by Emma Jameson
Juliet blinked at her. “You know I do.”
“Then allow me to reveal what I’ve been up to. And do try to keep an open mind.”
* * *
Monsieur Baptiste arrived the next day with his retinue: one apprentice, two assistants, and three chests that looked like props from a magician’s act. The slender Frenchman was of indeterminate age, with dyed black hair, powdered cheeks, and a drawn-in beauty mark at the corner of his mouth. His heeled shoes, mint green, recalled an age when French aristocrats had worn long curled wigs and twice the lace of their female counterparts. In his sumptuous studio, these qualities seemed precisely right. In Belsham Manor, in midmorning’s full light, he looked like an elf who’d gotten lost on the way to the fairy pool.
“The train was no good. A journey of horror,” he said by way of introduction. Victoria glanced at Juliet for reaction. English was Monsieur Baptiste’s second or third language, but he’d mastered the dialect her daughter spoke: hyperbole.
“Horror? I’m sorry to hear that,” Juliet said. “I usually find the train from Plymouth quite relaxing. I’m Juliet Linton, by the way. Linton-Bolivar, as it were.”
“You think I don’t know who you are? Your soul has cried out to me over many miles,” Monsieur Baptiste replied so smoothly, Victoria suspected he said it to every new client. “Nothing wounds me more than to see a stupendous woman dressed in sackcloth and ashes. Except a train that does not serve the vintage I desire. And has the nerve to offer me coffee instead with the excuse it is breakfast time.”
“Stupendous? Well. I appreciate that,” Juliet said, sounding as if she might fling a vase at his head. “But I assure you, my clothes are practical, comfortable, and the furthest thing from sackcloth and ashes.”
“So you say.” Monsieur Baptiste lifted one shoulder, the quintessential French expression of indifference. “Is there someone who can direct my staff to Mademoiselle’s boudoir? They must unpack the trunks before we begin.”
“Dinah.” Victoria signaled the girl, who looked slightly more interested than usual. Victoria, who had caught her messing about with one of her frocks, had asked the maid if she was drawn to fashion, but Dinah had been too mortified to say.
“Yes, milady.” She started upstairs. Monsieur Baptiste’s retinue took up their chests and followed.
“It will take them some time. You will offer me a drop of red, I pray?” the fashion designer asked Victoria. “It needn’t be French. Italian will suffice.”
She suspected his affectations were entirely calculated, but with artistic types it was impossible to be sure. During her previous consultations with Monsieur Baptiste, he’d sipped wine throughout their exploration of sketches, fabric swatches, and the direction wartime fashion was likely to take. Why should the fitting process be any different?
They retired to the parlor to open a bottle of Bordeaux. Unsurprisingly, the uncorking was followed by the appearance of Ethan, who had been warned to make himself scarce.
“Why, isn’t this festive,” he declared.
“Get out,” Juliet said.
“Ju, dear. You know I have a knack for these things.”
Monsieur Baptiste, who’d been swirling the wine in his glass, turned in his chair. “A knack? Is that what you said, sir?”
Ethan nodded immodestly.
“This may be,” the designer said in a tone of deep skepticism. “But whatever gifts you may possess, they are nothing to the especial genius of Monsieur Baptiste. Begone.”
It took all of Victoria’s self-control not to burst out laughing as Ethan was forced to retreat, denied both Bordeaux and a chance to play style connoisseur.
Monsieur Baptiste tasted the wine. Permitting himself a small shudder of discontent, he turned to address Juliet. “Mon chéri. A woman of your magnificence is like an elephant. Perhaps a rhinoceros. You have seen this marvelous beast? A rhinoceros does not obey commands, even from one such as Monsieur Baptiste. It will trample the poor man before he can finish this sour swill.”
Victoria, who had spent twenty-odd years watching her daughter’s verbal eccentricities confound other people, did her best to commit Juliet’s expression to memory. She might never see such perplexity on her face again.
“I’m… a rhinoceros?” Juliet repeated.
