Ivette stared at the gilded wooden sculpture of a sheep hanging from a post on the front of the inn. “So, this is where we'll be staying?”
Her stepmother nodded. “It's the newest inn in the city. Nothing but the best for Henry de Greystoke and his beautiful daughters. We can afford it on your grandfather's credit if your father is delayed. Now stop gawping, it's unseemly. We're just stopping long enough for Marcel to unload our luggage to the curb, and then we'll be going straight to the dressmaker's shop.”
“To see a seamstress? But the sun's already set!” Ivette groaned. She'd been looking forward to resting her aching behind on pillows that didn't jolt and jostle over every bump in the road and eating dinner after a long day riding in the carriage with her stepmother and stepsisters. The annoying woman was only five years older than her, but tried to boss her around just as if she was her real mother.
“We were lucky enough to get an early appointment. Madame Percy is just from London and she keeps night hours. Very fashionable. I can't wait to get the girls dolled up in the latest mode,” her stepmother said, patting her own dress. “You, too. We've got to get you noticed. What with the coronation, this town is full of eligible bachelors, not least the duke himself!”
Ivette rolled her eyes. More likely, her stepmother was looking forward to getting the latest in fashion for herself, with her two little blonde brats as matching accessories. At least Ivette would end up with a new dress herself in the bargain. She held onto that thought as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, adding to the soreness of her seat. She'd miss her father if she got married and moved out, but she wouldn't miss her stepmother. Or her annoying little stepsisters.
To be fair, small children were all annoying. It was a sort of stage people went through, only some of them, like her stepmother, never seemed to outgrow it. How her father put up with such an annoying woman was beyond Ivette's understanding. Her conscious level of understanding, that is; on a deeper level that she preferred not to admit aloud, it was clear to her that he'd chosen her stepmother to fill his bed rather than to keep his household in good order.
On arriving at the shop, Ivette followed her stepmother out of the carriage, massaging her bruised behind. The shop was lit with dim lanterns. Madame Percy had the pallid complexion of those suffering from the aristocratic disease, a bright daub of crimson lipstick falsely suggesting that she had dined before receiving her customers. She smiled, kissing Ivette's stepmother on both cheeks as if the two were already acquainted by more than a letter. There was a brief and cryptic discussion of color and styles, carried out entirely in French.
Ivette tuned them out and wandered the room, browsing through a mixture of uncut cloth, partly assembled dresses, and fully complete gowns hung on wooden frames. Her stepsisters trailed after her, letting out little oohs and ahs as they fingered pieces of cloth with interesting textures. She was eyeing an emerald-colored gown when Madame Percy called for her.
“Your mother has selected styles, but I must measure you,” the dressmaker said, with a thick (if obviously fake) accent.
“I don't get to pick out the color?” Ivette asked.
“Non,” Madame Percy said. “Not unless you are the one who holds the purse.” She waved at Ivette's stepmother, who lay sleepily on a couch, looking pale and wan. A discreet cloth bandage was wrapped around her wrist. “You will look as she wishes you to look. Do not fret, dumpling, the men will want to drink you right up. You and your friend Gelle both.”
“Who is Gelle?” Ivette asked.
“Oh, it is my fault, I should not have assumed! Gelle was here yesternight; she also asked for her dress to be sent to the Golden Fleece by the next Friday, and also asked for the same style with the feeder neckline, though she is getting the left-handed version,” Madame Percy said, her hands fluttering. “It was all the rage in London two years ago, but it is still very new here in York. Now, raise your arms, dumpling, I must have accurate measurements.”
Ivette blinked. Her old dress was pooled on the floor at her feet, her arms fully extended and tingling, and Madame Percy was turned away from her, carefully packing away her tape measure. “Are you done already?”
“Yes,” Madame Percy said. “You may put your old thing back on. Your mother has already gone to wake your carriage driver back up. I will have your dress sent over as soon as it is ready.”
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Gelle pinned back her unruly blonde hair and looked at herself in the mirror. The stark white of the bare left side of her neck did draw the eye in contrast to the deep maroon of the gown, a daring display opening wide to show one entire collarbone and then narrowing and curving. The tip of the crescent just barely crossed the centerline of her chest, as it was supposed to do. She'd seen dresses like that when she'd seen the London season two years ago. When she'd asked for a dress like that then, her mother had sternly shaken her head.
Hopefully my mother won’t make me send it back, she thought, worrying briefly. They'd simply sent her to the dressmaker's late one night with a footman and a letter of credit, telling her that she needed to look her very best when the ball came. She'd spent a long time choosing the right fabric, and the color, and the design. She'd tried to pick a color that would stand out without looking garish, but she was worried her parents might still make her send it back.
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It was a beautiful gown. Surely, they’d understand if it was a little more risque than anything she’d owned before; such things were in fashion. Gelle and her older brother Simon had seen much more revealing versions in London. Perhaps better not to mention London, she thought to herself, smoothing the gown nervously over her legs. Besides, they trusted me to pick it, they can’t possibly say no without embarrassment.
She walked out of the bedroom with a smile, ready to show her parents, and then froze. Coming out of the room on the other end of the hallway was another young woman, wearing a dress that was nearly the mirror of her own, only more daringly fashionable. The other woman had hair that was straight and light brown.
