Chapter 37 – The Morning After / Mon Dieu! Is Perfection, No?

Chapter 37

The Morning After / Mon Dieu!  Is Perfection, No?

            After Maribelle’s concise tale, we chatted for a bit, or rather, Izzy chatted, mostly about the academy, Mari interjected, and I mostly listened, though I did ask a few questions since I might be required to go there with the start of the next semester.  I made a mental note to talk to my mother about it the next time I could get her alone, since neither she nor my father had ever said anything about sending me away to a school.  Eventually, Izzy ran out of steam, and we all settled in for the night. 

            When I wake, I feel a heavy weight draped across my chest and something wet on my left shoulder.  I open my eyes and blink them a few times as they adjust to the sunlight streaming in.  I look down and see a small arm draped over my chest and following from the hand up the arm I see familiar pink hair.  I vaguely remember Izzy mentioning sleeping in the same bed, which was more than big enough to fit five girls our age, to prevent me from disappearing.  Mari nodded, and they both planted themselves on either side of me.  Looking at her face, I find out why my shoulder is wet.  She’s been drooling on it. 

            An involuntary shiver runs up and down my spine because drool is just something that I find disgusting. I look to my other side to see if I can find Mari, only to find that she isn’t there.

            Figures she would be the first to wake up.  I wonder where she went.

            I look around my room as best as I can and notice the curtains that were drawn when I came in last night are now pulled back, and apparently behind them is a glass door leading out to a balcony.  There, through the glass, I can see Mari sitting in a white chair and reading a book while sipping at what I suspect is some kind of tea.  Slowly and carefully, I extract myself from the princess’s grasp, but not before she mumbles something and bites my shoulder, leaving tiny impressions of her teeth behind. 

            Shaking my head as I crawl out of bed, I stand and then stretch, taking care not to groan loudly like I usually do with my first stretch of the morning.  I pad over to the open door and join Mari on the balcony, plopping down in a chair beside her. 

            “Good morning, cousin,” she says, not even looking up from her book.

            “Good morning, Mari,” I reply with a smile.  “D-did you sleep well?”

            She nods, her attention never wavering.

            As if summoned, Mary appears, setting a cup of juice down beside me.

            “Lady Beira, I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you of your agenda today,” she says.  “Breakfast begins in thirty minutes, after which you will have about forty-five minutes of free time before the royal tailor arrives at nine o’clock to get your measurements in order to put the finishing touches on your gown for Princess Isabella’s ball.  Lunch will follow that, after which you will have three hours of free time, in which you and your friends may do whatever you wish.  However, after those three hours of free time, the Duke and Duchess have requested your presence in the Duke’s study.  They were not clear how long that meeting would take, so I blocked out the rest of the afternoon for it.  Afterwards, if you still have time before dinner, you will be free to rejoin your friends.  I will summon you all to dinner at six o’clock sharp.  Prince Angus will be joining us once again for dinner.  Afterward, the royal tailor will be returning with your completed ball gown for you to try on in case there are any last-minute alterations needed.  The three of you will then be free until ten o’clock, at which time, both Princess Isabella and Lady Maribelle must head to their separate rooms to sleep since they have classes beginning at eight tomorrow morning and can’t afford to be late.”

            Mary gives us a curtsy and excuses herself to go attend to the still sleeping princess.

            I look at Mari and am about to say something when she sets her book down and plugs her ears with her fingers.

            I look at her in confusion.

            “Trust me, cousin,” she says in response.

            Following her lead, I plug my ears and glance up to notice Mary gently nudging Izzy to wake her.  Not having any success, she pauses and pulls something out of a pocket hidden in her uniform before sticking whatever she had pulled out into both her ears.  Looking at the sleeping princess with a look of remorse, she produces a small mallet from somewhere and sets it down on the bedside table.   She then reaches into another hidden pocket.

            How many pockets does she have?

            Mary pulls out what looks like a small gong.

            Don’t tell me…

            No sooner than the thought has crossed my mind, Mary picks up the mallet and strikes the gong, causing it to crash loudly in my ears, even with my ears plugged.

