My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (3 page)

Chapter Four

Outside my small window, it’s as if someone ripped a page from my history book and brought it to life. The inside of the carriage smells musty, but I lean out of the open window, and the warm aroma of fresh baked bread fills the air. Uniformed guards stand at regular intervals, perched beneath colorful banners in front of familiar ancient buildings, and nod as we roll past. Hordes of people dressed in a wide variety of period clothing shop in open-air markets comprised of makeshift tents and stalls. Peasants hobnob near aristocrats, vying for the freshest fruits and vegetables, and the streets are chaotic as patrons scream over the clamor of sellers calling out their wares. A herald gallops alongside the carriage, proclaiming the news of the day.

Even though I know I’m in the midst of gypsy magic, I still can’t believe it’s real.

Sitting opposite me is the man I assume is my chaperone for this journey. He hasn’t said a word since we climbed on board the carriage, but I catch him stealing glances and shaking his head. Damage control is obviously in order. If I want to enjoy this trip to the past and not be thrown into the loony bin or cast aside as a cultural ignoramus, I’m going to have to call upon the acting genes I inherited from my mother and play the role I’ve been given.

Luckily, I’ve picked up a thing or two about the process from visiting Dad’s sets, so I know the first thing any actress worth her salt does when prepping for a role is create a backstory and then conduct research. The backstory will have to be filled in as details become available, but here’s what I know about the Renaissance: it began in Florence in the Middle Ages and spread throughout Europe. Crazy-talented artists like Michelangelo, da Vinci, Raphael, and Botticelli exploded during this time. And last but certainly not least, a little-known playwright was born. A man named William Shakespeare.

From my carriage window, I watch period costumes parade by and thank the stars that fashion improved from the drab frocks people wore in the Dark Ages. But period trendsetters are still making quite a few faux pas. Men have on colored tights and puffy shorts—though honestly, it’s hard to complain about the yum-a-licious views of their well-toned legs—and the women aren’t much better, sporting sickly white makeup and garish scarlet cheeks.

I’m in the middle of trying to remember how close Verona, the setting for Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
, is to Florence when the carriage rolls through the arched doorway of a four-story, tan stone building and stops in the middle of a lush courtyard.

And just like that, all thought of role preparation is forgotten.

My chaperone steps out of the carriage and turns to take my hand. He guides me down, and I stroll in a trance-like state to the center of the space where a marble fountain sits. The gentle trickle of water coaxes me closer, and I walk up the delicately sculpted steps to peer over the edge.

I have no idea why we stopped, why we’re here, or even where
here
is—but it’s gorgeous. My hand snakes into my backpack, and I pull out a quarter. Before tossing the coin into the watery depths, I close my eyes.

Let this not be a dream.

Chaperone Man clears his throat behind me. I turn my head to see him giving me the same weird, pointed look again, and I stifle a laugh. I really need to do a better job of being more sixteenth century–like.

I take a seat on the top step and lean against the cool stone, breathing in the scent of wet earth and flowers from a nearby garden. Carved columns and sculpted arches frame the courtyard along with countless rounded windows. The same peaceful feeling from the previous palazzo rushes over me.

A moment later, the slow build of
click-clack
ing forces me to stand. I turn with a sigh as a simply dressed servant rushes across the stone floor. She bows at my feet before turning toward Chaperone Man and asking for my name.

“Pray tell your master that Signorina Patience D’Angeli has arrived.”

The servant scurries away, I assume to announce my arrival, and I consider this newest development.

Patience. Is that, like, an actual name? More importantly, is that seriously what they believe is
my
name? Even in the beautiful Italian language in which my chaperone spoke, the name is horrid. It figures the universe would pull this kind of cosmic joke. Having a cool or exotic name, like Margherita or Bella or Anastasia would be too perfect. Instead, the powers that be stick me with boring old goody-goody
Patience.

Sounds like a girl who knows how to party.

A chirping voice above interrupts my internal rant, and I peer up to see a dark head scamper past an open window. The servant returns and motions us toward a huge stairway.

Suddenly I’m nervous. I let the two of them walk ahead, realizing I don’t know anything about the people who live here. I don’t even know if Patience is supposed to know them. A masculine voice floats from inside the house, and my breathing escalates.

