A Woman of Seville Read Free Page A

some female company; sit at the solid table and preside over their crushing of garlic and herbs. I savour these moments, my feet resting on baked earth—a maid peeling carrots at one elbow, a slave mincing onions at the other. Violeta and Prospera, from near and far.
    Tables anchor a person to others, I’m sure. Sitting down and resting one’s elbows on a flat surface an order of events is established; an arrangement of hatching smiles and tilting chins. At the centre of the table, fresh eggs nestle in a pure white bowl and near my right hand, chopped vegetables are piled in dewy freshness. I sit to be nourished. My handreaches out and I crunch on raw carrots until Violeta protests I’m eating tonight’s soup.
    I would sit here forever, I think, if I could. My grey silk gown is waiting upstairs, Violeta prods. She doesn’t need to remind me Bishop Rizi will be here soon. Banished from my own kitchen, I return to my chamber to find the aforesaid gown spread out across my four-poster bed. That’s how I’ll look when I’m wearing it too! I wonder if my maid was intentionally mocking me laying out my gown in this way, a cushion where my head should be, my slippers (pointing down as if I’m standing on tip-toe) placed as imaginary feet. The scamp has pretended it’s a real person lying in wait on the bed. Violeta got the giggles doing this perhaps. My slave, Prospera, would have been more wary of my reproval. It’s true, the ten-foot wide skirt does need the breadth of a four-poster to do it justice. It’s a mighty bedspread of a dress indeed.
    I scoop up the gown and drape it carefully over a chair so it doesn’t crease. The task ahead is to turn myself into a woman of quality, which, in our expansive times, is not always distinguishable from a woman of quantity. A puffy skirt will aggrandise my lower realms and hidden wig-pieces will bush the upper kingdom of my hair into playful bounty.
    The initial tussle is about to begin: the extraction of my whalebones from the closet. I’m leaning inside, compressingthe bones so the ungainly contraption can fit through the doorway. The undergarment bursts free, almost winding me as it springs back into shape with a wailing ping. I catch my breath and clamber up onto the bed, dragging the whalebone wands after me. Lying on my back I undertake to pull the bell-shaped armour on, buttocks and legs raised in the air. Caged, I get up awkwardly, tie the strings at the back and waddle across to my waiting gown. This is the part I love. To embrace the cascade of slippery silk. To raise on high. Offer up to Heaven. (This is why I like to dress on my own, without Violeta or Prospera’s help.)
    Suspended above my head in a cloud-shaped mass, the gown drops down on me like a curtain, sliding over my face and shoulders. The bliss of robing, so silky and sensual, reminding me of another memory, of my mother hooping me, catching me as if I were a butterfly with my little girl frocks.
    I lift the bunches of fabric to cover the circumference of the farthingale. Lace the bodice tightly and now I’m a swan, gliding to the mirror, my undercarriage swaying beneath me. A pile of feathers, ribbons and scarves sits on the dresser. I dip into this maze of tangled softness and pull out my Marie de’ Medici ruff. Coil the tripe-like appendage around my neck. Clip at the back and oh ivory froth! The ruff, the ruff, the ruff. How flatteringly it narrows my face and accentuatesmy cheekbones. I can’t help but smile. Frill and foam at the neck, I do. Can such buffoonish excess be allowed? Only the Sevillian nobility still wear them, rather than the high linen collars that are the recent style. But I’m not wearing the ruff to a party tonight. I’m entertaining at home.
    Guido Rizi, who’s late due to the passing of a sour old cardinal, will probably overcome my defences and succeed in removing all my protective layers. Flirtation and embraces won’t be enough to satisfy him. I can already feel his