The Vespertine Page 6

  Warmed by the compliment, Zora nodded. "Always and always, mademoiselle. I treasure it. May I sit for the measurements?"

  Mlle. Thierry waved us both back. "Hurry up. You heard your mother. A long day ahead, and I won't be the one to keep her. Hup, hup, faster, s'il vous plaît. "

  So faster we went, and Mlle. Thierry left us alone in the back to do the business work while I undressed. Slowly, I hung my muff and cape on hooks. Dawdling, I folded my gloves, then finally stepped onto the measuring block.

  "She's from New Orleans," Zora told me, working the endless string of buttons on my polonaise.

  "I admit, I wondered."

  Lowering to a whisper, Zora said, "I heard she held a salon there so exquisite that people clamored for invitations. Ambassadors and barons and every fine family in the city came. If she would see you, you were all but royalty!"

  "How did she come to own a dress shop in Baltimore, then?" I asked.

  "She doesn't speak of it." Zora stepped onto the block to help me and whispered in my ear, "But when she raises the measure over your head, look into her cuffs. Scars, awful ones."

  I blinked at Zora. "Truly?"

  "Oh, yes," she murmured, then shut her mouth before she was caught gossiping.

  Something shadowed and uncertain prickled along my skin as we bared it, bit by bit. Trying to put thoughts of dark secrets and hidden scars from my mind, I sadly reminded myself that I was stripping off in public. Shivering, I clapped my hands together and gazed at the ceiling in a quiet sort of terror.

  True, no one could see into the back room, but I felt unnatural. And cold—my skin tightened everywhere, a rush of chill on it. That made me feel all the more wanton and obvious! I tried to distract myself with my surroundings.

  The stove in the corner threw off little heat, though the room was cheery in its own way. Pinned to the wall, fluttering scraps added color between big sheets of patterns marked in oil pencil.

  I felt no small measure of envy that Mile. Thierry had a sewing machine—a black, glorious monster worked by a foot pedal beneath it. Lizzy and I kept Oakhaven in clothes and linens by hand. My stitches were good—even and tight—but I guessed that an entire gown could come out of a machine like that in days, not the weeks it took me.

  Appearing with a knotted rope, Mile. Thierry circled the block, measuring first with her eyes. She hummed and ahhed, sounds meant for herself that nonetheless set my nerves alight. Did she find me lacking? Was I too tall to be fashionable? And on top of it, I felt like a gawker, constantly trying to peer into her sleeves.

  She made a noise at me, which I took to mean I should raise my arms, and I did.

  "Mm," she said, looping the rope around my waist, then quick as a sparrow, she raised it to span my bust. "Is Your corset as tight as it goes?"

  "Yes, ma'am," I said, cutting a plaintive look in Zora's direction. She answered with a shrug.

  Mlle. Thierry hummed again, spanning my hips with the measure, before unfurling it to its full length and trailing it from my hip to my ankle. "Let's see your boots, Zelle van den Broek."

  Puzzled, I rucked my skirts in my hands, lifting them and sticking my foot out for her consideration. In my estimation, my boots were quite fine—nearly new kid leather accented with black ribbon, turned out with black glass buttons.

  But it seemed she cared less about the fineness of the construction than she did the height of the heel. "Not a full inch," she told herself, then stood. "Undress to the corset. Je me reviens."

  I said nothing; I only gaped at her, wide-eyed and openmouthed, as she bustled into the next room again. Though I heard her speaking to Mrs. Stewart, I was too shocked to understand either of them. "To the corset?"

  "Quit complaining," Zora said, on her feet again to help me. "I bet she's got a finished dress that might fit."

  Fingers numb, I clumsily worked my ties and hooks. "Whose?"

  "Yours, if we pay for it. If an order goes unclaimed, she'll sell it off at a discount. I got my cape that way." Zora gave me a pinch and squinted up at me. "Help me, you goose. This could be glorious."

  Or it could be a disaster. With wary hands, I bared myself to find out which.

  ***

  On Saturday Zora and I abandoned our aprons for our capes and fled to Druid Hill.

  "Cut across the lawn," Zora said, veering off the path and leaving me to follow or not. She wound through a cloud of toddlers in matching pinafores and bonnets. I scattered the darlings like little pink ducks, cutting down the middle and apologizing to their nurse as I passed.

