Two.
A bottle of violet–witch hazel perfume and a closed sketchbook sat on one of the vanities. The wardrobe closest to it was open, revealing black and burgundy dresses hanging in a neat row. Someone was already living here.
My roommate? I stared at her etched perfume bottle and engraved leather sketchbook and set my raggedy carpetbag down on the marble. I’d never really had any friends in Shy. I’d always told myself it was because Shy was so small, but I knew most of the families didn’t want their daughters hanging around at a pub . . . or with a girl born out of wedlock.
But this girl wouldn’t know any of that. I could be whoever I wanted here. That was the power of the Fashion House, of the city. Whoever she was, I would smile at her and tell her she was pretty, and I liked her dress. Wasn’t that what city girls did? And perhaps then, hopefully, we would be friends.
I let out a long, slow breath and briskly walked forward. My shoes made clicking sounds with every step, disturbing the chamber’s pristine, static beauty. They seemed too loud and, without even knowing why, I tried to muffle them.
You’re fine, I told myself. You’re fine. I was tired. That was why, even though I was exactly where I wanted to be, I suddenly was overwhelmed.
I made my way over to one of the beds. The rococo-style headboard was elaborately carved with roses, scrolls, and cherubs, and covered in frosty white paint. A pink gown was laid out, its wide skirts nearly covering the whole duvet. The gown appeared to be two pieces, but it wasn’t. The top reminded me of the precise, collared shirts I’d seen Shy’s judge wear to our parish, only in a soft blush. Small buttons ran down the front, and quarter-length sleeves ended in pressed cuffs. Monogrammed inside the gown’s back collar were the letters FH. Next to the dress were the necessary undergarments.
I undid the clasps of the dress I was wearing and slipped out of it, followed by my camisole, crinoline, and drawers.
Knock, knock.
I whirled around, almost tripping over my dress, which lay around my ankles with my undergarments. Only my stockings covered my legs to my thighs, and the realization sent my skin puckering into goose bumps.
“Just a minute,” I called out, turning to awkwardly reach up onto the bed for the gown and struggling to step free of my mound of clothes. “I’m not—”
The door opened, and a girl in a high-necked black dress accented with bobbin-lace appliques entered. I backed up against the bed, clutching the dress to cover myself. I recognized her outfit. The maid who had attended Madame Jolène back in Evert had been dressed in the same lacy, high-necked black dress. This girl was a servant.
“Francesco sent me,” she announced. “Orientation is about to begin. I’m here to help you dress.”
“Help me dress? Oh, I can manage.” I faltered, desperately trying to shield myself with the gown. I could only imagine what Madame Jolène would say if she saw me using one of her dresses in such a manner. My cheeks burned bright pink, much brighter than the gown.
“You’re the contestant from the North, aren’t you?” the girl asked, walking toward me. I tried to back up more, but I was already trapped against the bed. “Well, here at the Fashion House, you don’t dress yourself.”
She whisked the gown out of my hands. I gave a squawk of embarrassment, holding my hands up to conceal myself. The hot flush in my cheeks suffused my entire body. I didn’t know what was more embarrassing: being naked in front of a stranger or being lectured by one.
“Here.” She reached for the new undergarments while I grabbed at the blanket on the bed, futilely trying to use its edge to cover my body. “Foundational garments first.”
She handed me a pair of drawers. I slipped into them and reached out for the camisole and crinoline, but instead of giving them to me, she held them up, sliding the camisole and then the crinoline over my head. Afterward, she wrapped the corset around my waist, fastening the clasps running down the front of it. I was grateful to be clothed again, even if it was only in underwear.
“Corsets have to be worn at all times at the Fashion House,” the girl said as she turned me around to tighten the lacings in the back. I placed my hands flat against the corset. The fabric was thick beneath my fingers, and it extended down to my hips, encasing my entire torso. Satin and lace were molded together over the stiff pieces of whalebone.
“It’s really beaut—” My word cut off as she gave the corset strings a jerk, pulling it tight up against my midriff and forcing the air out of my lungs. My ribs and hips submitted to its molding. I occasionally wore corsets at home, but never this tight. Half the time I only wore my bodice.
