Waistcoats & Weaponry
Page 24
All attention instantly turned to Sophronia and Dimity, much to Petunia’s annoyance. Petunia was Sophronia’s nearest older sister and, in consequence, a trial.
“Oh, Sophronia, is it true?” asked one of Petunia’s silly friends.
“Of course it’s true, isn’t it always,” replied Sophronia, depositing her shawl and sundry unnecessary luggage in a pile on a settee. Bumbersnoot, lost under the mounds, seemed content to stay quiet. Dimity put her assorted garments on top.
Petunia bustled over, clucking. “What on earth has happened to your hair, sister?”
“I traveled all day in an open cart in the rain!” Sophronia snapped.
Petunia always treated Sophronia as if she were still ten. At Dimity’s startled look, Sophronia realized she was usually better at holding her temper, and took a deep breath, reaching for her training. She would outclass her sister if it killed her.
Petunia continued to cluck and fuss. Soon a gaggle of girls joined her, attacking Sophronia’s flattened locks with curlers and rags, pins and puffs, falls and flowers. Sophronia stood composed under their siege. Of course, she knew what they wanted of her, but she was not going to make it easy. She allowed them to guide her to a chair in front of a looking glass without offer of information.
Dimity, ignored, drifted to a corner and popped open her carpetbag to extract her costume. It was a modification of her favorite gold ball gown. She’d ordered a new evening bodice for it and added crystals about the neckline in a gearlike pattern. The shape of the skirt, paired with copious gold jewelry, including an ornate tiara, made her look like the queen of mechanicals. It was a lovely effect with her pale complexion and riotous curls—Dimity did not need the benefit of curling tongs. Having donned a smooth mechanical-like mask, she looked enchanting, entirely guileless, and completely trustworthy. She had learned well how to manipulate with clothing. There was something so unthreatening about household mechanicals. Dimity had managed to trade on that fact and still look regal. Sophronia wished she could carry off such a costume.
Sophronia let her sister’s friends fuss. Only she knew that her hair was destined to be scraped back into a severe bun. Best let them have their fun. Behind the group, on the settee, Bumbersnoot awakened. Their pile of garments was weaving erratically. Sophronia drew attention away from him by answering questions.
“Sophronia, what we want to know is, is it true that you’ve brought two eligible members of the peerage with you?” Petunia had no subtlety.
“Dear sister, that should entirely depend on what you mean by eligible.”
“Stop being coy, young lady.”
There was a vast difference between coy and evasive, and Sophronia dearly wanted to instruct but said instead, “I have brought Viscount Mersey and Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott. So far as I know, neither is affianced. For Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott’s part, you might ask his sister. Although he is still young. Even Lord Mersey has not gained his majority.”
The ladies sighed in disappointment.
Sophronia took that as an opportunity to extract herself from their clutches and rummage through her own carpetbag. She also reached under the mackintosh pile and pulled out Bumbersnoot the reticule.
“Be still, you,” she hissed at him.
“What is that hideous thing?” demanded Petunia.
“Oh, dear sister, don’t you know? This is the very latest in animal-shaped reticules out of Italy. You don’t mean to tell me you are that out of touch with the current modes? How sad for you to be trapped in the countryside.”
Petunia said, through her teeth, “Of course I heard of the craze, but I should not think myself so lacking in individuality as to adopt an accessory simply because it is the latest thing in some backwater foreign country!”
“It is the latest thing in London as well, or didn’t you know even that much?” Sophronia was going to run with it. Bumbersnoot, for his part, remained perfectly still, like a good little dog. Although she thought she saw a twinkle of mischief in his jet eyes. She put him carefully under the settee, and then draped a shawl over the edge, as if protecting him from the avarice in the eyes of those around her. It would give Bumbersnoot a chance to explore discreetly.
Sophronia would have wagered her best robe à transformation that Petunia wanted nothing so much at that moment as to go to finishing school herself.
The girls around her murmured in distress as Sophronia began to dress.
“You don’t have to wear that, do you?” said one.
Sophronia had begged an old dress from Sister Mattie. It was black and severe and could be thought a mourning gown, it was so plain. Over the last few weeks she had tailored it into a narrow silhouette, most unfashionable.
“Sophronia, dear, it’s so ugly!” remonstrated Petunia.
Sophronia pulled it on. She looked well in black, and as a young lady with no deaths in the family, she rarely had the opportunity to wear it. It went on easily. Sister Mattie did not employ a lady’s maid, so all of her dresses fastened up the front. But what Sophronia, Dimity, Agatha, and Sidheag had spent their free time doing to that dress was ingenious.
They had cut it in and down at the collar so that Sophronia wore it over a white blouse. Both were low enough, however, to show a goodly amount of cle**age. Sophronia had very nice cle**age and was under orders from Mademoiselle Geraldine to take advantage of it. One never knows when one might need to hide or distract; décolletage is good for both. Hers were nothing on Mademoiselle Geraldine’s own considerable assets, but then, whose were? The bodice was tailored all the way to her waist, nipped in further with a wide, stiff leather belt. The effect was almost like a blacksmith’s apron, giving Sophronia a utilitarian, masculine look. The white underskirt was full enough to disguise the fact that it was actually divided down the middle and could act as trousers if necessary. Over this was draped the skirt of the black gown, split up each side so it looked even more apronlike. To it they had sewn multiple pockets in shades of black and gray, in variable sizes, largest and lightest at the bottom, smallest and darkest near the waist, forming a pattern. In those pockets Sophronia had stashed useful objects. Not that she expected trouble, but she had the pockets so she might as well use them.
