Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  Saturday

  September 11

  8:10 A.M.

  East terrace

  So much for my plan. I didn’t get to put it into effect yesterday morning because of my hair. If I thought it would help, I’d cut the blasted stuff off!

  My great plan, my fabulous plan, my clever plan hinged on getting Max and me up early and out to the stables, but my hair ruined it all.

  When you have waist-length hair and a bed partner who gets turned on when it slides across his panting, heaving body, you tend to wake up with it all over—in your eyes, glued to the side of your mouth, and usually a good quantity of it lying underneath some part of the aforementioned bed partner.

  Max loved my hair, which was the only reason I didn’t braid it for the night as I usually did. He liked my hair draping around us when I rode him, he liked it sliding along his belly when I kissed him all over, he liked grabbing fistfuls of it when he pounded hard and fast into me. I liked it all, all except for trying to pull my hair out from underneath him when he was sleeping.

  Yesterday morning he had most of it under him, and when I tried ever so carefully to pull it out without him noticing, he woke up and immediately got that you’re touching me with your hair look in his eyes, the same look that I knew presaged absolute ecstasy for me, but for once I didn’t want ecstasy.

  I wanted Max on the back of a horse.

  Unfortunately, my mind and my body had different priorities, so when Max rolled over onto me, murmuring sweet, erotic words into my hair as he nuzzled my neck, my body stayed where it was and enjoyed itself to the fullest, telling my mind it could enact the plan another day.

  It’ll have to wait until Monday, unfortunately. Tonight we’re having a dinner party, a real dinner party, the kind where people come and mingle and have drinkies, and then sit down to an elegant eight-course dinner, all while pretending to be Victorians. The servants have been gearing up for the party for two days.

  “Just who are all these people who are coming to dinner?” I asked Roger late last night.

  “Friends of Barbara’s, friends of mine, and some members of Ellis’ historical reenactment society.”

  “Oh, lovely, a bunch of snobs, wacky television types, and experts who’ll pick apart everything I do. That ought to be fun.”

  “It will be, don’t worry,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, just fine. Think of it as a rehearsal for the other events.”

  The other events, in case you don’t have the Victorian Duke calendar handy, include a garden party the middle of next week (during which family members are allowed to visit the servants), a shooting party for Max a couple of days after that, the servants’ ball the week following, and the piece de resistance, the masquerade ball on the last day of the month.

  A word about tennis: Never try to play it if you a) don’t know how to play, and b) have to pretend you do while wearing a ridiculous Victorian tennis costume.

  “This is silly, Ellis,” I said as she buttoned me into the cream merino bodice. It had long sleeves (just what I wanted in warm weather when running around a tennis court) with some lovely embroidery, a matching skirt with deep kilting over which fitted an old gold silk tunic with short, wide sleeves, looped back above my knees. “There’s no way on God’s green earth I’m going to be able to play tennis in this. For one, I can’t draw enough breath to actually breathe, and you know, breathing is an integral part of playing any sport, and for another, the only part of me that can move freely is below my knees. Doesn’t leave me much scope for a successful round of tennis, now does it?”

  “It is an authentic tennis costume from Messrs. Jay, dated 1879. I provided the wardrobe personnel with the details on the costume myself.” She plopped a large straw coal-scuttle-type hat down on my head. “I think it’s very fetching. You will mind the syllabub?”

  I looked down at the expanse of delicate white-and-gold fabric and gave a mental shudder. “Yes, absolutely, I’ll be very careful not to spill anything on this. Ellis, do I really have to wear this—”

  “Yes. And my name is Crighton.”

  I sighed heavily. I knew that look she was giving me. It was the it’s all for the good of the project look.

  In the end, the tennis was enjoyable. Max partnered me against Barbara and Henry, with predictably disastrous results. I only fell three times, all of which were caught on camera (such is my luck), after which I announced my retirement and designated Melody as my replacement. She brightened up quite a bit with Max as her partner, even giggling at one point when Max’s lob knocked Barbara’s hat off.

