The Gates of Sleep (16 page)

In a little more than an hour, they reached the town of
Holsworthy. It had a main street, it had shops, not the single, all-purpose
little grocers, dry goods, and post office run by Peter Hunter and his wife
Rosie. It even had a town square with a fountain in it, which had a practical
purpose rather than an ornamental one. It provided water for anyone who didn’t
have it in their house, and for man and beast on the street.

Cobblestone streets led off the main road, with the houses
and shop buildings clustering closely together, huddling together like a flock
of chickens in a roost at night. Marina had been here before, usually twice or
three times in a year. There was an annual wool fair, for instance, that they
never missed if they could help it. Uncle Sebastian ordered some of his
artistic supplies here from the stationer, and Uncle Thomas some of the exotic
woods he used to make inlays. This was where Aunt Margherita got her special
tapestry wool as well as her embroidery silks.

Of course, there were things that could not be bought in
Holsworthy; for those, Sebastian or Thomas went to Plymouth, or even to London,
perhaps once every two years.

“While we’re here, oughtn’t we to do
other Christmas shopping, especially since Uncle Sebastian and Uncle Thomas
aren’t with us?” Marina asked, “I wanted to get them books,
and there’s a lovely bookshop.”

“Exactly what I had thought.” Margherita pulled
the pony up to let a farm cart cross in front of her, then reined him toward
the fountain. The pony, nothing loath, went straight for the basin and buried
his nose in the water. Margherita and Marina got down out of the cart, and
Margherita led the pony and cart to the single inn in town. It also had a
stable, and the pony could wait there in comfort and safety while they did
their shopping.

The sign on the shop and in the window read, “Madame
Deremiere, Modiste.” Now there was no Madam Deremiere, and had not been
within the memory of anyone living in Holsworthy. Probably the lady in question
had been an asylum seeker from the Great Revolution, or perhaps Napoleon. The
current seamstress (also, by courtesy, called “Madame”) was the
apprentice of her apprentice, at the very least.

The first task before them, once the greetings and
mandatory cup of tea had been disposed of, was the selection of
material—and here, sadly, the selection was definitely
not
what
it would have been in Plymouth. There was no emerald wool like that of the suit
that Marina had coveted. The choice of fabric was, frankly, limited to the sort
of thing that the well-to-do yeoman farmer’s wife or merchant’s
wife would want, which tended to either the dull or the flamboyant.

There was, however, a wonderful soft brown wool plush that
Marina could see Margherita had fallen in love with. She resolved the moment
that her aunt’s back was turned to purchase it and hide it in the back of
the cart. In the colors that she preferred, there was a green velvet that was
both utterly impractical and far too expensive, a pale green linen that was too
light for a winter suit and an olive green wool that had too much yellow in it.
She was about to give up, when Margherita said, “But what about gray?
Something soft, though, like that brown plush. Something with a firm hand, but
a soft texture.”

“I do have some gray woolens like that; I ordered
them thinking that I might convince some of the ladies to commission me to
tailor some little boys’ suits, but nothing came of it,” the
seamstress replied, and went to the rear of her establishment.

Of the three choices, there was a woolen in a dove gray
that Marina loved the moment she touched it. It was soft and weighty, a little
like fine sueded leather. “Oh, that’s merino, that is,” the
woman said. “Lovely stuff. Too dear for Holsworthy, though; if a lady of
this town is going to spend that sort of money on a suit for her little boy,
she’ll go up a bit and have it done in velvet. Not as much difference in
price, you see, when you’re only using two yards or so.”

“And how ‘dear’ would that be?”
Margherita asked, settling in for a shrewd session of
bargaining—Christmas present or no, she had never bought anything without
a stiff bargaining session, and she clearly wasn’t about to break that
habit.

In the end, by pointing out a couple of odd places where a
moth had gotten to the fabric, and making the case that since the lady was
getting not only the price of the fabric but the commission to make it up,
Margherita got her price. Then it was time to pick the design. Out came the
pattern-books and sketches, and now Margherita excused herself. “I am not
going to attempt to influence your choice, my dear,” she said with a
smile. “I want you to pick what you want, not what you think I think you
should have. And I know I’ll try to influence you, so I’ll return
in an hour or so.”

And with that, she picked up her gloves and donned her
cloak, and left Marina alone with the seamstress.

“And what do you want, miss?” the seamstress
asked, with hint both of humor and just a little apprehension.

“Oh,” Marina paused. “Lady Hastings, a
friend of ours, had the most Beautiful suit with a trumpet-skirt and a
train—”

She saw the apprehension growing, and knew that her aunt
had been right; this seamstress in a small town was not at all confident of her
ability to replicate something that a person like Lady Hastings could purchase.

“And I thought, something
like
that, but
much simpler,” she finished. She looked through the first few pages of “walking
suits” and “resort dresses” and suddenly her eye alighted on
a design that was precisely what she wanted, a jacket fastening to the side
instead of down the middle. “Like this!” she said, laying her
finger on it, “But without the trimming.”

It was labeled as a “walking suit” as well; it
had a lappet collar and a double skirt, and in the sketch, was trimmed quite
elegantly and elaborately. But the lines were simple and very tailored, the
skirt less of a train than Elizabeth’s, and so a little old-fashioned,
but to Marina’s eyes it looked a little more graceful.

