick, I realize I’m envious of their easy friendship.
“Goddess Victoria.” I turn at Alessandra’s teasing tone to see her holding a crown of daisies. “Victor of our race.” She places it on my head and bows hers in solemn mock adoration. Then she giggles and quickly makes one for herself. “Now we shall match.”
I swallow past the increased thickness in my throat and lower my eyes slightly. “Thanks.”
My eyes sting, and I actually feel the pressure of tears building behind my nose. I blink, shake out my hands, and make the mascara face, trying to get myself together.
What is up with me today?
Luckily, the boys provide a distraction. Cipriano’s dark head pops up to my right, his hands fisted on his hips. “I want it known,” he declares to no one in particular, “that I let Lorenzo win. To do otherwise would have been impolite, as he is so obviously enamored of our cousin.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks—even though I know I’m nothing special to Lorenzo—and I brace myself for the typical guy response. Denial, mocking, maybe even a sexist comment in response to Cipriano’s taunting. But when Lorenzo stands to dust himself off, he just grins. “Your benevolence is most appreciated, old man.”
Then he looks at me.
I fight the slow grin wanting to creep across my face as he walks over, stray shards of grass clinging to his curls. His flirtatious gaze grows darker as it trails over me, from the crown of my head, over my freckle-dusted nose, to my too-large mouth. The muscles of my stomach clench, then release, then clench again. Even though my hair’s a hot mess, my face is completely bare, and I’m flushed from both running and his blatant appraisal, I’ve never felt more beautiful.
And that’s a problem.
Lorenzo plops down and brushes the ribbons of hair away from my mouth, never taking his eyes off mine. Heat ripples throughout my body as his thumb grazes my lower lip.
If I don’t distract myself right now, I may do something really stupid—like tackle the poor boy. So I shake my head and turn to Alessandra. “Y-you know,” I stammer, my annoying voice all girly soft. I cough, sit up tall, and try again. “You know, this place is amazing. I mean, I’ve seen movies—or, um, plays—with settings like this, beautiful meadows filled with flowers, but I’ve never actually seen one in real life.”
I look again at the scenery, trying to freeze it in my memory so I can preserve it in paint when I get home, and glance back with a smile. Cipriano squints at me, and too late, I remember I’m supposed to be from London. If BBC’s Pride and Prejudice is any indication, that city and the neighboring ones probably have tons of little wooded pastures and meadows to romp around in.
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and they’ll ignore that comment like they do all my other screw-ups.
Alessandra leans forward and claps her hands excitedly, her eyes glowing with a light I’ve never seen before. “Oh, pray, Patience, tell me about the theater in London! Is it as wonderful as I imagine?”
Way to go, Cat. Open mouth, insert foot.
“The theater?” I repeat ever so brilliantly.
My knowledge of ancient English theater begins and ends with Shakespeare, but while he did spring up during this period, I don’t think it was until a half century from now. And the idea of what could happen if I tell them about a play—or anything, really—that hasn’t happened yet completely boggles my mind.
The weight of this situation suddenly crashes into me. It’s not just my life, or even the real Patience D’Angeli’s life, I’m messing around with here. I can potentially change, to its detriment, world history.
“I don’t know,” I say, nervously knotting a daisy stem. “You’ve seen one play, you’ve seen them all. Right?”
Lorenzo lowers his chin and narrows his eyes at me in question. I flatten my lips and look away, wondering what I’m going to say and how I’ll pull this off.
Alessandra sighs. “I adore the theater.”
Then she smiles, gets dreamy eyed, and seems to forget all about her question. I slump forward in relief.
Her eyes shift to a space off to my left as if she’s watching a play only she can see. “Witnessing the birth of a new identity, the uninhibited laughter and tears of the audience, the thunder of applause breaking all around me—it is truly an experience to behold.”
The passion blazing from her pores is like a postcard from home. A pang of homesickness hits my stomach, and it tightens. Dad is just like her, loving the entire movie-making industry and craving the frenetic energy and creative process so much that he can’t comprehend my aversion to his chosen profession. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that when your life feels like one big acting job, it doesn’t exactly make you eager to prolong the charade when you don’t have to.
But if I ever felt the way Alessandra obviously does, nothing could keep me away.
“Have you ever done it?” I ask, a vision of her as Queen Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream so vivid in my mind that it’s hard to imagine it’s not real. But Alessandra’s eyes grow wide in horror, and the boys snicker. I tilt my head in confusion. “Perform, I mean?”