by Susan Wiggs
She glanced guiltily up and down the length of the busy street, lined with shops, cafés, reading rooms and taverns. “If anyone sees us going together to a dressmaker’s, they’ll assume we’re having an affair.”
“Which will only make you all the more fascinating in everyone’s eyes.” With insolent familiarity, he steered her toward the brass-trimmed door. Each time he touched her, inadvertently or not, a reaction sparked. She quickly squelched it by reminding herself he was an opportunistic, manipulative womanizer.
He escorted her into the studio of the famous modiste. Abigail had no idea how he’d managed to get an appointment. Helena had said that Madame Broussard had a lengthy waiting list of clients. Not that Abigail would have added her name to that list, but nearly every other lady in town was on it.
Rather than a shop, the Salon Broussard resembled a beautiful drawing room decorated with subdued elegance, with gilt furnishings, fringed drapes, new electrical lighting and stately old oil portraits of European aristocrats lining the walls. There was not a single garment or bolt of fabric in sight.
A maid welcomed them in French and Abigail was startled to hear Jamie Calhoun reply in kind. Despite his great height and almost overpowering masculinity, he didn’t look out of place against the backdrop of pink wallpaper and lace curtains. He was a man who knew how to be comfortable in any surroundings, Abigail realized with a twinge of envy.
Madame Broussard arrived a few moments later, entering through an archway from a chamber behind the salon. She glided into the room as smoothly as a train on a track. Everything about her was elegant, and she appeared to be of an elegant age—perhaps fifty. She had the clean, simple grace of a classic sculpture—smooth skin with the milky quality of alabaster, dark hair pulled sleekly back from her face, a perfectly unadorned black gown that managed with its simplicity to remind Abigail of a modern painting in an art gallery.
With one glance at Jamie Calhoun, Madame Broussard came to animated life. She swept forward, bursting with rapid French phrases and smiles, and embraced Mr. Calhoun, kissing him on both cheeks, talking the whole time. Abigail watched the way the older woman touched him, holding his hands perhaps a beat too long. Going up on tiptoe, she leaned forward to kiss his mouth, and held herself there another beat while she shut her eyes and inhaled. Abigail caught herself inhaling, too, and was startled by a sudden pulse of heat like the one she had felt when she’d come across him in the White House garden. Perhaps this was why Jamie Calhoun didn’t need an appointment.
Catching herself, she cleared her throat. Mr. Calhoun and the dressmaker broke apart. He introduced them, addressing Madame in French and Abigail in English, shifting back and forth between languages with effortless fluency.
Madame launched into a long recitation, all the while circling Abigail, looking her up and down with a keen, assessing eye.
“How do you do, Madame Broussard?” Abigail said, feeling nervous.
“Enchantée.” The woman reached out and pinched Abigail’s upper arm. Pinched it as though she were a cow at the stockyards. She pinched a few other places as well until Abigail was certain she would die of mortification. Madame declared her current fashion to be “exécrable,” and Abigail deduced from her expression that this was not a good thing. Yet from the way Madame studied her, nodding occasionally, Abigail suspected the dressmaker had discovered some sort of hidden possibility that would need excavation.
Jamie Calhoun observed this initial inspection with a bemused, academic curiosity. The maid brought him a glass of ale.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Abigail asked.
“What could be better than watching your transformation?”
“How do you know I’m going to be transformed at all?”
He translated this for Madame and the two of them laughed. The dressmaker put on a grave face and said something long and sincere.
Jamie nodded in agreement. “I expect a complete metamorphosis, like a tadpole into a toad.”
Abigail glared at him. “How charming. You really do have a gift for flattery.”
“Dear, you don’t need flattery. You need Madame.”
“You are a United States representative. You should be spending your time legislating, not meddling in my life.”
“I legislated yesterday. You heard me address the House.”
I did. She pursed her lips to keep from admitting how much she’d admired his surprising oratory.
“There’s nothing much on my agenda for the next few days,” he said. “I intend to devote them entirely to you.”
The way he looked at her as he spoke made her feel as though she’d been caressed. She had no time to ponder the sensation; Madame steered her into a rose-and-gilt room adjacent to the reception salon. The chamber was paneled with mirrors on every wall, floor to ceiling, many of them angled so Abigail couldn’t avoid viewing herself from all sides, making it depressingly apparent that she was unattractive not just from the front but from every angle.
The modiste clapped her hands and called out orders in sharp French. Three assistants bustled forward, seemingly out of the woodwork, and they all started talking at once. Abigail had only a smattering of French and could scarcely follow the conversation, so she ceased trying to listen. They didn’t seem to want to include her in the conversation, anyway. The Frenchwomen talked among themselves, surgeons engaged in a life-or-death operation.
Mr. Calhoun stood in the doorway, drinking his ale. One of the women unfolded a silk modesty screen.
“I really do think you should leave,” Abigail called out.
“My colleagues in the House are playing golf or fishing today. Truly, I think I chose the better diversion.” His disembodied voice came from the other side of the screen. “I hope your customary seamstress will not feel abandoned by your defection to Madame Broussard.”
“Actually, I have no customary seamstress,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“How did you know that?”
