by Jane M. R.
“What a lovely dress.” Varseena’s brown and gray spotted hair is slopped in a tired chignon against her neck. She holds up the dress, clearly imagining herself in it. I almost offer.
I might be more inclined to adore being tied into a dress, I conclude, if my father had not held that rule so loosely over me, tying me only when we went to town but still allowing me to roam free in my trousers with my cousin upon coming home. Maybe he saw into my future and witnessed for himself how deeply troubled I would be if made to be tied into a dress that would not leave my body until I was locked in my room at night, locked away from all that makes my heart beat and fill my lungs. Maybe he saw how the dress would be like a parasite on me, feeding off its host, sucking my bones dry of life and freedom.
My mother, of course, had much to say about my father’s lack of discipline on me. But it wasn’t a lack of discipline. It was a complete understanding of my heart and how I needed to taste the blood of the forest and breathe the air of fantasy like was told from Durain reading to me out of his forbidden “man” books. Forbidden, because women are not supposed to be excited over fictional things that might otherwise distract us from being distinguished ladies. I suppose that is true now because Durain never read to me the books where people followed the rules.
Varseena lays the dress on the bed, smoothing her hands over the millions of layers of lace. “You’re going dress shopping!” Varseena’s smile rivals that of a fourteen year old dewy eyed girl as she stares dreamily at the ceiling, then shakes her head.
Wrapping myself in a robe, I leave my room to join my mother downstairs for my dreaded bath. Also to give Varseena time to try on all my dresses, since it appears she loves them so much.
In the small room next to the kitchen I step into the copper tub filled with cold water. Doctors had encouraged all of England to take more baths but it’s a chore. Maybe more people would do it more often if they didn’t have to haul it in from a pump outside to fill a tub in front of the kitchen fire. My father managed to get running water in the house, but it was nowhere near a fire place to warm it. You couldn’t have both.
I shiver as I sink my entire body beneath the chill. Once a week is quite enough to bathe in cold water.
My mother selects one of the many colored glass bottles on the window sill and uncorks it, upending the oil into the bath water where I swirl it around with my arms and wrinkle my nose at the scent of rose meant for an unmarried girl ready to be courted. The heavy musk of patchouli still lingers from my mother’s bath she must have taken earlier. I hate patchouli; really not in favor of luring a male in with any smells the way animals do.
“Dunk your head.”
I do so, staying under longer than needed, wondering if I could pretend well enough to drown that they would think I was dead and I could make my escape so no one would look for me ever again… or they would bury me alive, like what is known to happen sometimes. But the plus side is I wouldn’t have to get married – I run out of breath and come up for air.
My mother is ready with powdered soap and proceeds to lather it into my hair. My anxiousness to find whatever it was that Durain hid on what our childhood had named The Boulder returns in full force. We are going into town and if I know my mother, we will be there until dinner to deaden my wanderlust which is starting to come out now that mourning is over… why couldn’t I have been born in the Middle Ages where there were handsome knights to rescue me out of a tower so I wouldn’t have to tie sheets together?
My mother is reining me in, hard and fast. The Boulder is three miles from my house. Going during the day is no longer an option because “ladies” don’t do that. But I don’t trust that my tower-escaping sheet-rope will not be soon noticed if I use it too often.
“Rinse your hair.”
Maybe if I refuse to leave the tub I won’t have to go to town and buy dresses.
My mother pulls the plug where pipes beneath the floor will direct the water outside onto the lawn, and the water is swirling away so I am forced to vacate it to find warmth. Shivering, I dry off with the towel provided. Covered again with my robe, I go back upstairs.
I’m tied into my prison thirty minutes later, secured under Varseena’s “secret knot.” The tumble of blue and mauve fabric are my mother’s favorite colors – likely my mother’s dress for me to use until I can get some tailored to me, thus the trip into town. The longer skirt is a deep midnight blue layered by the violet net of lace. The corset is just as bad.