  Down a slope toward the lake, Sarah waved at us, as Mattie squinted beneath her gloved hand. Settled on a blanket, they seemed almost at picnic, except for the longbow. A target stood behind them, and Sarah looked wonderfully athletic in a suit cut just for archery.

  "I wondered if you were coming," Sarah said, leaning in to press her cheek against Zora's and then mine.

  Mattie squeezed my hand, with no more grip than the weight of a butterfly. "How do you do, Amelia?"

  "Very well, thank you."

  Zora picked up a nude shaft, one encumbered by neither arrowhead nor feathers. With a wink to me, she told Sarah, "This won't do."

  "There are four in the quiver all ready," Sarah answered smartly.

  "One for each of us?" Zora asked, giving me a nudge as she peered at the fletch works spread out before us.

  "Is that how it's going to be? I bid you bring your quiver next time."

  Sinking down at once, Sarah reached for the brush she'd left in a pot of glue. Mattie offered her a half-finished arrow. Hand steady, Sarah painted a slow, fine thickness of glue, then reached blindly for a feather to lay on it.

  Zora took the longbow, hefting it until it curved neatly in her grip. "I'm showing Amelia how it's done. Have You seen anyone?"

  "The two of you and no one else. It's been lonely."

  Mattie sighed as she reached for another shaft. "I'm dreadfully slow when it comes to proper fletching."

  "Oh, is this meant to be proper fletching?" Zora said, before asking Sarah, "Then why aren't you sewing those on?"

  Sarah smirked. "If I wanted to sew, I would have stayed at home."

  Much like her mother, Zora herded me with a tap—she, however, did it with the yew crook of Sarah's bow. The wood gleamed, an inviting crescent that was nearly as tall as we. Plucking two arrows from the quiver, Zora handed one to me and nocked the other against the bowstring.

  "Like so," she said. She expected me to take in the details as she drew the string back. It hummed, the echo of a carillon when she released it, and the arrow gasped as it flew. It pierced the target in the biggest ring, hardly an ideal shot.

  "Very good!" Mattie exclaimed anyway, clapping softly.

  "Another," Zora said, holding out her hand for my arrow. "I have to get a feel for it."

  Hiccupping with laughter, Sarah said, "Is that your newest excuse?"

  Zora drew the string back again. "I'll have you know, I was made Flight Mistress that summer in Annapolis."

  "You were eight, and they were coddling you." Sarah's nose crinkled when she smiled at me, lazily waving the newly feathered shaft before her face as if it were a fan. "Our Zora, she's a terrible sport."

  "She just wants to do well," Mattie said, equivocating as she watched the latest shot fly.

  "Another!" Zora said, and cursed when this one went wider still. When she realized I had nothing to hand her, she stalked over and emptied the quiver. She posed and drew back once more, cursing when this shot flew true and straight—and missed the target entirely.

  "Fetch it," Sarah sang, laughing again when Zora pushed the bow into my hands. "This is but a taste of the glories of playing sports with Zora Stewart. Once she hit a lawn tennis ball so far off course, we never found it. Now we have to use a bed knob if we want a whole set."

  "I fear for the replacement birdies in your badminton kit," I said.

  Failing to grasp the sarcasm, Mattie said, "Oh, we use a bit of cotton st
uffed in leather."

  Since Zora hadn'tyet returned, I decided to try the bow. It refused a gentle tug, insisting on brute force to stretch it. A twinge cut my shoulder, and I gasped in shock at the weight of the string. I was so determined that I spun with the exertion, turning as if the bow were my rudder.

  Sarah ducked. "Keep it pointed away, please!"

  "Beg your pardon," I said with a wince. Steering myself back, I aimed at the straw-stuffed target and promptly dropped the arrow. A boon, I thought, for Zora popped up like a clockwork monkey from behind it, waving her retrieved prize.

  "Look what I found," she crowed, and when Nathaniel strolled up after her, I laughed.

  Sarah gaped. "Did You flush him out like a woodcock?"

  Nathaniel bowed to Sarah, his pursed lips twisting in a smile. "More like a turkey, I hazard. Miss Holbrook, a pleasure to see you again."

  "And you," she said, a hitch there at the end, which Nathaniel kindly filled with his name.