“A wild guess.” She heard the hiss and crackle of a struck match. A moment later, a curl of bluish cigar smoke rose above the screen.
Gazing into one of the many mirrors, she studied her workmanlike black-and-white shirtwaist and bit her lip. He was right, the rude scoundrel. She looked like a Puritan. Not that there was anything wrong with Puritans, but the son of the vice president would probably appreciate more style. Not long ago, Helena had tried to get her to wear a fashionable gown, but the result had been a multilayered disaster in pink-and-white taffeta that made Abigail look like a dark fairy from a child’s nightmare. Since then, she had refused to give a thought to her mode of dress.
Through the privacy screen, Calhoun and Madame traded commentary in French like a burst of gunfire exchange in battle. The invading army of Frenchwomen descended on her, their busy hands loosening buttons, unfastening hooks and unlacing laces before she even knew what was happening. Madame kept poking, pinching, pointing. When they had Abigail stripped down to her petticoats, the dressmakers stepped back to consult one another.
Abigail found it all so sudden and surreal that she forgot to be embarrassed. Then, out came the bolts of fabric, and she was intrigued. These were not the candy-colored tulles and taffetas that made her look so ridiculous and pallid, but a peau de soie the color of a sunlit lake, an indigo satin shimmering with ebony and midnight iridescence, a raw silk in the shades of the dawn sky. Colors found in nature, not contrived in some laboratory.
Although no one asked her opinion, Abigail thought the fabrics were lovely. The cloth was held up over the screen for Calhoun’s inspection, and he considered each with the gravity of a federal judge.
At a drafting table, the women swept aside a catalog of conventional gowns. Instead, they consulted a large collection of original drawings. Abigail gathered that they were the work of Madame herself. The dresses were unlike any she had ever seen. In contrast to the current mode of wasp waists, exaggerated bustles and pigeon-breasts, the modiste’s des
igns depicted long, clean-lined sheaths that draped rather than bound and looked classical in the manner of ancient Greece. They would be considered radical, even scandalous, by Georgetown standards, except that in their own way, they were actually more modest than current styles.
As with the fabrics, no one consulted her. Apparently, after seeing the shirtwaist, they put absolutely no trust in her taste or judgment. One of the assistants took three of the sketches to Mr. Calhoun for another consultation.
“I honestly don’t know why you’re spending so much time with me,” Abigail said, exasperated.
“Isn’t it the duty of a congressman to see to the needs of his constituents?”
“I’m not your constituent. In the first place, I don’t live in your congressional district.”
“True. But I serve all our country’s citizens.”
“In the second place, I don’t have the right to vote. No woman does.”
“Also true, more’s the pity.”
She sniffed. “I suppose you favor women’s suffrage.”
“Universal suffrage,” he said without missing a beat.
“I don’t believe you. Why would a privileged white male landowner favor voting rights for women and people of color?”
“Well, call me ignorant, but last time I checked, the Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution specified voting rights for all persons born or naturalized in the United States, not the people who happen to be white, male, wealthy, propertied and literate.”
She imagined her father’s blustering reaction to this. But the fact was, she liked Mr. Calhoun’s iconoclasm. She also liked the fact that he had actually read the Constitution.
“A suggestion,” she said.
“Yes?”
“When you’re in a big congressional debate, don’t mention your views about universal suffrage. They’ll eat you alive.” Though she couldn’t see his face, she added, “Now, don’t bristle and get self-righteous with me.”
“How do you know I’m bristling?”
She wasn’t certain. For no reason she could fathom, she had an affinity with this man, could read his moods in the very air. “I just know. For the record, I happen to agree with you.”
“What about your father? Does he favor universal suffrage?”
She laughed at his naïveté. “How long do you suppose he’d keep his seat if he admitted that? Look, Mr. Calhoun, disagreeing with my father is like stepping into a pile of manure. You can never do it without looking stupid and making a mess. And you’d have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Your advice is so…picturesque.”
“In Congress, you must temper your views in order to advance your issues. You may fancy yourself a sophisticate when it comes to ladies’ fashions, Mr. Calhoun,” she added before he could interrupt. “But if you’re half as smart as you think you are, you’ll listen to me when it comes to politics.”
“I defer to the senator’s daughter,” he agreed.
The women swarmed over her again, chattering and plucking aggressively at her chemise.
“Mr. Calhoun,” she called, “I would like to know what is going on.”
“Relax. They’re saying that you’ve been all but swallowed whole by your petticoats.” He paused, and a puff of cigar smoke wafted upward. “An idea not without its appeal.”
“I think you should go away,” she said.
“Such cumbersome undergarments won’t work with the new mode Madame plans for you.”
It was unorthodox, discussing undergarments with a man—and probably highly immoral.
She felt a firm tug, and her petticoats fell in a pool around her ankles, leaving her standing in nothing but her chemise and bloomers.
Horror washed over her, swift and deadly as a flash flood. “No, please,” she said, snatching at the lace and tulle petticoats. “You mustn’t—” She broke off, knowing they wouldn’t understand her words, but if they were human at all, they’d understand her pleading look. “Please,” she whispered again with a white-knuckled grasp on the voluminous fabric.