  Drat, it’s almost time for the morning prayers. I still don’t know what to say at them. Ellis told me I was supposed to add something for the good of the servants, something motivating. Yesterday I quoted Buddha (“Do not dwell in the past, do not dwell in the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”); today I’m going for Confucius (“Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall.”).

  Thank heavens for that book of quotations in the library.

  Sunday

  September 12

  2:43 P.M.

  Willow tree next to the pond, with Max the scrumdillyumptious (who is currently dozing)

  Well, we survived the dinner party . . . barely. I can’t help asking myself, Is this project doomed? Cursed? Is Worston built on top of some sacred Druidic burial ground? Because there’s not a lot else that can explain why everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Maybe it’s me. Maybe Mrs. Peters is right and the ghosts are objecting to having an American playing a duchess. Maybe it’s sunspots. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to find out.

  The evening started out on a note of disaster and just kind of went downhill after that. The first problem was the dress Ellis stuffed me into.

  “No,” I said when she brought it out of the wardrobe. I stood in fancy lace combinations, shaking my head just in case she didn’t understand the word no.

  “Yes. It is the evening gown created for this dinner party. You will wear it.”

  “Nope, not me. It’s awful. It looks like something out of a tart’s boudoir. A tart with extremely bad taste.”

  “Nonetheless, you will wear it.”

  “It’s hideous!”

  “A great deal of money was spent on making this dress for you,” she said, her nose pinched in that way she had. “You will wear and will look quite lovely in it.”

  I clutched the corset to me and glared at her. “I will not; I’ll look like some horrible pink-and-white bonbon box.”

  She took the corset and wrapped it around me. I quickly adjusted my boobs so she wouldn’t crush them as she tightened the torture device. “The dress is directly from the pages of Le Journal des Demoiselles. The Journal was the very height of fashion in the Victorian era. I can assure you that the garment will not make you look like a bonbon box.”

  I sucked in my breath as she pulled the laces tight. “I’m the duchess here, and I get to say what I wear.”

  “No, you do not.”

  “Ellis—”

  “You will wear the dresses the production company has created for specific events. On other days, days in which you have no social events, you may choose what you wish to wear.”

  “But—”

  She slipped the corset cover on, adjusted it, then got the frilly pink-and-white horror and started toward me. I made a last ditch effort to save myself from looking like something that would have given Marie Antoinette nightmares. “It’s white,” I said, ignoring the distinct whining tone to my voice. “You know how I am with white clothes! I spill things!”

  “You will not spill, and you will wear it. Arms up.”

  “I’ll pay you,” I said, unable to resist the look in her eyes. I held up my arms so she could slide it over my head. “I’ll pay you a lot. I have a credit card. I can pull some money off it and we’ll just forget about this particular dress.”

  “A proper duchess does not bribe he
r lady’s maid.”

  “But I’m not really a duchess!” I yelled in frustration, obediently turning when she gestured for me to.

  “You’re more of a duchess than many ladies were,” she said, her voice muffled as she bent down to fasten some extra froufrou to the back.

  I half turned to look at her, my mouth agape in surprise. She grabbed my hips and turned me around so my back was to her as she fussed with the train.

  “You’re not playing fair, Ellis. That was a compliment. That makes two in one week. What do you mean I’m more of a duchess than other ladies?”

  She squatted and reached for her pincushion, doing a spot of repair work on a bow that had broken free at the bottom of the dress. “You care about people. Most duchesses were oblivious to their servants and family, sometimes even their children. They thought of nothing but themselves and what was owed them.” She looked up. “You’re not like that. You care.”

  I blinked back a few tears, touched by her kind words.

  “Mind, I could do with a bit less sniveling and arguing on your part. You certainly could be more serious about this project. And then there’s the way you throw your food around when you eat—”

  Now, that was the Ellis I knew. I sniffed back a few more tears and stood patiently while she arranged the dress to her satisfaction.