“Yes, of course. If I try to order you about, you will crush me,” Monsieur Baptiste said, taking another sip. “So I will not say ‘Juliet, do this’ or ‘Juliet, do that.’ I know you distrust fashion. How could you not? None of it was conceived with you in mind. Until today.” He smiled. “So instead of killing this poor man choking on his wine, will you allow me to prove myself? I have but one mission in life. The draping of stupendous women.”
Juliet shot Victoria a glance. For a moment, she feared all was lost.
Then her daughter took a deep breath and said, “Very well. But if you make me look foolish, I won’t wear a stitch of it.”
“But of course.” Rising, Monsieur Baptiste picked up not only his glass, but the bottle of Bordeaux. “Today I am Father Christmas. Let us go upstairs and see what gifts my tiny reindeer have brought.”
* * *
As a mother, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Victoria to shoehorn Juliet into a gown, zip the zippers, button the buttons, and parade her before Monsieur Baptiste for inspection. As a tactician with a long-term goal, however, she knew the perils of taking the easiest route. Therefore, when the fitting began, she took a seat, accepted a cup of tea from Bertha, and allowed events to unfold with pretended neutrality.
“I dislike changing screens,” Monsieur Baptiste declared the moment they entered Juliet’s bedroom. “Take that away and bring me a mirror. Full-length.”
“Where will I change,” Juliet asked in a strangled voice, “without a changing screen?”
“The next room over. The moon. I don’t care,” the designer said, refilling his wine glass. “My apprentice will give you a frock to try. That one”—he pointed at Dinah—“will help you into it. The rhinoceros must have a monkey or the fine fabrics will tear.”
“I’ve embraced my new identity as a rhinoceros,” Juliet said. “But I really must draw the line at referring to Dinah or anyone else as a monkey. In English, the parallel is insulting.”
“Is insulting in French, too.” Monsieur Baptiste issued another one-shoulder shrug.
“I don’t mind,” Dinah said in a loud voice. “I’m happy to help.”
Monsieur Baptiste and his retinue looked startled. So did Juliet. Victoria, who’d prearranged Dinah’s selection and declaration of assent, sipped her tea. High time the girl did something besides dust poorly, serve awkwardly, and brood about the son she’d put up for adoption.
The first dress, a scarlet gown made of silk, was an ambitious choice, but Juliet, being afraid of women’s clothing, mistook its simplicity for ease of wear. She and Dinah disappeared into the adjacent room for so long, Victoria began to fear one or both had gone out a window. Then Dinah opened the door, and Juliet slunk in.
“I bloody well know how I look. Ridiculous,” she spat. Her cheeks were almost as red as the dress. “My hair’s wrong. It’s always wrong. And I haven’t any stockings or shoes.”
Monsieur Baptiste clapped his hands. An assistant hurried forth bearing a shoe box. Juliet scowled.
“Whatever glass slipper you have in there, I’m sure I couldn’t cram a toe in.”
“Glass slipper. Hah! Do you think I don’t know a stupendous foot requires a stupendous shoe?” Monsieur Baptiste retorted, leaving out the fact Victoria had told him the correct size. “Put on the shoes, stand before the mirror, and we shall see.”
Juliet did as she was bid. Then Monsieur Baptiste took over, pinning, tutting, and spot-checking her limbs with measuring tape.
“Now it needs only a few minor adjustments, which will take me less than a week. Well. It will take them less than a week,” he corrected, nodding at his retinue. “How fortunate you have no breasts. The fabric hang
s just so.”
Victoria was tempted to issue a rebuttal. Her daughter certainly did have breasts, they were simply the teacup sort, or a bit less. But why argue when the Frenchman’s view of the big picture was correct? In the scarlet gown, she cut a flawless silhouette.
“But my hair,” Juliet wailed. “And I thought the dress would look prettier.”
“Darling, don’t fret about your hair,” Victoria said, joining her daughter in front of the mirror. “I’ll discuss the possibilities with you after the fitting. As for the dress, it isn’t meant to be pretty. A dress with a fancy pattern or elaborate frills would wear you. Every time you entered a room, people would see the dress first and you second. But in this dress—look.”
Heaving a sigh, Juliet glared at herself in the full-length mirror.