            Izzy, to her credit, doesn’t suddenly leap out of bed in fright.  No, she slowly sits up and wipes the sleep out of her eyes before yawning and stretching.  Turning to Mary, she says something I don’t catch and Mary curtsies before putting the gong and mallet back wherever she conjured them from.  Mary turns and leaves the room while Izzy makes her way out of bed and joins us on the balcony.

            “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asks with a yawn.  “I was dreaming that I had a big castle where everything was made of chocolate so I could eat chocolate whenever I wanted.  It was perfect.”

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            A few minutes after she had left, Mary returned with two other maids in tow.  Together the three of them took us to a large room that was attached to my room that I thought was just called a closet.  This morning I found out that the official name for it was a dressing room…  which is nothing like what I associate that term with.  The dressing room was significantly larger than my closet back at Braemar Keep and had even more clothes in it, which made me wonder why we even bothered bringing the clothes we had brought.  When I asked Mary about it, she just laughed it off as if this were a common practice. 

            In the dressing room, Mary helped me get into a simple dress and put my hair up in such a way that a single lock hung free on each side, one golden and one pale blue. The way she had done my hair would make it easy for me to change clothes without disturbing it. While she handled preparing me for the day, the other two maids assisted Mari and Izzy, dressing them in the clothes sent by their families last night.  Afterward, we were led to breakfast where the atmosphere was a bit subdued even with Izzy’s attempts to liven things up.  Mari provided the perfect contrast to Izzy, often playing the role of counterbalance to the princess’s topics and opinions.

            Breakfast went a little longer than planned and the royal tailor actually arrived a bit early, so as a result, my mother and I are now gathered in my dressing room while the other two girls are left to their own devices.  As I sit on the bench in my dressing room, the silence is thick.  My mother stands on the other side of the room watching me with her arms crossed, but not saying anything.  The atmosphere is honestly a bit oppressive. 

            After just a few minutes, there is a knock on the door, and it opens.  Mary steps in.

            “Duchess Braemar, Lady Braemar,” she says, performing a quick curtsey to us.  “The Royal Tailor, Sterling St. Clair.”

            As she says this, the door opens and in steps one of the most garishly flamboyant men I think I have ever seen.  After entering, he sweeps the large floppy hat he is wearing off his head, turning the motion into the start of an overly deep bow.

            “Duchess Braemar, it has simply been way too long,” he says addressing my mother first.  “I see that you are as exquisitely radiant as ever.”

            He offers his hand, palm up.  My mother places her hand in his and he bends, his lips lightly brushing the back of her hand before he straightens and turns to me with an enthusiastic clap.

            “Lady Beira, I see that the tales of how your beauty has grown in the last four years since I saw you last were an understatement,” he says with a friendly smile, offering his hand like he had with my mother.  I hesitate for a moment and glance to my mother who gives a tiny nod.  Seeing approval, I place my hand in his and he repeats the gesture he had performed with my mother.  His lips are soft as they brush the back of my hand.

            He straightens and as he does, his hand darts out and takes the golden lock of my hair in his hand, his eyes widening.

            “Mon Dieu!  What is this?”  he exclaims, his free hand going to his chest as if shocked.  “Such elegance frames your face, My Lady!  It only serves to sublimate your already ethereal beauty, Lady Braemar!”

            I blush at his words and, even though I know he is just using flattery as a tool, it is rather effective.

            “Now, I mainly just have to double-check the measurements I got from Prince Angus…” he says, his voice trailing off as he pulls out a cloth strip with measurements marked on it.

            “A-Angus?” I ask.

            “Oui,” he says.  “He said that you had been fitted back in your hometown while he was there.  He got the Taylors to send me your measurements so that I could start on your gown for the little Princess’s ball.  I just need to make sure everything is correct.  It wouldn’t do for a lady such as yourself to find out last minute that her gown doesn’t fit.”

            “Oh,” I say, glancing at my mother for a moment.  “You already have a design in mind?”