What if they already have expectations of me, like everyone else in my life?

My heart hammers in my chest, but before I can get too carried away wondering how I should act, a man descends the stairs with open arms. He has salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, the kind you get from years of smiling. He steps in front of me and envelops me in a hug.

“How beautiful you are, Patience. You are an honor to your father and mother, Signore rest their souls.”

I pat his back awkwardly and rush to process the incoming information like puzzle pieces. This family is rich. The man of the house—besides having no concept of personal space—is obviously kind. A definite plus. And apparently my parents, or Patience’s parents, are dead.

The chaperone trudges past us, carrying a huge black trunk in his arms. He nods at the man still hugging me and carries the load up the stairs.

The owner of the house finally steps back and points to himself. “I am your uncle Marco. I am sure you do not remember me. It has been many years since your family moved to London, but I once held you in my arms.” He tightens his lips into a straight line and looks up to the sky for a moment before continuing. “The loss of my brother and his wife is great, but it is my honor to welcome you into our home and family.”

I open my mouth, unsure of what to say or how to respond, and am saved by the
pitter-patter
of several pairs of feet on stone steps. Anxious, I straighten my shoulders, preparing to meet the rest of the welcome wagon. I stand on tiptoe for a glimpse, and a jolt of fear shoots through me.

Behind my uncle, my mother approaches.

I blink. Same dark hair, dark eyes, and beautiful face. But there
is
one striking difference, and that’s what allows me to begin breathing again. Plastering this woman’s face and shining in those dark eyes is an authentic smile—and there ends the uncanny resemblance. That particular expression has never graced the face of Mommy Dearest, aka Caterina Angeli, the temptress of Hollywood.

If anything, this woman’s smile reminds me of Jenna.

The Caterina/Jenna mismatch pulls me into another hug.
Great, I’m surrounded by a family of huggers
.

She shakes me back and forth and kisses both cheeks. “What a beauty! Oh, look at you!” She leans back and grabs my chin to scrutinize my face. I struggle to look away from her intent gaze, but she has a ninja grip. “Oh, how I have eagerly awaited this day!” Then she giggles and throws her arms around me again.

“Pray, Mama, give my cousin some air. Do you wish her to suffocate on the day of her arrival?”

My aunt laughs, unwraps her arms from around my neck, and then throws them around the girl beside her. The girl rumples the skirt of her celadon gown in one hand, fidgets with the flowers in her auburn hair with the other, and offers me a nervous smile. She appears to be about my age, maybe a little younger, and is astonishingly beautiful—the kind of girl guys back home would drool over and girls would hate, if not for her obvious awkward shyness.

The woman squeezes the girl’s shoulder. “You are right; that would not do at all. Patience, please excuse my exuberance. I am your aunt Francesca, and this is your cousin Alessandra. And this,” she says, pausing to grab a young man’s hand and pull him forward, “is your cousin Cipriano. You are a most welcome addition to our family.”

Alessandra and Cipriano. Two fancy Italian names—both complete mouthfuls. I decide to christen them Less and Cip, and then move onto appraising the boy before me. He’s a few years older than I am, and while he seems friendly enough, he definitely takes after his more reserved dad. He nods at me, and his dark hair brushes the shoulders of his cobalt-blue doublet. He’s cute in an aloof, boy-next-door sort of way.

I scan the smiling faces before me. Besides a few strange glances at my backpack, they certainly have the whole welcome-committee thing down. But they can’t be for real. No one just invites a complete stranger into his or her home, right? I mean, I know they think I’m their niece, but I could be anybody off the street…and I kind of am.

Ever mindful of my role, however, I nod at the perfect little family unit in front of me. “Thank you for your kindness. It is greatly appreciated in this time of sorrow. But if you do not mind, I am quite tired after my travels.”

Heh, how’s that for acting on the fly? I’m totally nailing this old-world gig.

Aunt Francesca’s face crumbles, and I stare, wide eyed. Having avoided female emotional drama for most of my life, I’m clueless as to how it all works. Was it something I said? Should I apologize or, since I’m supposed to be English, offer a “spot of tea”? I dart a worried look at the girl, Alessandra, but before I can stress too much, Aunt Francesca thumps her hand against her chest.