“I see a graceful neck. A trim torso. Not an iota of surplus flesh to spoil the line,” Victoria said. “Strong arms. Long legs. In other words, I see you first and the dress second. Which is the entire point.”
After that, the fitting began to flow like water. Many of Monsieur Baptiste’s offerings were rejected. Many more were accepted and pinned up for final alterations. Throughout the process, the designer kept up a running commentary, enlivened by a second bottle of the Bordeaux he so disliked.
“The secret is in the details. Folds and gathers,” he said. “Ruched waists and cascading ruffles. A matching wrap for that one, yes?”
“Yes,” Juliet and Dinah said in unison.
“And maybe a brooch,” Dinah added. Instantly she looked worried that she might have overstepped herself, so Victoria smiled reassuringly.
Definitely an interest in fashion, she thought.
“The crisscross is evergreen,” Monsieur Baptiste declared as Juliet modeled the final dress. “Ration or no ration, it will always be in style. And see how it wraps? A tree trunk would have a waist in this dress. More shoes!” He clapped his hands again.
“I explained that you’re far too busy to tolerate uncomfortable shoes,” Victoria told Juliet as the assistants brought forth more offerings. “People call those bar shoes, but I prefer the American term: Mary Janes. And no, they’re not the usual choice with a frock these days. But every woman must cultivate an individual style. It’s no use buying perfect shoes you’ll never wear. Imperfect flats, worn with élan, are a far better choice.”
After the dresses came skirts, blouses, and variations on a certain sartorial item that made Juliet squeal.
“Trousers! I hardly dared hope.”
“Wide-leg,” Monsieur Baptiste said proudly, as if he’d invented the style. “Do you know this shameless woman? Katharine Hepburn? In my trousers, you will be even more shameless.”
“I should hope so,” Juliet said, hurrying out of the room with Dinah to try them on. She returned in less than five minutes wearing her favorite pair. “Look, Mother. They fit like a dream. But I still have grave reservations about my hair.”
“This is why God invented hats,” Monsieur Baptiste said. Two bottles of wine had affected him the way two cups of water affected Victoria, which was to say, not at all, apart from a sudden need for the W.C.
“My body rejects the poison. Now I must inspect your facilities. Let us hope they are not too English. You will direct me,” he told Bertha. To an assistant, he said, “The cloches. Why aren’t you presenting them? Did I not say ‘hat?’”
“Mother,” Juliet said, frowning as the assistant came toward her with a plain, camel-colored felt hat. “Even I know those are out of style. You wouldn’t be caught dead in one. It looks like a bucket.”
“Sit down, darling. Dinah,” Victoria said, “please brush out my daughter’s hair and show her how a cloche is to be worn.”
Style had indeed left the humble cloche behind. Currently, the trend was a homburg, shako, or some derivation of the sailor. Most had ribbons or feathers or lace net, and all were meant to be pinned askew. Victoria had faith in many things, but she believed Juliet would be willing to go to such a daily effort as much as she believed in the Tooth Fairy.
Dinah did as much with Juliet’s limp brown hair as a brush could do. Then she placed the cloche on her head, stepped back, examined Juliet critically, and said, “No.”
“What?”
“It’s too small. And it doesn’t suit the shape of her ladyship’s face,” Dinah said. She gave Victoria a furtive look. “If I’m not speaking out of turn, milady.”
“Not at all.” Victoria tried to hide her astonishment, lest Dinah mistake it for censure. “By all means, try the others.”
“It won’t work,” Juliet said. “I’m cursed when it comes to hats.”
“Tosh. Be quiet. This is all to your benefit,” Victoria said.
Visibly emboldened, Dinah picked through the hats, tried a few on her subject, and settled on one with minimal trimming. “French blue,” she said, stepping back to admire her choice.
“Is it meant to be pulled down so far?” Juliet reached for the brim.
“Don’t touch that. Look in the mirror first,” Victoria said.
“Good heavens. That isn’t too terrible.” Juliet smiled at herself. “It does cover a multitude of sins. Even on my most windswept days, I could pop this on and conceal the worst. But isn’t it hopelessly old-fashioned?”