  His charm fit him as easily as his coat. Vulcan red with black velvet accents, silver buttons, and a white carnation pinned to the lapel—she should have called him a cardinal, and I intended to, if he ever noticed me. Mattie blushed a matching shade of scarlet when he took her hand.

  Finally, at last, he bowed to me. "The always enchanting Miss van den Broek."

  "Mr. Witherspoon." My voice came out unexpectedly soft.

  Leaning against the tree, Nathaniel burned through me with a look. "I can fit the arrow points, Miss Holbrook, if you like. Don't let me disturb your party."

  Zora brushed against my shoulder, murmuring as I raised the bow again. "He came out of nowhere, Amelia. I was entirely alone, and then... ffft, I was not."

  He's very tike that, I started to say, then remembered that I was pretending at competence. Struggling against the bow, I ordered it to stay true and still in my hand. Though I felt a tremor come through my arm when I pulled back the string, I ignored it and held my breath. But, perhaps, I forgot the most essential part of archery—my aim.

  When Zora whooped, I opened my eyes. My little arrow had barely struck the target, a hand span from the rings.

  "Very good, Amelia," Mattie said.

  Handing the bow to Zora, I ran to retrieve my arrow. I stopped beneath the tree's empty bower, very near Nathaniel, it so happened. A coincidence, entirely.

  "That was terrible," Nathaniel said, a honey murmur for my ears alone.

  Playing at pride, I brushed my cheek with the arrow's feathers and replied, "How sad that you're driven to mock my incredible prowess."

  "Head down," he said.

  Zora's shot bounced off the board and went careening into the distance again. From her vantage, Sarah covered her eyes and said, "I think it's gone in the trees."

  "Forgive my impertinence, ladies," Nathaniel said, looking around at us. "But have you considered a sport at which you might actually excel?"

  "Hold Your tongue, sir." Sarah held out her hand, waiting for him to take it and help her to her feet. When he did, she bowed, then plucked up the bow, sure as Artemis.

  Confiding, Mattie turned to us. "She's got a knack for it, watch."

  In the time it would have taken me to find the right end of the arrow, Sarah produced one from its leather case, drew it, and released it, a precise ballet set apart from our sorry attempts. The bowstring hummed, and Sarah's arrow whistled where ours had only whispered. It pierced the red inner ring of the target with a rush.

  Nathaniel flashed his hand at me, three fingers tipped with silver points. The motion distracted me, the way it captured light or the graceful way his fingers curled. Or maybe it was just that they were his fingers. I forgot myself for a moment gazing at them.

  He reached out, touching my chin with a cold point. "I believe she challenged you."

  "I believe she educated you," I said, but pushed off the tree all the same.

  "Take a breath," Sarah advised, passing the bow into my hands. "Keep Your eyes open, then exhale as you release."

  The very idea that I should be steady made me want to laugh. Nathaniel unsettled me when I held nothing more complicated than an oyster fork. Wasting time before I had to show myself inept again, I looked about and called, "Zora?"

  "I can't find the blasted thing," she called back, straggling into sight in the distance.

  Nathaniel said, "Is that a lady or a longshoreman?"

  "In Baltimore, there's hardly any difference," Sarah answered.

  Exasperated, I dropped the bow to my side and turned to them. "Both of you, for shame, I'm concentrating here."

  Giggling softly, Mattie leaned her head on Sarah's shoulder to watch. Sarah, though, reached for her pot of glue once more, and said, "Should I do it for you, Amelia? I'd be happy to proxy if there's some point to be made."

  "Thank You, no," I said, and posed once more.

  Emulating Sarah, I pulled the string back with all my might. A surge rose in me like the scent of fresh earth but more primal. Like determination, only it spilled not from my thoughts but from my blood, my very bones. I breathed. I opened my eyes wide, and I fired.

  A terrible scream rent the air. Inhuman and shrill, it crushed the breath right out of me. I threw the bow down and ran toward the target—begging, pleading, praying that somehow my arrow had not found its way into Zora's innocent flesh.

  Sarah and Nathaniel rushed up behind me and caught me when I staggered. My prayers had been horribly answered—the arrow hadn't found the target or Zora's flesh.

  Instead, it pierced the breast of a struggling dove.

  Its feathers blossomed scarlet all around the wound. It flapped helplessly, unable to fly. Suddenly, Mattie appeared at my elbow. She pulled my head against her shoulder, hiding me from the destruction I'd wrought.