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry. Please come inside.” She grabs my hand and begins pulling me up the stone steps. “Your exhaustion is to be expected. You have endured a long journey.”

Longer than you know.

The rest of the family follows us up the stairwell that leads to an elegant second floor. I try to take in the impressive high ceilings, dark wood furniture, painted walls, and tapestries, but suddenly I have difficulty just keeping my eyes open. Honestly, I’d only thrown out the excuse about being tired to get time alone to process, but knowing there’s a bed now looming in my very near future, I realize how exhausted I am. Gypsy magic must take a lot out of a girl.

Aunt Francesca pulls me down a long corridor and stops before a thick, heavy door. When my uncle pushes it open, I have to squint at the sensory overload. Frescoed walls in a dizzying display of geometric shapes jump out at me, colorfully and loudly begging me to run my hand along the bumpy plaster. I blink to adjust my eyes and touch the wall, letting the texture tickle my fingers. The black travel trunk my chaperone carried up sits beside a painted chest in the corner of the room that completely dwarfs it. I wander over and feel my eyes practically bug out again at the delicate biblical scenes and images, each crafted in meticulous detail. It’s like having a mini Sistine Chapel right in my own bedroom.

Across the room, near a large open window, are an elaborately carved, dark oak table and matching stool, both inlaid with an intricate mother-of-pearl design. A gold comb-and-brush set rests on the tabletop next to a small round mirror. And pressed against the back wall and swallowing up most of the floor space is a massive four-poster bed, complete with suspended royal-blue velvet curtains looped in knots.

Besides the sparse furnishings, a few tapestries, and a family crest on the wall, the room is empty. Yet it feels more luxurious than most of the finest hotels I’ve stayed in.

And I thought the room back at the hotel was impressive.

My jaw drops as I take it all in, and Aunt Francesca smiles. “We will put away your belongings in here,” she says, placing her hand on the painted chest, “but it is my intention to indulge you now that you are with us. I insist upon you having the finest fabrics, done up in the latest Italian fashions.” She sits down on the chest and stamps her feet rhythmically. “I am so pleased to have another girl in the house to dress!”

My uncle sidles up to my aunt and places his hand on her shoulder. “Come now, dear. We have all the time in the world to play dress-up. Patience is not going anywhere.” He looks back at me and winks, and I immediately decide I like him. “In the morning, the three of you may talk of fabrics and surcoats and all sorts of women’s matters. But this night, we shall let the girl rest. Now, Patience, is there anything you require before we leave you to catch your breath?”

I shake my head and give him a grateful smile. “No, I’m good.” My uncle furrows his forehead, and Alessandra crinkles her nose. “I, I mean, I fare well. Thank you, Uncle.”

The confusion washes from their faces, and I exhale in relief. We stand around staring at one another, them smiling politely, me waiting eagerly for them to leave. My uncle takes a step toward the door, and then, just as I’m feeling I have a handle on this whole time travel thing, my body takes over…and I break into a curtsy.

Now, I’ve never curtsied before in my life, and certainly don’t know when it’s appropriate to do so in the sixteenth century, but if I had to judge, based on the exchanged glances, this is not one of those occasions.

Oh, well. I can blame it on jet lag. Er, carriage lag.

I pull myself back up and stretch my arms out in an overly exaggerated fake yawn. “I trust that I shall fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow,” I say, forcing an awkward smile.

Luckily, they get the hint. The family files out one by one, Alessandra hanging back at the end and studying me with a tilted head. I keep that pathetic excuse of a smile on my face and subtly nod toward the doorframe.

She lowers her eyes and grins. “It is lovely to have you with us, cousin. I pray that you rest well.”

I nod in response, no longer trusting my body and mouth not to betray me, and she bounces out of the room. With a sigh, I crumple against the closed door, finally alone in my Renaissance bedroom. My backpack falls to my elbow, and I reach inside, grabbing my iPhone and turning the power off—no sense in draining the battery on a lifeline to normalcy. Then I thump my head against the solid wood door and rest my eyes on the family crest mounted across from me.