Another agonizing hour is spent on the morning ritual of brushing, pulling, pinning, coiling, weaving, and curling my hair only to be concealed all away beneath a bonnet.
I miss Durain. Badly.
Finally allowed to see the full length looking glass, I stare at the reflection there. I don’t know who that person is on the other side but they look perpetually irritated. Likely because that person is dressed for one purpose.
A show horse.
Varseena ushers me out.
I follow my mother out to the coach were my father is engaged in conversation with the coach driver. He opens the door for us, jumps in himself, and the coach rolls forward.
I sit next to Varseena and my mother sits next to my father because each of our dresses is fluffy enough that it would be a tight fit if mother and daughter sat side by side. Varseena gets to wear a plain dress that does not tie – one of the necessary benefits for macramists who can’t tie their own dresses. But as long as they are always in the company of another female, or their own husband, it equals the same thing. I don’t understand why it can’t work the same for me. Being escorted around everywhere I go would still be better than being tied into a dress where it is a matter of art to utilize the privy. Most girls can’t wait for the day when they can be tied into their dresses. I’ve absconded that day for as long as possible.
I watch my world sliding by the window without my consent.
The three mile ride into town ends at the town’s coach yard. My father exits and assists his wife down the stairs first, and then turns to help me and then Varseena.
My father makes a beeline to the hat shop while the three of us walk across the cobbled street. An accordion and fiddle playing in the town square call my attention to the trio of gypsies gathered there, causing a monkey to dance in front of them which had likewise compelled others to stop and watch, some even tossing coins into the tattered hat below the accordion player’s feet.
“Mrs. Frondaren!”
I turn. A woman with a massive bustle hidden beneath her tent of a dress swoops down the street and latches onto my mother’s arm. “Mrs. Frondaren I am so sorry about the passing of your nephew…”
I conclude the hurt over Durain’s death will not stop the progression of my life, but people constantly bringing it up doesn’t help. I turn my attention back to the gypsies. I let their music blare out the conversation of death behind me. I have a few coins in my purse. I step forward to make a donation.
“Ello, lass!” The accordion player grins at me with a mouth where I can count the teeth. “And who might you be?”
He’s pleasant enough. “Brine Frondaren.”
“Ah!” he says. Despite a mouth lacking teeth and a chin that looks like sanding paper, his eyes are young and his smile warm. “The silverman’s daughter.”
But now the attention is on me and I squirm uncomfortably. “What is your name?”
“Jesaro. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His accent suggests somewhere up north. Maybe Ireland.
“You play very nice,” I say. A tug on my dress turns my eyes to the monkey whose wearing a tiny top hat. He’s got the fabric of my dress clutched in his tiny hand. I have this insatiable desire to hold him.
The monkey holds out his other hand expectantly and I bend down to stuff a shilling in his hand which he proceeds to bit before scampering off with it.
“It’s magic music,” says with a big grin. “Only those with a beautiful hearts can hear it.”
“Hmmm,” I muse, looki
ng around to pretend he has not flattered me. I find a stranger-friendship in this man and I really want to spill all my opinions about the injustices of the world on him, but I’m suddenly whirling around as if the string on my spin top was pulled.
“No!” my mother snaps. “Proper ladies don’t encourage such slothfulness. They could all get honest work if they wanted to but they don’t. They are leaches who prey on those who do work.”
My scrambled vision from spinning so quickly looks upon the gypsies who heard every word but otherwise appear uncaring. They’ve heard this before. But I’m not going to judge why the gypsies don’t have work. I don’t care. Some misfortune or another has put them here in this square where they have to undress from their dignity to show they are in need and try to earn some money in some way so they can bloody live.
I have a mouthful of retorts for my mother but I would only lose in the end. Because a lady remaining composed in public will prevail. Forever.
I have to force a smile once we enter the dress shop so as not to disappoint my mother. It is every mother’s dream to shop for her daughter’s first tiable dresses. Up until now I have been using old ones donated by my mother and cousin Andlas. I haven’t worn tiable dresses enough up until this point to make getting my own worth it. The end of the mourning period was a birth and death of many things.