“You have a small waist,” the girl said in an observational tone. I wanted to turn from her, but I was like a helpless puppet, the corset ties in her hands keeping me from pulling away. “It helps since you don’t have much by way of hips.”
“Are you a maid here?” I asked. Only a few people in Shy had maids. The ones I’d met were older women. None of them were like this girl.
“I am.”
“What is your name?”
“You’re sweet,” the girl said, all fake saccharine. “Girls from the country are so sincere.”
“Are we? And here I thought we were known for our scathing wit.” I couldn’t help being sarcastic. No one in Shy would be rude for no reason.
“Here, hold your arms up,” she directed, lifting the gown over my head. She didn’t respond to my comment, but she also didn’t say anything else.
The dress smelled of fresh new silk. It was the nicest thing I’d ever had on my body. Even though I wasn’t close enough to the mirror to see myself, I sensed its beauty and craftsmanship, from its fabric to its structured bodice. But staring down at the girlishly pink color, I felt something was . . . off. I cleared my throat.
“There aren’t any other options, are there?”
“Options?” She made it sound as though I’d asked to attend the orientation in animal skins.
“To wear,” I said, running my hands over my skirt, making sure my voice was even. “It’s just that I’m not quite sure this is the best style for me.”
The maid was silent a moment and then let out a harsh, singular, “Ha! If you want to choose how you dress, then the Fashion House is not the place for you.” She pushed the last button through its corresponding hole. “Now, let’s fix that hair.”
She gathered my dark-blond hair, saying something about country hairstyles versus city ones, but I barely heard her. The Fashion House had always represented freedom to me—creative freedom. I stared down at the pink skirts puffing out around me. Their luster seemed to diminish, and I shifted uncertainly as the maid roughly twisted my hair up into a bun, pulling my head back as she did so. She procured hairpins from her apron pocket and stuck them into my hair, fastening the bun to the back of my head. By the time she was done, my scalp tingled with her pricks and stabs.
“There!” she announced. She took a few steps back and beheld me from head to toe. Despite her prior rudeness, she seemed pleased with her work.
I turned to the mirror over the vanity, finally able to see myself. For a moment, I stared, entranced. I thought I’d understood the gown from how it felt, but that was a mere glimpse into its beauty. It was a second skin, gliding over the contours of my body. It highlighted my waist and balanced out my hips. The sight drew me in and filled me with excitement. Soon, I would make beauty like this dress.
I wished I’d been wearing something this stunning when I’d met the reporter from the Eagle.
“You need to head downstairs to orientation and assessment,” the maid said. “Be sure to hurry. They are waiting.”
“They?”
“The Fashion House Interview contestants line up so Madame Jolène can review the rules of the competition. It’s in the main lobby.” She grinned and shook her head, as if deeply amused.
I knew exactly what she was thinking. That I was the only poor contestant, the only one from outside the city, the only “primitive” girl here.
All in a line? There would be no hiding it.
Chapter Three
I LINGERED ON THE LAST stair, peeking into the lobby. The white marble floors were speckled with black, and the walls were covered in mirrored panels and eucalyptus-leaf print. I recognized the ornate coral-and-green Morris & Co. wallpaper from ads in the newspapers and the Family Friend magazine. The magistrate’s wife, who was the richest woman in Shy, decorated her home with an older Morris & Co. wallpaper.
Five girls with coiffed hair, artful gowns, and perfect posture stood in a line. They had it: fearless confidence in one’s own beauty. It exuded from them like a powerful perfume. Usually the Fashion House Interview had only five contestants. I was the odd one out, the one tacked on at the very last minute. I placed a hand over my chest. My heart pounded underneath the silk. With a deep breath, I slipped in to join the end of the line.
“Nervous?” the girl standing on my right chirped, tilting her head to the side to consider me. Her auburn hair pooled over her shoulder. “I’m Kitty. I heard Madame Jolène was taking on a girl from the country. Is it you?”