  It really was an abomination. Ellis told me it was what was called a princesse dress, which just meant fussy bonbon box, as far as I was concerned. It was made up of pink faille and white mousseline, the body of the dress being pink with a long train in the back, and an overdress of the white mousseline. There was Valenciennes reproduction lace down the center front, flanked on either side with pink embroidery. A big pink bow adorned the front of my chest and either elbow, below which more lace spilled out (the lacy sleeves were the only thing I approved of). But it was the body of the dress that was so appalling. Starting at my left hip and spiraling down the dress until it formed part of the train was a huge ten-inch gathered ruffle topped with lace, dotted every foot or so with a pink bow, with one really massive bow in the rear at calf height, right above the train. At the bottom of the dress, peeking out from under the train, was pleated pink faille. It was awful, completely awful, but by the time Ellis finished with my hair (pink roses crowning a blob of curls on top, long curled strands hanging down my back—I looked like Mary Pickford after having been dipped in a wedding cake), I had no time left to get on my knees and plead for anything else to wear.

  As I tottered from my room, trying not to trip over the train, Melody jumped out at me from the morning room. She eyed me from foot to head, curling her lip derisively. “That’s ugly.”

  “Yeah, it is, isn’t it? Can you imagine thinking this was pretty? How are you feeling? Everything OK in the painting department?”

  “Yes.” She transferred her perpetual glare to my waist.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” She looked uncomfortable and unhappy, and for a moment my heart went out to her. She must be bored to death all by herself in the nursery. “Hey, I have a thought. Would you like to come down to dinner with us tonight?”

  “Tonight?” She looked up, interest clearly sparking her blue eyes that were so much like her father’s. “At the party?”

  “Well, maybe not for the later part, but for the dinner, yes. You do know how to eat with a bunch of forks and stuff, right?”

  She made an annoyed tch. “Mam’selle says I had to learn that, but it’s stupid because no one eats like that anymore.”

  “Yeah, I know what it’s like to be under the thumb of a martinet.”

  Her brows pulled together. “What’s a martinet?”

  “Someone who tells you what to do all the time. There’s still a half hour before people are supposed to arrive. Why don’t you run upstairs and tell Mademoiselle that I said both of you could come down to dinner.”

  “All right.” She didn’t go running off like I expected her to. I raised an eyebrow in silent question. “My arm feels better. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “Ah. Good. I figured it wasn’t bothering you too much by the way you played tennis yesterday.”

  Her face lit up for a minute, then she scowled again and looked anywhere but at me. “I want to learn how to ride. Properly, I mean. So I won’t fall off again.”

  I pursed my lips and pushed her into the morning room, closing the door behind me. “Oy. See, the problem is your father has a thing against horses.”

  She nodded. “Because of Uncle Trevor.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You knew him?”

  She rolled her eyes and plumped down in a chair, her arms and legs akimbo in that boneless way girls have. “Of course I knew him; he was Dad’s best friend. Uncle Trevor died two years ago. A horse killed him.”

  It was only two years ago? I thought it had been much longer from the way Max had been talking. No wonder he was so manic about the subject.

  “Right, well, because of that, your father doesn’t think it’s safe for you to go riding.”

  “You think it’s safe. You said it was. You said you used to ride when you were younger than me.”

  “Er . . . yes, that’s true, but—”

  She sat up straight, her scowl miraculously melting away. “Then you’ll teach me how to ride?”

  Oh, man, talk about a rock and a hard place! “Melody, I can’t promise that.”

  She jumped up, her face once again stormy, but before she could run out I grabbed her arm. “Look, I’ll talk to your dad about it, OK? I have a plan, a plan that I hope will make him change his mind, but you have to let me do it my own way. Until I can get his permission to teach you, you’ll just have to be patient.”