            He nods enthusiastically while instructing me to raise my arms.

            “Oh, yes!” he exclaims.  “The Duchess and I have been communicating over the last month, finalizing the design!  In fact, I have the toile made with the requested material with me today for you ladies to see. “

            I look at my mother who has an oddly satisfied look in her eyes.

            “Show me,” she says, nodding with approval.

            Mr. St. Clair jots a few notes down in a notebook I hadn’t noticed earlier, then puts it in his jacket and raises his hands to give two sharp claps in rapid succession.

            Two young women I don’t recognize enter the dressing room carrying a long black garment bag, one side bulging slightly from the fullness of what is hidden within.

            “Ah! Carefully, carefully,” Mr. St. Clair says, clapping his hands lightly as he steps forward.  “Do not rush perfection.”

            With practiced care, the women draw the bag open, revealing a gown of pure snow white.

            For a moment, I can only stare.

            “Exquisite, is it not?” Mr. St. Clair says, practically beaming.  “A vision in winter light.”

            The bodice is tightly fitted, its shape elegant and precise, with short sleeves that rest just off the shoulders.  Fine silver stitching traces its structure, catching the light in subtle ways.  Beneath it, the faintest threads of gold embroidery spread outward in delicate lines, like rays of sunlight breaking through clouds, stopping just at the waist.

            “The gold is more subtle than I had imagined,” my mother says, her voice calm and measured.

            “But necessary,” Mr. St. Clair replies immediately, placing a hand over his chest.  “Were it not, it would overpower.  This way, the piece has warmth balanced with cold.  It is all about contrast, Duchess.  Contrast!  One must always balance the two; anything more would be too much.”

            From the waist, the gown flares outward into layered skirts, each one adding soft volume so that it falls in gentle waves.  Over the white fabric lies a nearly translucent layer of pale blue, so light it almost seems colorless at first glance.  As it shifts, the material catches the light, shimmering faintly.  The texture gives the illusion that the entire gown has been dusted with countless tiny ice crystals.

            “Mon Dieu…” Mr. St. Clair breathes, stepping back slightly as if admiring a finished painting.  “It captures the light beautifully.”

            My mother says nothing at first.  She studies the gown in silence, her gaze sharp, measuring.

            “Hmm.  The layering is correct,” she says after a moment.  “It won’t overwhelm her frame.”

            “Of course not,” he replies smoothly.  “I would never bury such natural elegance beneath excess.”

            I swallow, suddenly very aware that they are talking about me while I am standing right here.

            “The overlay,” my mother continues, gesturing slightly.  “It reads as frost, perfectly.  I was afraid it might look more like crystals of glass instead.”

            “Is perfect, no?” Mr. St. Clair says, snapping his fingers once.  “Ice, not crystal.  Ice is alive, it catches the light, it shifts, it breathes!  That is the essence of which I sought.  The life!”

            I take a small step closer without realizing it, my eyes tracing the faint shimmer across the surface.

            I’m almost afraid to reach out and touch it, as if it would be ruined like a morning frost on glass.

            “Well?” Mr. St. Clair says suddenly, turning to me with a bright smile.  “What do you think, my lady?”

            I hesitate; my gaze still fixed on the gown.

            “I…”

            I don’t know how to answer that.

            My mother’s eyes shift to me, watching closely.

            “It is beautiful,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

            “Now, of course,” Mr. St. Clair says, lifting a finger as if delivering a lecture, “this is only the toile.  A working piece.  The structure is set, but the stitching is temporary in places so that adjustments may be made.”

            That is when I notice the pins and loose stitching holding the dress together.  I had been so enamored with the initial reveal that I hadn’t noticed the subtle flaws throughout.

            He gestures lightly toward the bodice.

            “Once we confirm the fit and you, Duchess, confirm the design, I will refine everything. Reinforce the seams, finish the embroidery, and ensure it sits on Lady Beira as though it were always meant to be there.”

            My mother only nods in approval, though her stern face is unable to hide that she is truly pleased.