Madame took a firm grip on her wrist and murmured something, a question. Then she forced open Abigail’s fingers so the garments dropped. Everyone stared down at her feet.
The specially made boot was an ugly blight in the middle of a froth of lace. Shame burned through Abigail.
“Is everything all right?” called Mr. Calhoun.
“Ne vous fâchez pas,” Madame Broussard called back. She rapped out an order in imperative French.
“Very well. I’ll take myself off to City Tavern.” The bell over the door jangled as he let himself out.
“Tiens,” said Madame, stepping away from Abigail. “Now the real travaille begins. We work with what we have. It is how Michelangelo sculpted, no? He found the beauty inside the block of marble.” Without missing a beat, she selected a long underskirt from a hanger on the wall and tied the garment around Abigail’s waist. Abigail’s discomfiture faded beneath a growing curiosity.
“I didn’t think you could speak English.”
“I can.” She took the tape measure from around her neck. “I rarely do. But here, I have no choice, for you Americans refuse to master any tongue, even your own.” Her busy hands never rested. “Many women do less than their capabilities allow. Why is that? I wonder.” She shrugged. “Fear, sometimes. Bashfulness. Lack of confidence, sans doute.”
Abigail felt shaken. So few were aware of her secret disability, fewer still had actually seen the ugly but functional black shoe she wore. Since she had grown old enough to bathe and dress herself, no one had seen her affliction.
“I was born with a bad foot,” she whispered to the Frenchwoman.
Madame paused in her measuring to pull down her lower lip, showing a decidedly imperfect set of teeth. “And I was born with a gap in my teeth.” She went back to work, calling out measurements to her assistants. “But such a thing would not stop me from opening my mouth, eh?”
She continued working, completely focused on Abigail. “Chérie, I will make dresses more beautiful than you could imagine, but the finest gown in all creation will be made ugly by a poor attitude. I need your pledge that when you wear my gowns, you will wear an air of confidence like an invisible mantle. If you wear my dresses with an attitude of defeat, you might as well don a gunnysack.”
After the fitting at the dressmaker’s, Mr. Calhoun took her walking along the Great Mall. A morning rain shower had washed the paths and roadways clean, and groundskeepers swept autumn leaves into piles along the greenswards. The Smithsonian buildings gleamed in the weak afternoon sunlight. A flock of geese arrowed overhead, and a pack of apple-cheeked children played a game of chase across the lawn.
“Did Madame give you an indication of when your dresses will be ready?” he asked.
“No, but she promised them soon. I fear her prices will be hideously high. I was afraid to ask.”
“You’re probably correct. Her clients include Mrs. Vandivert, the first lady and all of the president’s daughters.”
“I’ve committed a shocking extravagance, then,” she said.
“According to your sister, you’ll be able to manage it quite well.”
“What exactly did Helena tell you?”
“She claims you’ve hardly touched your clothing allowance in at least five years.”
“It wasn’t her business to tell you that.”
“Actually, she didn’t.”
Abigail eyed him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “She didn’t?”
“No. Your sister’s a twit but she knows better than to reveal such personal information.”
“Then how did you—”
“I took a guess.” His laughter was both gentle and knowing. “Everything I’ve seen you wear is approximately five years old.”
She hesitated, then looked everywhere but at him, trying to decide exactly what she thought of him. Few men knew ladies’ fashion well enough to judge the age of a garment, but then again, few men greeted Frenc
hwomen with the familiarity of former lovers. “You are a terrible, manipulative person.”
“We established that the night we met.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that I hold this opinion?”
“Of course it does, Abby. I want your esteem.”
She knew he only courted her good opinion for the sake of her father, and was vexed at herself for feeling drawn to him. “Well, you won’t get it by playing with my life and pretending to care about me.”
“Who says I’m pretending?”
“I say.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To worm your way into my father’s good graces.”
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted. “Is it working?”
“It might, actually. Father will be grateful to see me in some new clothing.” That was something, at least. Occasionally, he made pointed references to the fact that she had a generous clothing allowance she never touched—except for things like telescopic equipment.
A whistle blew, then a rhythmic clanging drew her attention to a busy construction area. The Baltimore and Potomac Railroad was laying tracks north to south across the Mall. Abigail glanced at Mr. Calhoun to see him contemplating the torn-up blight. “I suppose you’re wondering if he’ll be grateful enough to lend his support to your cause,” she said.
“I do want your father to notice my kindnesses to you.” He mocked her earlier tone. “Is that so bad?”
“It’s politics, I suppose. In fact, I’m enjoying the attention. I’ve never had my own personal sycophant before.” She ducked her head to hide a secret thrill. Half of her wished he was truly interested in her, the other half clung loyally to the dream of Lieutenant Butler.
“No need to be sarcastic,” said Mr. Calhoun. “Currying favor is the key to success in Washington. In fact, I’ve devised a plan to present my case to your father.”
“And what is that?”
“Your entire family will spend the Thanksgiving holiday as guests at Albion Plantation.”
She eyed him warily. “We will?”
“Helena and I have already discussed it. Professor Rowan will join us, too.”