  “I’m tired of being patient! I’m tired of living here! You’re just like everyone else,” she snarled, jerking her arm out of my hands and running to the door. “You say you’ll do something, but then you won’t. You say it’s for my own good, but it’s not. It’s stupid. I’m not a baby! I can do whatever I want!”

  The door slammed behind her.

  “One step forward, two steps back,” I muttered, and headed downstairs to inform Palmer and Cook that two more people were added to the dinner roster. Possibly. Maybe Melody would change her mind.

  “You’ve what?” Mrs. Billings bellowed when I slipped into the Pug’s Parlor to tell her.

  “It’s just two more—that shouldn’t be a problem, and possibly they won’t come, although I’m willing to bet they will, so you should count on two more. The menu I picked has enough food to feed an army—”

  “Argh!” Cook screamed, and threw down her napkin as she jumped up from the chair.

  “What?” I cried, confused.

  “The shrimp! There is just enough for twelve people, and now you want me to have shrimp for fourteen? Argh!”

  “I don’t like shrimp, you can use mine—” I said.

  “Girls! You’ll have to eat later, we have a crisis of major proportion on our hands,” she called as she bustled into the servants’ hall.

  “No, wait,” I said, desperate now. “Sit down, everyone, and finish your dinners. I’m sorry, Cook, I didn’t mean to cause any problems, I just thought it would be a nice change for Melody—”

  She didn’t listen to me.

  “Raven, I’ll need you to help me. Fetch the clams I was saving for tomorrow. I can stretch those out farther than I can the shrimp.”

  “Cooking isn’t in my job description,” Raven yelled as Mrs. Billings raced by her.

  Palmer, the white head bandage inexplicably replaced by a black eye patch (he had conjunctivitis, I found out later) limped by me in the doorway to the servants’ hall, sighing heavily, his long face filled with morose satisfaction. “Come along, boys, our toil is not yet at an end. Her Grace wishes us to work, and work we shall. Neither lack of food nor near fatal head injuries shall keep us from attending to our duties. Teddy, we’ll need two additional places set on the table. You’ll have to readjust the spacing on all the settings. Bret,
you’ll need to polish more silver. Michael, go and fetch the extra dining chairs from the attic.”

  “No, no, no,” I pleaded, following Palmer out into the steamy kitchen. “Please, sit down, all of you, and have your dinner. Oh, god, I’m so sorry I did this. Teddy, sit! Eat! Palmer, please go back and finish your dinner. Raven, put the clams down, and finish your dinner. Cook—”

  It was instant chaos, with everyone talking at once, Cook yelling and giving instructions, Palmer alternately giving the footmen orders and taking his pulse while murmuring his doubts concerning the strength of his heart, and the maids running around trying to do half a dozen things at once. No one paid the least bit of attention to me, no one but Alice, who patted me on the arm and gently pushed me toward the stairs. “Don’t worry, it’ll all sort out.”

  “But I feel so bad—everyone is missing their dinner—”

  “It won’t hurt any of us,” she said, a smile on her lips. “Go on, you have entertaining to do.”

  “Alice, I’m really sorry—”

  “I know. Off with you, now.”

  “But—”

  She didn’t hear me; she had turned around and bustled off to help Cook.

  I told myself off all the way up the stairs, swearing I was going to make it up to everyone. I pushed open the green baize door (which was white on the servants’ side— I have no idea what the significance of that is) and had just gone through it when my train got caught in the door. I gave it a yank, but instead of the door swinging open, the train tore off with a reverberating riiiiiiiiiiip!

  I stared in horror at the bit of ruffle and lace and that god-awful big pink bow wadded up in the doorframe, and I knew fear. “Oh, crap! Ellis is going to kill me! Quick like a bunny, Tessa, think! Think!”

  My mind gave a terrified little whimper and closed up shop for the night. I grabbed the train and started off to my bedroom, praying that Ellis had left her tiny sewing kit on the dressing table.

  Eighteen minutes later I descended the stairs carefully, my tacked-on train whispering along the floor behind me.