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to seem too desperate, but my words came out in a grateful rush. One of the contestants was talking to me, and from what I could tell, she seemed genuinely sweet. “My mother owns a pub there.”
Kitty gave a soft, lyrical laugh.
“That must have been fun. Lots of men, no?”
I didn’t bother to tell her our pub was a sleepy place where customers came more for my mother’s blackberry pie than anything else. Our patrons were men who ambled in after a long day of work, eager to get back to their families after a pint or two.
Just beyond Kitty, two girls whispered to each other, glancing at me. Even as my toes curled inside my shoes, I stared back at them to prove I wasn’t unnerved. The first girl was on the shorter side, with thick black hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips were full and her eyes were dark. A few freckles sprinkled her nose, barely discernible in the dramatic chandelier light.
“That’s Ky,” Kitty said softly, following my line of sight. “Her father is our ambassador to Japan. Her mother is from one of the provinces there.”
Ky’s clothes were exaggerated and theatrical. She wore a gown covered in floral cutouts and a cuttleworm brooch. The hem rose above her ankles, showing white heeled boots and striped stockings.
“Who is her friend?” I asked.
“Alice. Her father passed away, but her mother is a well-known socialite.”
Alice’s skin was the color of skimmed milk, and her blond hair fell in ringlets. Her dress was layers of lace, each tier accented with a small purple bow. While both of their gowns had the full Fashion House skirt (Madame Jolène was known for using voluminous silhouettes and thick, structured fabrics), the girls didn’t look anything like each other. Obviously, Madame Jolène had distinct visions for Ky and Alice.
The rest of the contestants also had clear styles. Kitty was all ladylike elegance in a navy-and-ivory dress, while another girl was outfitted in dramatic black. The last contestant at the end of the line was wearing . . . trousers? Yes. Wide-legged trousers topped with a fitted blazer. I ran my fingers over the satin of my own gown. Was this Madame Jolène’s style for me? Certainly, the dress was classic. But it was made from such basic shapes—straightforward bodice sewn onto a full A-line skirt. In my chambers, I’d thought it was lovely, but in comparison to the other girls’ outfits, it suddenly didn’t seem like much of a style at all.
“They are so stunning,” I said. I fidgeted in the pink dress, my hands antsy against its skirts. I wanted to change its color to a brilliant ochre silk with hints of red woven into the fibers. I wanted to transform its silhouette to an overly dramatic mermaid or drape my neck in too many jeweled necklaces. Anything to make it something.
“Yes,” Kitty agreed, unaware of my thoughts. “Madame Jolène knows how to dress for both a woman’s body and her type of beauty. She is, after all, the world’s fashion maven.”
Both Ky and Alice, I noticed, had gold amulets around their necks engraved with letters: K & G, A & F.
Gifts from suitors.
My skin prickled around my bare neck, and I resisted the urge to cover it with my hand. The reporter’s image flashed in my mind.
Seeming to sense my uncertainty, Kitty touched my arm. A large stack of diamond bracelets encircled her wrist. They seemed cumbersome, but she wore them naturally, as though they were as much a part of her as her hair or eye color.
“Ladies, good afternoon!” The commanding voice of our employer and benefactress, Madame Jolène, rang out. The contestants immediately straightened into a perfect line as she glided into the room.
“Good afternoon,” a few girls chorused back. I didn’t say anything. This was only the second time I’d ever seen Madame Jolène.
She was wearing a sage evening gown styled in obvious reference to the Grecian goddesses. It had a long train that she draped casually over one arm like a wrap. A thick strand of black pearls wrapped around her hips and her hair was pinned with a peach brooch. The gown’s drama and fluidity contrasted with the round spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose.
The society pages had recently featured several illustrations of Madame Jolène’s glasses. The lenses were impossibly thin and set in intricate frames. Blue and red stones fanned out around the rims, cut to replicate the wings of a butterfly. When Madame Jolène had first started wearing them, everyone copied her, impaired vision or not. Ladies were said to be seen tripping up and down the streets of Avon-upon-Kynt, wearing glasses they didn’t need. I’d read about how an oculist had started producing frames with just glass in them, as opposed to magnifying lenses.
