Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  Mrs. Moreland was staring at her. “To a ball?” she asked uncertainly.

  Behind her, Viola made signals for her to be on her guard.

  Flora decided it was best to be frank. “I don’t have anything else. As you’ve said, there’s not really time for a new dress at this point, especially since most if not all of the consort applicants have flooded the local dress shops with orders already.”

  “Oh, but I understand that most of the girls are only having alterations to the ball gowns they already own,” said Mrs. Moreland. “It’s far more frugal, in time and money. That’s an idea for you.”

  “But I’ve never owned a ball gown,” Flora replied a little helplessly.

  Mrs. Moreland was nothing if not persistent. “Then one that belonged to your mother—even a dress that’s twenty years old can be brought up to fashion if it was kept in the proper conditions.”

  “My mother never had such a dress, though,” said Flora while Viola made increasingly frantic motions for her to change the subject. “Even if she had, my father didn’t keep many of her things after she died, so I can’t imagine it would be among them. Perhaps I just won’t go,” she concluded as a desperate attempt to end this thread of conversation.

  Viola slapped her hand to her forehead in tragic pantomime.

  “Not go?” echoed Mrs. Moreland, and the expression on her face conveyed what sacrilege such an action would be. Flora understood at last why Viola had wanted her to escape into another topic. “You can’t not go. You must go! Everyone will be there! It’s going to be the highlight of the season!” Suddenly she stopped talking, and the enterprising gleam that leapt to her eyes sent apprehension crawling up Flora’s spine.

  Mrs. Moreland abruptly rose from her chair. “Viola, can you come with me? Miss Dalton, if you’ll excuse us for the barest moment, we’ll be right back.”

  Viola looked like a lamb off to face the wolves as she trailed behind her mother. She favored Flora with an apologetic glance as she passed, and then they both disappeared into a room down the hall.

  In the ensuing solitude, Flora simply sipped her tea. She could hear the mother and daughter engaged in a hushed conversation, but she could discern no words. Perhaps the fashionable Mrs. Moreland had decided to dismiss her for such appalling behavior as to aspire to wear an evening dress when a ball gown was required. Flora rejected that idea as soon as it occurred to her; despite her reputation as a paragon of style, Mrs. Moreland didn’t seem like one to make such harsh judgments.

  Her speculation came to an end with the arrival of the seamstress. Viola and Mrs. Moreland returned to answer the knock on the door. Viola paused to squeeze Flora’s hand in what seemed to be an encouraging gesture, and then they all moved to a tidy bedroom equipped with a long mirror, a dressing screen, and plenty of bright light from the windows.

  The seamstress handed Viola a white muslin creation and ushered her behind the dressing screen to put it on.

  “We already had the design worked up,” Mrs. Moreland confided to Flora. “It was really quite lucky that we did, too, or there wouldn’t have been time to work a mock-up like this. If I knew what fabric to use it would be different, but I can’t seem to decide.”

  “I’ve brought the samples,” the seamstress called from behind the screen. From the way she spoke, she sounded as though she had a few pins in her mouth. “They’re in the box over there.”

  With excitement Mrs. Moreland located a stack of swatches. They were all in shades of purple, from the palest lavender to the deepest plum. “This is the one her other dress was made of,” she said, and she handed a swath of satiny, bluish purple to Flora for inspection. “Beautiful, isn’t it? But of course we can’t use it for a second dress.”

  “I know of at least three other gowns being made in that color or one close to it,” said the seamstress. “I brought it along for a reference point only. Your daughter’s last gown was as influential on fashion as the Prince’s feathered cape was, and that’s saying something.”

  “The Prince wore a feathered cape?” Flora asked.

  “Made entirely of peacock feathers, from the top of his neck all the way down to the floor,” said Mrs. Moreland rapturously. “It was entirely impractical and absolutely delightful, and of course feathers have been all the rage ever since. I don’t want any feathers on Viola’s dress,” she added to the seamstress.

  “Of course not,” answered that woman knowingly.