The color of the other woman’s gown was a brilliant crimson, with goldwork embroidery around the edges of the feeder neckline and the hem. The eye-catching hemline was, she noted, daringly high, displaying nearly half of the woman's calf. Gelle was immediately jealous of the other woman's dress. Her parents would never have picked something so daring and fashionable.
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As the strange young woman stared at Ivette, Ivette stared back. Ivette had known that two packages had shown up together from Madame Percy's, and this led to the conclusion that the stranger standing across from her must be the Gelle that Madame Percy had mentioned. Gelle’s dress was nearly the mirror of Ivette's, only more elegant and subdued.
The color was a dark maroon edged with black embroidery that left the eye focused on the woman herself behind the feeder neck rather than the dress itself. Bright blonde hair and pale milky flesh stood out all the more clearly against the dark edges of the dress. The hemline barely allowed a glimpse of the ankles, hinting at rather than boldly displaying the curves of her calves. Ivette’s stepmother would never have bought something so tasteful and elegant.
“Well met,” Ivette said, dipping her head in a curtsy. “My name is Ivette de Greystoke. You must be the other woman Madame Percy told me about when I was measured for my dress. You look truly marvelous. Will you also be wearing yours at Isolde's ball?”
“Yes,” Gelle said, chewing her lip nervously. “I am Gelle, milady. I've seen you around in the dining room, from a distance. You look marvelous as well. I am afraid I will look like a dim shadow next to you at the ball. You'd be Baron Greystoke's daughter?”
“I am,” Ivette said. “Far from making you a dim shadow, your dress is both elegant and tasteful. I daresay I like it better than my own. We’re of a size. But if you’re of a variant opinion on the subject… would you like to trade?”
Gelle chewed her lip nervously again. “I was worried my parents might find this one too daring… I think yours would put my mother into conniptions.”
“If they do disapprove, I promise I’ll confess my wicked deed and we’ll switch back,” Ivette said, holding up her hand and crossing her fingers.
“You promise?” Gelle stared down at the brilliant gilt-edged crimson, imagining how it might look on her.
“On my honor as a Greystoke,” Ivette said.
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Ivette's stepmother narrowed her eyes. “Why is that girl wearing your dress?” she asked. “And what is that drab copy you're wearing? Was there some mix-up with the packages? You, there, girl, take off that dress immediately, it doesn't belong to you.”
Gelle flinched, looking over at Ivette.
“It was my idea to trade dresses,” Ivette said, stepping in front of Gelle defensively. “She's not a thief, and it was no mistake. I like this one better.”
Her stepmother shook her head. “That dress does not belong to you, Ivette. That dress belongs to Henry de Greystoke. I know you're not stupid, child, so don't play dumb with me.”
Gelle looked down at her dress, then at Ivette.
“You think I'm not stupid?” Ivette said, momentarily taken off-guard by the unexpected revelation that her stepmother held a positive opinion of her intellect.
“Of course not,” her stepmother said. “I wouldn't call you stupid, simply misguided. But I do think you're acting childish, and I will not tolerate childishness at your age. Go take that dress off and give it to the girl who owns it.”
Ivette frowned. “I don't want to take it off. I like it. It’s much nicer.”
“Take it off!” her stepmother shouted, slapping Ivette across the face.
With a bright red handprint fading into view on her cheek, Ivette looked down at the dress and sighed. She closed her eyes as she took off her dress, only re-opening them after she let the dress fall to the floor. Gelle nervously followed suit.
“Off with you, girl,” Ivette's stepmother said to Gelle. Gelle slipped the discarded maroon dress over her head and fled the room, giving Ivette one last glance over her shoulder.
Ivette crossed her arms defiantly. “You can't make me wear it," she said. "It’s immodest and tasteless.”
“You'll wear it or you won't go to the ball at all,” her stepmother said, stepping forward until her face was inches from Ivette’s. “You may be the daughter of a baron, but you are not royalty, and you will obey me.”
Ivette's face fell. “But…”
“No buts! Now, put your new dress on. I want to make sure it fits you right,” her stepmother said. “Madame Percy took measurements, but in my experience, dresses often need adjustments. With your personality being what it is, you'll need to look absolutely ravishing to get yourself a husband.”
Ivette nodded meekly, her heart sinking; then turned and picked up the crimson dress, slipping it back on. She adjusted the neckline, then the hem, and then she turned back to her stepmother, spinning around slowly in place.
“It fits perfectly, Mother,” she said, in a sullen monotone.
Her stepmother sniffed. “Stand still and hold your arms straight out. Chin straight.”
Ivette felt humiliated as her stepmother poked and prodded her body, tugging at the dress here and there.
“We could take it in a little bit here. It'll make your breasts look as though they're ready to jump right out of the feeder neckline. We can also hem it to bring your calves into clearer view. Halfway is fashionable, but we need daring and dazzling,” her stepmother said. “Enough visible flesh to draw eyes will eclipse your childish attitude, and your father's good reputation should help still the jealous tongues of your rivals.”
A wash of humiliation flushed Ivette’s face a solid pink color, obscuring the fading handprint on her cheek.