Of course, Madame Jolène’s eyeglasses had always been glass. She had kept that bit of information to herself. It was actually the Eagle that had broken the “news” by publishing an editorial calling Madame Jolène’s eyewear “pointless.”
Not only did Madame Jolène continue wearing the “pointless” eyewear, but she created even more elaborate designs. She was quoted as saying, “Beauty is never pointless.” I loved the idea: beauty, pure and unadulterated, made just for the sake of itself. When I told my mother about the oculist and the eyeglasses, she had laughed loudly, cutting me off before I could finish the story.
“It would serve them right to go blind, Madame Jolène most of all,” she’d said.
“I trust you are all well rested from your travels and ready for the Fashion House Interview to begin,” Madame Jolène said as she moved down our ranks, peering at us through those useless, glimmering eyeglasses. “Some of you have been here for over a week, waiting for the remaining contestant positions to be filled. Your time here has been leisurely, but that will soon change. I will demand much from you, because our clientele demands much from us. Our house dresses the highest-ranking aristocrats and royals in Europe. What we dress them in, people the world over will copy. Francesco, brief them on how the Fashion House Interview will run.”
By this time, she had made one trip down our line. She abruptly stopped, one hand resting on her hip, the other intentionally, casually, touching her spectacles. Madame Jolène was posing for us, for me. And she took my breath away.
“Welcome, ladies.” Francesco sashayed forward. He had changed since that morning. Instead of the purple tunic, leather pants, and fur coat, he was now wearing a crisp white jacket with matching white pants. The pants hems were cuffed, showcasing red shoes with huge black ribbons.
“All of you, of course, know me by now,” he said. “I am the Fashion House’s creative director. I make sure everything runs smoothly. However, I also design when I can, and Madame Jolène most graciously lets me create a line of handbags to go with the Fashion House’s collections. Last year, Princess Amelia exclusively used my handbags at her events.”
I wasn’t sure how Francesco wanted us to react. He seemed tremendously proud, so I nodded and smiled. It wasn’t hard. I was impressed. But it
was more because of Francesco himself than his line of purses.
“Anyway, enough about me.” He laughed with feigned modesty. “You should be getting to know each other. You can learn much from each other’s strengths. And even more”—he lowered his voice melodramatically—“from each other’s weaknesses. It is a competition, after all.” He clasped his hands together, as though anticipating the drama to come. I swallowed hard. “Let’s introduce everyone.”
He ran through the name of each girl, starting with Kitty. I already knew Alice’s and Ky’s names, but I learned that the menswear girl was Cordelia, and the last girl, the one all in black, was Sophie.
“Now,” Francesco drew out the word. “About the Fashion House Interview.” At the mention of the competition, the girls quieted, their eyes sharpening. “There will be six challenges designed to determine your creativity, technical skills, and ability to manage clients. You won’t know what the challenge is until it is announced. The results will be judged by Madame Jolène, myself, and the rest of the design board. There will be one winner for each challenge. To help you understand your performance in the competition, you will also receive a rank. As everyone knows, once this season concludes, one or two of you will be invited to join the Fashion House as design apprentices.”
The girls broke into smiles as he mentioned the apprenticeships, and some of them glanced up and down our line, sizing each other up. Everyone’s gaze seemed to pass right over me, but I didn’t care. Resolve formed deep inside me. I would get one of those positions. Hadn’t I managed to get this far, after all? I would work harder than everyone else, hone my design skills, and get the apprenticeship.
“When you aren’t participating in the challenges, you will assist in the daily operations of the Fashion House,” Francesco continued. “You will meet with titled women and show them the designs from the current collections. In addition to the gowns, you will have access to the private jewelry vaults for accessorizing during the fittings. If a customer selects a gown, you will measure her and tailor the pattern for her. Our sewing staff will create the piece. Most contestants seem to think this work is below them, but it is an important part of learning to work with clients and gaining intimate knowledge of the Fashion House designs. Any questions?”
A Dress for the Wicked Page 4