  “Half a year is long enough for that sort of trend,” Mrs. Moreland said to Flora with a wink. “What do you think of this one?” She held up a swatch of lilac satin.

  Flora took it from her for inspection. “It’s beautiful, but—” She realized that everyone was listening for her response and suddenly became shy to give it.

  “But…?” Mrs. Moreland prompted.

  Helplessly she admitted the thought that had come into her head. “The shade seems too light. It doesn’t have enough depth to it.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Mrs. Moreland, and she took the swatch back with a frown. She proceeded to line up several more on the bed and scrutinized them in silence. Every few seconds she would remove one and place it back in the stack.

  “We’re ready here,” said the seamstress. “Up on the little stool in front of the mirror, miss,” she added to Viola, who obediently emerged from behind the dressing screen to take that new position.

  Flora instantly understood the difference between an evening dress and a ball gown. The workmanship—even in this simple mock-up—was exquisite, with painstaking attention to detail. The dress was fuller and far more elaborate than any of the evening gowns that Flora had seen at Mrs. Olivette’s gala. In that moment, her heart fell in disappointment, for she knew that, much as she suddenly wanted to see the spectacle of beautiful gowns, she could never appear at the event in one of her own. Pretty and modish as her blue evening dress was, she would stick out like a sore thumb if she wore it next to such a creation as this.

  The seamstress and Mrs. Moreland were busy examining and extolling every detail of the dress. Flora met Viola’s eyes in the mirror and smiled wanly. Even wearing a rough mock-up with her hair in a simple braid, she looked lovely. Flora was glad she was to become consort, for there was no one that would fit that role better.

  Abruptly she turned her attention to the swatches of fabric that sat next to her; she needed something else to focus on, or she would descend into a chasm of self-pity. Her fingers brushed wistfully against the lilac satin. It was beautiful, truly, but the color wasn’t dark enough for Viola, somehow. Curiously she dug through the pile of samples to see if there was something more fitting. She caught hold of a sheer violet. Had the fabric been solid, the color would have been as deep as the swatch from Viola’s original dress. Speculatively Flora laid it against the paler lilac satin. She liked the way the shine of the satin gleamed through the sheer, and how the color of the sheer brought depth to the satin.

  “What’s that you have there, Miss Dalton?” asked Mrs. Moreland abruptly.

  Flora self-consciously dropped the pair of swatches. “I’m sorry. I was only looking.”

  Mrs. Moreland abandoned her daughter for a closer inspection. “You have good instincts,” she said as she picked up the pair. “What do you think of these two together?" she asked of the seamstress. “Or would that be making your job too difficult?”

  The seamstress immediately left Viola’s side, her eyes alight. “It’ll be tricky, but you know how much I love a good challenge. Oh, I can see it already!”

  The two of them erupted into animated discussion before Flora’s wide-eyed gaze. Viola plopped down on the bed next to her. “Thank heavens it’s almost over,” she whispered.

  Flora frowned in confusion.

  “When they get to this stage, we’re basically finished,” Viola explained. “I wonder if I can change out of this yet. I’ll get scolded if I take it off too soon, but I get stuck with pins every time I move.”

  “Do you really
not enjoy dressing up?” asked Flora.

  Viola shrugged. “I just feel foolish when I’m the only one doing it. I’m not used to having everyone’s attention on me.”

  “If you’re going to marry the Prince you should probably get used to it,” Flora advised her.

  Viola’s eyes dropped to the cat’s eye brooch that Flora now wore pinned to her dress. “This whole business is muddled,” she murmured self-consciously. “If he’d only asked me in a conventional manner, all this chaos could’ve been avoided. He never does anything in a conventional manner,” she added, and her lovely eyes searched for signs that Flora understood.

  “No, I suppose he doesn’t,” said Flora with a pang of something akin to envy. She tried to quell that feeling. She knew it was unwarranted, but talking with Viola like this made Flora feel more isolated than ever. She had never viewed isolation as a bad thing before—had she not wished to live in the seclusion of the countryside?—but now, with knowledge of her own heart fresh upon her mind, that isolation failed to satisfy her. Instead, it made her feel empty inside.