  "I'll take care of the poor beast," Nathaniel said.

  I couldn't think; I couldn't breathe. I could only hear that tortured scream, ringing again and again in my ears, and I cried.

  Eight

  IT'S STUPID, ISN'T IT?" I asked, bundled by the stove in my housedress, pearl-handled brush in hand. Zora sat at my feet, the full length of her hair spread in my lap. "I've done hens at home for dinner and cleaned fishes and hares."

  "But when it's a hen, you meant to—that's the difference, I think."

  Sunset glanced through our window, dipping Zora in a gold and crimson glow. When I closed my eyes, I saw her turned in a waltz again, lilies on her shoulders. I could all but hear the strains of violins this time. Before the waking world slipped from me, I shook off the vision.

  Turning to my iron clasps, I considered them as they heated on the stove in a row. To change the subject somewhat, I asked, "Will there be another dance soon?"

  "Twice a month, this sort, another two in Annapolis if we can convince Papa to drive," she said, scratching her nails against her knees in quiet anticipation.

  I consulted the magazine splayed open on the table, then snatched a searing pin from the row. Waving it a few times, I pinched off a section of Zora's hair and rolled it quickly, before I blistered or she singed.

  "I'm sorry to miss it, Zora. I wish I weren't so nervous."

  Zora made no attempt to hide her discontent with me. She flicked a gaze back and said, "I'm sorry you're such a goose."

  Consulting the sketch again, I squinted at the strange direction the next pin should take but followed it nonetheless. "I'm just so unsettled. How could I strike it? I didn't even see it!"

  Tipping her head back in my lap, Zora peered at me. "It was a lucky shot, nothing more."

  "How lucky I feel," I said, pushing her off my lap so I could brush out the next bit of her hair.

  Mrs. Stewart backed into the kitchen. "Out of my way!"

  "We're sitting at the stove, Mama," Zora called back irritably. She chafed so at the oddest things, and I found them all endearing. To be so familiar with a mother that one could say any stray thought or vexation—I envied it. But I envied it sweetly; my heart was glad to be a part of it.

/>   "Ungrateful You," Mrs. Stewart admonished, then stopped at the counter.

  At first, it seemed she'd unfurled a literal white flag. But this one had the effect of sending Zora to her feet with a strangled cry. She rushed over, half-pinned, half-dressed, and raised the sleeves of an Irish lace polonaise.

  Then at once, she dropped the sleeves. Crushing the new dress between them in her exuberance, Zora threw her arms around Mrs. Stewart. "Mama, you didn't!"

  "More the fool I, I did." Mrs. Stewart didn't sound as though she felt a fool, though. Her face shone with delight over Zora's shoulder.

  When she stepped back to shake the gown out, she tsked and ticked over it. It was a spectacle, luxurious silk and lace falling in a wonderment of fashion.

  "Oh, thank you! Oh, you've gone mad! Can you put it in my room, please?" Zora asked, then turned back to me. "Amelia, now you have to go."

  I shook my head. "Honestly, I don't think I feel up to it."

  "Couldn't you change your mind?" Zora asked, sweeping back to me. She dropped to the floor, rather abruptly I thought. She slipped her arms beneath her hair, raising it all up at once to spill in my lap again. "Just to see it through?"

  I felt the prickle of my portent as I reached for the brush. Call it pride, but if she waltzed with Thomas in her unexpected dress, I wanted to see it. How could I miss the chance to see my only premonition come true?

  Winding her hair slowly around my hand to finish the pinning, I hesitated. "All right..."

  "I win again," Zora cried, clapping her hands together.

  "All right, but I don't intend to dance," I said. I tugged her hair, then reached for my next pin. I put the wounded dove from my mind, setting those thoughts to waltz steps instead.

  Baltimore had a way of demolishing my good intentions, and I suspected I might end the night with a dance, after all.

  ***

  Veiled by linden trees, the mansion on Garden Lane welcomed us with glowing gas lamps. This fine place belonged to a judge, and his friendship with Zora's father gave us entry.

  "May I take your coats?" the doorman asked. Turning gracefully, Zora slipped from her manteau, then surrendered her umbrella. I shied from him, taking in the rich wood walls, the pure perfection of arched ceilings.