“Oh, Sophronia, is it true?” asked one of Petunia’s silly friends.
“Of course it’s true, isn’t it always,” replied Sophronia, depositing her shawl and sundry unnecessary luggage in a pile on a settee. Bumbersnoot, lost under the mounds, seemed content to stay quiet. Dimity put her assorted garments on top.
Petunia bustled over, clucking. “What on earth has happened to your hair, sister?”
“I traveled all day in an open cart in the rain!” Sophronia snapped.
Petunia always treated Sophronia as if she were still ten. At Dimity’s startled look, Sophronia realized she was usually better at holding her temper, and took a deep breath, reaching for her training. She would outclass her sister if it killed her.
Petunia continued to cluck and fuss. Soon a gaggle of girls joined her, attacking Sophronia’s flattened locks with curlers and rags, pins and puffs, falls and flowers. Sophronia stood composed under their siege. Of course, she knew what they wanted of her, but she was not going to make it easy. She allowed them to guide her to a chair in front of a looking glass without offer of information.
Dimity, ignored, drifted to a corner and popped open her carpetbag to extract her costume. It was a modification of her favorite gold ball gown. She’d ordered a new evening bodice for it and added crystals about the neckline in a gearlike pattern. The shape of the skirt, paired with copious gold jewelry, including an ornate tiara, made her look like the queen of mechanicals. It was a lovely effect with her pale complexion and riotous curls—Dimity did not need the benefit of curling tongs. Having donned a smooth mechanical-like mask, she looked enchanting, entirely guileless, and completely trustworthy. She had learned well how to manipulate with clothing. There was something so unthreatening about household mechanicals. Dimity had managed to trade on that fact and still look regal. Sophronia wished she could carry off such a costume.
Sophronia let her sister’s friends fuss. Only she knew that her hair was destined to be scraped back into a severe bun. Best let them have their fun. Behind the group, on the settee, Bumbersnoot awakened. Their pile of garments was weaving erratically. Sophronia drew attention away from him by answering questions.
“Sophronia, what we want to know is, is it true that you’ve brought two eligible members of the peerage with you?” Petunia had no subtlety.
“Dear sister, that should entirely depend on what you mean by eligible.”
“Stop being coy, young lady.”
There was a vast difference between coy and evasive, and Sophronia dearly wanted to instruct but said instead, “I have brought Viscount Mersey and Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott. So far as I know, neither is affianced. For Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott’s part, you might ask his sister. Although he is still young. Even Lord Mersey has not gained his majority.”
The ladies sighed in disappointment.
Sophronia took that as an opportunity to extract herself from their clutches and rummage through her own carpetbag. She also reached under the mackintosh pile and pulled out Bumbersnoot the reticule.
“Be still, you,” she hissed at him.
“What is that hideous thing?” demanded Petunia.
“Oh, dear sister, don’t you know? This is the very latest in animal-shaped reticules out of Italy. You don’t mean to tell me you are that out of touch with the current modes? How sad for you to be trapped in the countryside.”
Petunia said, through her teeth, “Of course I heard of the craze, but I should not think myself so lacking in individuality as to adopt an accessory simply because it is the latest thing in some backwater foreign country!”
“It is the latest thing in London as well, or didn’t you know even that much?” Sophronia was going to run with it. Bumbersnoot, for his part, remained perfectly still, like a good little dog. Although she thought she saw a twinkle of mischief in his jet eyes. She put him carefully under the settee, and then draped a shawl over the edge, as if protecting him from the avarice in the eyes of those around her. It would give Bumbersnoot a chance to explore discreetly.
Sophronia would have wagered her best robe à transformation that Petunia wanted nothing so much at that moment as to go to finishing school herself.
The girls around her murmured in distress as Sophronia began to dress.
“You don’t have to wear that, do you?” said one.
Sophronia had begged an old dress from Sister Mattie. It was black and severe and could be thought a mourning gown, it was so plain. Over the last few weeks she had tailored it into a narrow silhouette, most unfashionable.
“Sophronia, dear, it’s so ugly!” remonstrated Petunia.
Sophronia pulled it on. She looked well in black, and as a young lady with no deaths in the family, she rarely had the opportunity to wear it. It went on easily. Sister Mattie did not employ a lady’s maid, so all of her dresses fastened up the front. But what Sophronia, Dimity, Agatha, and Sidheag had spent their free time doing to that dress was ingenious.
They had cut it in and down at the collar so that Sophronia wore it over a white blouse. Both were low enough, however, to show a goodly amount of cle**age. Sophronia had very nice cle**age and was under orders from Mademoiselle Geraldine to take advantage of it. One never knows when one might need to hide or distract; décolletage is good for both. Hers were nothing on Mademoiselle Geraldine’s own considerable assets, but then, whose were? The bodice was tailored all the way to her waist, nipped in further with a wide, stiff leather belt. The effect was almost like a blacksmith’s apron, giving Sophronia a utilitarian, masculine look. The white underskirt was full enough to disguise the fact that it was actually divided down the middle and could act as trousers if necessary. Over this was draped the skirt of the black gown, split up each side so it looked even more apronlike. To it they had sewn multiple pockets in shades of black and gray, in variable sizes, largest and lightest at the bottom, smallest and darkest near the waist, forming a pattern. In those pockets Sophronia had stashed useful objects. Not that she expected trouble, but she had the pockets so she might as well use them.