The shop cloys heavily with smells of fabric, surprising me that fabrics even have smells. Bolts of rainbow lace and silk arch through the shop. I run a gloved hand across the different textures as I walk the rows. A woman too thin to be healthy, old enough not to be pretty with her thin black hair streaked with silver and wearing an apron with pins stuck through it in places, approaches us.
“Greetings, miss Borayen,” my mother says.
“Greeting, Mrs. Frondaren, Mrs. Alberoot.” Corrana’s eyes fall on me. “You must be excited to dress shop with your mother. Your cousin, Miss Garfair, is here.”
Something chilly slides down my spine at the mention of the young girl who is not actually my cousin. Crisy’s father, Brocen, has been friends with my father since before they wore shoes. Growing up, I saw Brocen with my father just as much and more than I saw him with his own brothers and so it only became natural for me to start calling him uncle, too. It never even occurred to me at that time that he had a different last name.
The second can be found with not her uncle.
I inhale sharply, realizing Mrs. Corrana Borayen is still expecting a response.
“How nice,” I recover. “We can cherish this morning together like other girls do.” It sounds fake. I know. I hear it.
But Corrana nods nonchalantly anyway and if my mother notices my sarcasm, she doesn’t say so in public. I’m ushered to the back room in step with thoughts ushering through my head. Prickling reality is causing me to sweat as Durain’s last words on paper start to become remarkably real. I need to get to The Boulder to even know what I’m supposed to be looking for. But when can I escape from my mother long enough to not be suspicious?
Crisy is standing on the raised circular platform with a hundred pins holding her clothes to her body. She turns her golden head to look as I enter. “Hello Miss Frondaren. Ouch!”
“I told you not to move,” Crisy’s tailor chastises. “Move anymore and you’ll deserve every pin prick you get.”
I climb onto my own platform and watch Crisy closely as Varseena begins to untie the puzzle of knots holding my dress to me.
Found with not her uncle.
“Miss Garfair.”
“Yes?” Crisy’s back is to me but she doesn’t turn her head again. It looks like she is barely breathing.
I’ve never associated with Crisy, except in passing for social events since Brocen is considered family even by my father, so gauging Crisy’s reaction beforehand is impossible. I just go for it. “I found I am void of friends as of late.” I pause for effect while checking for the right tone of sincerity and honesty. “I was wondering if you would like to join me for a ride sometime this week.”
Crisy’s head lifts ever so gently. Crisy is a full year younger than me and has never had much association with girls even close to her age. She lives far enough out of town that her option of playmates are limited if she is to remain dignified and only associate with those females in the same middle class. I feel selfish for using that to simply get closer to her father.
“Oh… I’d like that.”
Crisy’s gentle show of excitement earns her another storm of, “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” as pins stick her. My mother touches my shoulder and smiles warmly. Even though Durain was my cousin, my mother never fully approved of me not having friends who would influence me to be a lady. It’s only a shame that is not why I’m trying to befriend this girl.
“Miss Borayen,” my mother begins, “I read in the newspaper beginning of March that your shop was robbed. That is dreadful. I hope they didn’t take anything of value?”
Corrana’s back is to us and I see her shoulders visibly shudder. She turns around with a measuring tape in her hand. I watch as the dress maker’s eyes flick up briefly to Crisy and then back down. “They took something irreplaceable.”
My mother gasps. “What did they take?”
“An heirloom. I kept it here because I’m in this shop more than my own house and thought it would be safer.” Corrana sighs heavily, thickly. Full of rage. “I guess I was wrong.”
“And the parish constables have not recovered it?”
This time, Corrana’s eyes meet mine briefly. Her stare is weighted. “No.”
My mother tsk’s. “I am so sorry.”
I’m still trying to process Corrana’s odd eye-lock on me when the dress maker says, “I am sorry about the passing of your nephew.”
