A party! I am wearing Meryl’s “Abercrombie & Fitch” shirt and a pair of blue jeans, both of which are relatively modest. The bathing costume, I place inside my purse, never to see the light of day.
Jack wears a “tank top” and his own bathing costume, which is somewhat more modest than those prescribed for women. Still, it reveals a great deal more flesh than I am accustomed to seeing revealed by the gentlemen at court.
I try to focus my eyes properly on the back of Jack’s head or, perhaps, the floor as we traverse the stairs and the hallway on the way to Jack’s car. And yet my eyes continue to travel downward, sideways, or in general away from their proper destination—for the destination they seek is the back of Jack’s legs and other nether regions which have been properly covered in recent days by his trousers.
I remember that delicious moment in the study—that horrible little room next to the place where they keep the cars, where I am to be consigned these next seven nights—when I fell from the air mattress, and I thought Jack was going to kiss me. Was he going to? Will he ever?
I sneak another glance at Jack’s legs.
Signor Maratti had a book filled with colored plates of subjects appropriate for young ladies, flowers and fruit and other vegetation. These, he showed me often, the better to reveal my own inadequacies as a painter. But one day, when Signor had excused himself to clean the paintbrushes, I ventured to glance at the book. It fell to the floor and, in my haste to retrieve it, I saw a plate which made me gasp.
I knew immediately why Signor Maratti had not shown me that particular page. One would have thought that the realization of this fact would have been all that was necessary to cause me to avert my eyes in a ladylike manner.
One would have thought wrong.
The picture was of a young man, quite naked but for a bit of leaves where a codpiece would go. I assured myself that, had it not been for that bit of leaves, I would have turned the page. What struck me about the picture was how different this young man’s body was from my own: muscular where mine was soft, angular where mine was round. I could not quell the momentary thrill at the thought—I knew it was an improper one—of beholding, even touching such a body one day in person—when I was properly married to a suitable consort, of course.
Then Signor Maratti entered, and I was forced to pretend I had been looking at the flowers. I am afraid I did not concentrate for the rest of the lesson, and it was a blessing that Signor himself was old and fat, the better to calm my racing heart and mind.
He never left me alone again.
But now, hundreds of years later, I am beholding a male body, a body which was not even a wish of a prediction of a dream on that long-ago day, and yet I feel the same excitement at the thought of it, the same wondering how it would be to touch it.
We reach the party at good speed, thanks to the service of Jack’s car. There are numerous other cars parked on the grassy area in front of the house. To whom do they belong? Will their owners like me? At parties at my father’s castle, I was always in the company of Lady Brooke and other female companions, who were under strict orders to keep me entertained, as if I were a fussy infant. There will be no such orders here.
What if they hate me?
I was quite perturbed to find that Jack was using me to make this Amber person jealous. On the other hand, it is gratifying to know that he believes me so beautiful.
Suddenly, Jack is beside me, rapping on the car window. “Coming?”
I manage to rip my gaze from his muscled arms long enough to say, “I am afraid.”
He glances at his wristwatch. “They’ll all love you.”
This seems unlikely, but Jack opens the car door and grips my wrist firmly in his hand. It is so warm, and I remember that he is my intended, my destiny. There is only the obstacle of Amber to be gotten past.
“Do you really think so?” I edge closer to him than I have dared before.
“Sure.” He is near enough that I can feel his breath upon me, and with his free hand, he pushes a lock of hair from my face. “You’re so beautiful, Talia. How could anyone not love you?”
I hope this is true, of him. I am, indeed, used to being adored. But I was adored because I was a princess. Will I still be adorable when I am merely Talia?
I begin to follow him toward the door. “But what if I say something…foolish?” I ask before we go inside.
“Believe me, people will be too drunk to notice.”
No one answers when Jack knocks upon the door, so finally we push it open. This is shocking to me. Is there no guard? No servant to announce us? But when we enter, I am no longer surprised.
It is chaos. There is music louder than any that I have heard before. I realize that Jack was correct that I need not worry about saying anything foolish. No one would even hear it. Dozens of people talk and laugh and dance in a most improper manner, and every single young lady at the party is dressed in a bathing costume similar to the one Jack provided. In many cases, they are even less modest.
“Come on,” Jack says. “I’ll introduce you around.”
I am pleased that he does not release his grip upon my hand. It would be terrifying to be lost here. The patio, as Jack calls it, is barely quieter than the house and even more crowded. Here, the crowd centers upon a large artificial lake—the pool—where people are swimming.
My every muscle urges me to stop—nay, to flee—but my mind urges me forward. These are Jack’s friends. They must like me. He must like me and not think me a misfit from another time.
A portly boy greets us. “Hey, Jacko, you made it.”
“Stewy!” Jack slaps the boy’s hand. “This is Talia. She’s from Belgium.”
“Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said she was beautiful.” He touches my shoulder with a hand that is wet and ice-cold, and he does not remove it. “Does this mean Amber’s available?”
“You’ll have to ask her boyfriend.” Jack guides me toward him, which has the effect of separating my shoulder from Stewy’s clammy hand. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Help yourself. My parents are paying for it.” Stewy leans toward me. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better, Talia.”
He leers at me. I try to think of a proper response. As a princess, I might have slapped him or called the guards. Now, I simply turn away. “So kind of you.”
Soon, Jack and I have put several chairs and people between ourselves and Stewy, and I am glad of it. Jack thrusts a cold, cylindrical object into my hand.
“Thank you!” I say, staring at it.
“It’s a beer.” He looks around the patio.
“I am familiar with beer,” I say, although I have never drank one and have certainly never seen this sort of container for one. I watch as Jack opens his own beer, then places the cylinder to his lips, his eyes still glancing about.
I do the same. It is so cold that, for a moment, my teeth begin to ache. When I have recovered, I say, “Is Stewy a good friend of yours?”
I have to say it twice before he looks at me, but finally he does.
“He’s okay. We go to school together, and…” He stops. His eyes suddenly fix elsewhere. I follow his gaze to its end. I see what he has been looking for.
It is a girl. She emerges from the pool, and she is—I would like to believe—no more beautiful than myself, but she wears a bathing suit more revealing than the rest—so revealing, indeed, that I wonder if some of the fabric of it may have shrunk in the water, or if someone played a trick on her. Her auburn hair is long and curly, and although her skin is a shade of tan that ladies of court assiduously avoided through the unrelenting use of headdresses and powder, I suspect this is no longer the case, for every male eye on the patio is suddenly upon her.
But her eyes seek only one person.
“Jack! You’re here!”
Jack swears under his breath. “It’s Amber.”