“My darling, you’ve worn whatever you pleased since you were old enough to choose your own clothes,” Victoria said. “If you turned into a slave to fashion now, it would break my heart. And as I said—every woman must cultivate her own individual style.”
At the end of the fitting, Monsieur Baptiste looked on happily as his retinue packed things up. “Especial genius,” he declared and grinned, apparently finding his own praise the highest possible compliment. “Give me five days to complete the work. Five days, mon chéri, and the world will appreciate your magnificence as I do.”
“Mother, this isn’t a change of wardrobe, it’s a trousseau,” Juliet told Victoria after the designer and his staff had gone. “You must have paid a fortune for Monsieur Baptiste’s expertise. Not to mention the fabric. And at Christmastime, too. How on earth did you manage it?”
“I didn’t start after this business with Ethan. I began after the fête,” Victoria said, referring to a day she knew Juliet would’ve preferred to forget. “Ordinarily I would have been content to let you manage your own wardrobe. But the ration will begin soon, and when it does, we won’t be permitted to place large orders or buy out the shops. Having the means to pay won’t matter. It’ll be down to a voucher or a lottery. If I was going to buy in quantity, it was either now or wait out the war.” Uncertain how to interpret her daughter’s expression, she continued, “I know that rubbish about the silk purse and the sow’s ear wounded you. And when I promised never to force my fashion choices on you, I meant it, truly. But times have changed, and I broke my word. Do you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” Juliet threw herself into Victoria’s arms. “I’ve never been more grateful to you in the whole of my life.”
No mother heard a statement like that as often as she deserved, so rather than move on to a discussion of hair and makeup, Victoria basked in the moment. It would all come together eventually. Or it wouldn’t, depending on whether or not her daughter was willing to learn such feminine arts. Maybe Dinah could help with that. There was still such a thing as a lady’s maid, though the position was vanishing fast.
And who can say? Victoria thought. Perhaps curls and hairpins and rouge are unnecessary. Perhaps a certain young man who couldn’t stop saying “Jolly good” has already begun seeing Ju in a new light.
The Furniture Scheme
12 December 1939
“Done and dusted!” Gaston announced when Ben, napkin in hand, opened his front door. The special constable pushed past him as if invited, striding into the kitchen where his sister had just sat down to breakfast. “Helen’s out of the hoosegow!”
“The what?” Ben said.
“Hoosegow, my boy,” Gaston said, grinning. “
One of Dirk Diamond’s words. The poky. The clink. Splendid American terms for jail.”
Ben thought perhaps “the clink” originated closer to home, but that was hardly the point. “Great news. Do you mean to say Plymouth CID now accepts her confession as false?”
“Naturally.” Gaston put on his “knowing” look, again bringing to mind a discombobulated fish. “They’ve arrested the true villain, after all.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Cobblepot leapt up. For a large woman, she was remarkably nimble, especially when energized by gossip. “Sit yourself down, Clarence. Would you like biscuits with your tea?”
“I would indeed.” Seating himself at the kitchen table, he told Ben magnanimously, “Allow me to put you in the picture.”
Ben returned to his place. It was no use asking Gaston to skip to the point. For him, the point was unspooling the events at a leisurely pace and bringing his listeners to the brink of anticipation or exasperation—either appeared to suit him equally well.
“From the beginning, I knew something unwholesome was afoot in Fitchley Park….”
Ben, who’d been buttering his toast, went back to it. If they were retracing their investigative steps to the day of the murder, and all the nonexistent forebodings and inklings Gaston would now pretend he’d had, it might be lunchtime before the guilty party was revealed. Mrs. Cobblepot, also inured to her brother’s narrative style, went about pouring tea. By the time she was back in her chair, he was coming round to the point at last.
“… an aura of conspiracy, as I believe I told Dr. Bones,” Gaston said. “Who else could compel the staff to assist in covering up a murder than the butler?”
“Mr. Collins?” To Ben, it sounded reasonable enough. “I knew he had a hand in matters. But I stopped thinking of him as a prime suspect after someone accounted for his whereabouts during the murder. I suppose she was lying,” he said, recalling Kitty had started their interview by deducting five years from her age. “Her credibility did leave something wanting. Why did Collins do it?”