“Thank you. It is most unfortunate…”
And that is the cue for my thoughts to flee elsewhere like they always do while Varseena unties the labyrinth at my back.
The parasite of a dress slacking it’s jaw twenty minutes later, Corrana wraps me in the measuring tape. Crisy’s dress is tied soon after and, reaffirming the promise to see me during the week, she leaves with her macramist who is too young and too beautiful not to be tempting to Crisy’s widowed father.
For the next two hours I stand in just my chemise as fabrics of all shades and textures press upon me and pinned to exactness – my mother gushing at all the excitement of maturity she must think I feel too.
Finally, I bend at the waist and the tailor gingerly slides the last pinned together dress over my head. I didn’t realize standing still for such a long time could be so exhausting, and I still have to suffer another thirty minutes of it as Varseena reties the knots on my dress.
I’m made to pick out three pre-made dresses before we leave, although my mother takes it upon herself to choose an atrocious orange one for me. My mother fills out the order to have them delivered to the house and we step out onto the street.
She becomes very chatty as we walk, talking of her first dress shopping experience. I feign interest. I’ll have to go to The Boulder to know what to look for on Crisy’s father before I visit Crisy during the week.
Shoe shopping is next. I don’t realized how shallow my mother is until we enter the shop, as if the highlight of her entire life is this moment when she would buy her sixteen year old daughter shoes. Is this what I have to look forward to? To shudder with excitement because shopping for clothes for my daughters would break the mediocre from the norm of a life bound to painting and music? The bell over the door chimes as we enter the boot and shoe depot.
The shoe depot is just as agonizing as the dress, only this time I am forced to stay seated. My mother asks my opinion of what she thinks of each pair mashed on my feet until I reply, “What’s the point? The dress is only going to cover them.”
So my mother takes over selecting a pair of shoes for each dress we just had tailored to me. I can’t ignore the hurt look on my mother’s face when she finally realizes my carelessness. I can’t even feel b
ad about it.
We leave the shop, my mother uncharacteristically silent beside me as we walk around the clock tower center of the town square to an outdoor café shading tables and chairs beneath the tent awning. My father is seated there already with a steaming cup of tea, in conversation with Aklen Whaerin.
Jaicom’s father.
Had it not been for Jaicom leaving his calling card every week during mourning with the bottom right corner bent – but declining an actual visit – I would have forgotten his random arrival on the day of the funeral.
But I didn’t forget. I also didn’t forget Aklen’s hostile stare as I entered the parish with his son.
Those dark eyes beneath his black top hat narrow on me again. This time, unclouded from emotions, I verify this is the same brief gaze he had on me in the parish. I’ve never said a word to the man before so I conclude that his ugly gaze is one forged by disappointment in his son for choosing so randomly and so quickly to court a girl beneath the Whaerin family status. I agree with him.
But his begrudging glance vanishes because it is on display for my mother too. My mother, Varseena, and I gently bow our heads as he approaches us.
There is no mistaking this man is Jaicom’s father. Hard brown eyes blare on a tan horizon above a chiseled chin. He doesn’t let anyone forget his status with the way his attitude wears his black frock coat over a burgundy Stafford vest. “Mrs. Frondarens, Mrs. Alberoot.” He tips his hat.
“Mr. Whaerin,” I intone with my mother.
Aklen looks me briefly up and down as if appraising me to see if I will be a hearty enough horse for his son. “You are lovely, Miss Frondaren. My son has done well choosing you.” His tone smooths at the edges but a hard blur at its core is tricky to ignore.
“Thank you.”
My father pulls out chairs for the three of us to sit. “I am so sorry about the death of your nephew,” Aklen begins before taking a sip of his tea, and then my parents are hoodwinked into talking about logging. Of course Aklen would never pass up an opportunity to show off the business he owns in Valemorren which rivals the silver mine my father is part owner for. Well, really, there is no rivalry between wood and silver because that would be like humans rivaling between food and sweetmeats. But it apparently makes Aklen feel self-important if he thinks he has a business enemy.