  Mrs. Moreland finished her conversation with the seamstress, who immediately ushered Viola back behind the dressing screen to strip the mock-up from her. The seamstress emerged with the white bundle while Viola finished dressing; she was laying it in its box when Mrs. Moreland casually inquired, “So you must be very busy with a rush of dresses needed within the month.”

  “All my clients know that the Prime Minister’s wife has precedence above them,” the seamstress replied with a sly smile. “Have you changed your mind about wanting a new dress, ma’am?”

  “The alterations you’ve already made to my blue one will suffice for me,” Mrs. Moreland said, “but would you have time in your schedule to alter another dress?”

  “For you? I’ll make the time.”

  Mrs. Moreland fairly bounced over to a chest in the corner of the room. Viola reappeared and sat next to Flora as her mother withdrew a gorgeous, frilled dress from among the many clothes that had been packed away there. Its fabric was deep red—the same color as the magic from the well, Flora thought in wonder. Confusion flooded her as Mrs. Moreland deposited the lovely creation in her lap.

  “Put it on,” she commanded, and she tipped her head to the dressing screen.

  Flora looked in surprise to Viola, who nodded encouragingly.

  “She doesn’t have a ball gown of her own and said she was going to stay home,” Mrs. Moreland explained to the seamstress. “We can’t have that.”

  Flora was speechless. The seamstress, too, stared with wide eyes at the dress, and Flora thought that she was going to balk at receiving more work for someone outside the Prime Minister’s family. The question that fell from her lips only increased Flora’s confusion.

  “Ma’am, is that the dress?”

  Mrs. Moreland smiled prettily. “Yes. It’s still lovely after all these years, isn’t it? I saved it for Viola, but I can’t bring myself to dress her in red even though she should look lovely in it. Purples and blues really suit her best. But the red will do nicely for Flora—just look how well it complements her complexion!—and Viola’s in perfect agreement with me. We’ll have to change the sleeves, of course, and there might be a few other details needed to make it new again. Are you up for the challenge?”

  “It’s an honor!” declared the seamstress. “What are you waiting for, girl? Put that dress on right now!”

  Flora’s senses finally snapped into place. “I couldn’t possibly—” she started to protest, but Mrs. Moreland interrupted her.

  “The dress has been sitting in a cedar chest for the last twenty years. I’ve aired it regularly, but I certainly can’t wear it anymore. There’s no point in holding onto it for the sake of nostalgia if it’s needed elsewhere. Go on.”

  “Go on, Flora,” said Viola, and she pushed on the small of her back.

  “But the expense—” Flora began, still.

  “I’ll speak to your father about it,” Mrs. Moreland assured her. “You’re not to worry on that account. Altering a gown is much less expensive than starting one from scratch. Now I insist. You’re not going to miss out on the Prince’s ball for something as trifling as the lack of a dress.”

  She pulled Flora from the bed and propelled her toward the dressing screen. The seamstress followed to assist. Flora quelled her stupor enough to comply, but she felt like she had suddenly slipped into a nonsensical dream rather than her everyday life.

  “I was thinking that some black accents might be quite stunning,” said Mrs. Moreland from the other side of the screen. “What do you think of accenting the asymmetrical line along the skirt with some black lace?”

  The seamstress oohed in appreciation.

  “I thought you said that lace was out of fashion,” Viola protested to her mother.

  “It has been for years, dear, but everything in fashion has to come around again eventually. Besides, I’m not talking about your conventional dowager’s lace. I saw some interesting patterns at a warehouse in the textiles district last week. They’ll be perfect against that fabric.”

  “Indeed,” agreed the seamstress as she worked the tiny buttons up Flora’s back. Flora had nothing to say. This unexpected twist was overwhelming to her, but beneath her initial shock, a flutter of excitement slowly grew. The Prince’s ball was still three weeks away, but Flora, who had moments before resigned herself to staying home, could now hardly wait for it to come.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Rumors and More Spying

  Mrs. Moreland spoke to Dad about the dress and received his blessing (and his monetary support, I hope, but I’ve been banned from asking about that). She also sent home a list of items for me to acquire: black satin gloves (elbow-length), black dancing slippers, and so forth. I feel like I’m preparing for a funeral rather than a ball, but I’ll trust Mrs. Moreland. She has no cause to sabotage me, that I know of.

  In other news, I was both startled and delighted to discover my little gardening notebook on my bedside table when I came home yesterday. When I asked who had retrieved it from the country house, Mrs. Finch looked at me like I was crazy. None of the other servants seems to know where it came from either, and Dad certainly hasn’t left town. Only the brownies remain as culprits, but of course I can’t ask them directly. If it was them, that only strengthens my suspicions that they are reading this diary, for I haven’t spoken of my gardening notebook anywhere else.

  To any brownie that should happen upon this, thank you very much. The notebook makes my life a thousand times easier.

  Time passed in a blur. The second week of interviews sailed by before Flora had a chance to note it. One evening during the final week, just as she and her father were finishing dinner, Mrs. Finch announced that Flora had a visitor waiting for her in the drawing room.

  “It’s Miss Irvine,” the housekeeper disclosed.

  “Go ahead, Flora,” prompted her father.

  She excused herself and dutifully went to meet her guest.

  “You should hear the rumors that are flying about you,” said Priscilla in greeting, before she even fully entered the room.

  Flora stopped short and stared. “Rumors?” she echoed. She tried to inject some innocence into her voice to hide her instinctive distress.

  Priscilla eyed the cat’s eye brooch that Flora wore, her expression a mix of curiosity and critical review. “I’m starting to wonder myself how many of them are true. That’s not why I came to visit, of course,” she said with a bland smile.

  Of course, Flora thought dryly. She hadn’t seen Priscilla in days—weeks?—and didn’t know what had brought her, but the girl’s attire indicated that she was stopping by on her way to or from a party. If she had come to coerce Flora out of the house at night, she would be sorely disappointed. The threat of shadow-shifters trumped any enticements to leave.

  “That’s a pretty dress,” Flora remarked. “Are you on your way somewhere?”

  Priscilla smiled wryly. “Lord Palmer’s evening
fete. You received an invitation, I presume.”

  She had received dozens of them—not the small-group gatherings that people had sent to her when she had the ordering of the consort applications, but large parties with hundreds on the guest lists. The sheer extravagance shocked her. Mrs. Olivette alone seemed to host something every other evening, but plenty of other lords and ladies were in the mix. Flora didn’t have time for any of it, even if she had wanted to brave the dark.

  “I’m not accepting invitations right now, unfortunately.”

  “Yes, that’s one of the rumors, that you’re shutting yourself up in your house every evening,” said Priscilla.

  Flora dismissed the charge. “That’s silly. Do be seated, if you have the time to spare.” She settled on the couch with an air of unconcern.

  Priscilla sat down right next to her. She didn’t say a word; she only stared.

  “I don’t know why anyone would want to spread rumors about me,” Flora lied. “I haven’t done anything worth talking about.”

  Her visitor scoffed, though not maliciously. “You spend your days at the palace and you’ve found favor with the Eternal Prince himself. You can feign ignorance if you like, but the news is all over town. People are laying odds on whether you’ve bumped Viola from the tournament’s winner’s circle with your campaign—it would be the upset of the century if you did.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” Flora said flatly. “People shouldn’t talk like that, either. Everyone knows that Viola’s the favorite.”

  “Is she?” It was a benign question, but Priscilla’s eyes had a cunning gleam in them.

  Flora saw no reason to be anything other than truthful. “Yes. Look, I don’t know what people are saying, but Viola won this tournament before it even started. And, quite frankly, she deserves to win.”

  “If that’s true, then why are you wearing the Prince’s insignia?”