“Without the trimming…” The apprehension
was replaced by relief, as Marina watched the woman mentally removing soutache
and lace, pin tucks and ribbon. “Yes, indeed, miss; that’s a very
good choice, and if you don’t mind my saying so, it will look very well
on you.” She marked the sketch and laid the book aside with the fabric. “Now,
let’s get you measured.”

It wasn’t quite that simple. First, Marina had to be
laced into the new-style corset that the suit required. And she had gone
un-corseted for so long that the only one she’d had up to this point had
been bought when she was fourteen and still looked brand new. She hadn’t
worn it more than once or twice, and both times she had needed help to get into
it.

It was something of an ordeal, although the modiste
helpfully taught her how to manage on her own. So at least when she got it
home, she’d be able to get into it!

“I hope you aren’t wanting a fifteen-inch
waist, miss,” the seamstress said frankly, looking from the corset in her
hands to Marina in drawers and camisole and back again. “You’ll
never get it.”

“I’m wanting to be able to move and breathe,”
Marina replied feeling a certain amount of dread at the sight of the thing, all
steel boning and bootlaces. “My aunt doesn’t believe in tight
lacing, and neither do I. I just want to look right in this new dress.”

“Oh! Well, then you’ll do all right,” the
woman laughed. She unhooked the basque and handed the garment to Marina, who
put it on, hooked the front back up again, one little steel hook at a time, and
turned her back so that the seamstress could tighten the laces. “You’ll
be doing this with the wall-hook I told you about, miss,” the modiste
said, deftly pulling the laces tight, but not uncomfortably so. “Just
have someone put one into a beam, and you won’t need a lady’s maid.”

When the woman was done, it felt rather like she’d
been encased in a hard shell, or was wearing armor. It wasn’t
uncomfortable, in fact, it made her back feel quite nicely supported, but she
definitely wouldn’t be able to run in a garment like this. But a glance
at the mirror showed a gratifyingly slim figure, and if she didn’t have a
fifteen-inch waist, she didn’t particularly want to look like a wasp,
either.

The seamstress, measuring tape and notebook in hand, went
to work.

She was
very
thorough. She measured everything
three times, presumably to make sure she got the measurement right, and it
seemed as if she measured every part of Marina’s body. Wrists, the widest
part of the forearm, biceps, shoulder-joint, neck. From shoulder to shoulder across
the back and across the front. Bust, under the bust, waist, hips, just below
the hips. From nape to center of the back. From nape of the neck to the ground.
She even measured each calf, each thigh, and each ankle, though Marina couldn’t
imagine how she’d use those measurements, and said so.

“It all goes in my book, my dear,” the woman
told her. “Some day you might want a cycling costume, for instance, and I’ll
have the measurements right here.”

Marina couldn’t think of anything less likely, but
held her peace as the seamstress unlaced her corset and helped her out of it.
For the first time she realized just how very comfortable her aunt’s
gowns were.

But she still wanted that suit. Already in her mind, she
was planning the trimming that she and her aunt would put on it. Black, of
course—black would look wonderful on the gray wool.

She paid for the brown wool herself, out of the
pocket-money her parents had sent before they went to Italy. After a quick
survey of the street to make sure that Margherita was not on the way, she
hurried across to the inn and hid her purchase under the old rugs they kept in
the pony cart in case it became too cold. Then she hurried back to the
seamstress, and was looking over sketches of garden-party dresses when her aunt
returned.

“Well, how did it go?” Margherita asked.

“I’m finished,” Marina said, with
triumph. “Look, this is what I picked—without the trimming. I have
some ideas—”

“Hmm! And so do I! That’s a fine choice of
design. Well done, poppet!” Marina beamed in Margherita’s approval.
“When should we return for the fitting?” she asked, turning to the
seamstress.

“Not sooner than a week,” the woman replied
promptly. “Now, that suit rightly needs a shirtwaist—did you have
anything in mind for that?”

“This, I think,” Margherita told her, turning
back to the shirtwaists and pointing out a simple, but elegant design with a
high collar and a lace jabot that could be tied in many ways, or left off
altogether. “Two in white cambric, and one in dove-gray silk, and we’ll
want enough extra fabric to make three jabots for each.”

Marina stared. “But—Aunt—I thought my old
shirtwaists—”

“Nonsense, a new suit demands new shirtwaists.”
Margherita bargained again, but with the unexpected sale of the brown wool
plush, the seamstress was feeling generous, and let her have her way after only
a token struggle.

They left the shop arm-in-arm and headed up the street. “Luncheon
first, I think,” Margherita said, steering Mari in the direction of a
teashop. “It’s
our
day out, and I think we’ll spend
it like ladies. A proper lady’s luncheon, and none of those thick
ham-and-butter sandwiches your uncles want!”

Marina giggled, but wasn’t going to argue. She could
count the number of times she’d eaten in a teashop on the fingers of one
hand; it was a rare treat, and she was bound to enjoy it.

“Well, Mari, are you happy with your present?”
Margherita asked, when they were settled, with porcelain cups of tea steaming
in front of them, and a tempting selection of dainty little sandwiches arranged
on a three-tiered plate between them.

“Oh, Aunt—” Marina sighed. “I can’t
tell you how much!”

Margherita just smiled. “Well, in that case, I think
we should complete the job. What do you say to a new hat, gloves, and shoes to
go with it all? Your mother sent a real surprise, but I’ve hidden it, and
you’ll just have to wait.”

Marina had no thoughts for future surprises in the face of
present generosity. “But—Aunt Margherita—isn’t all
that—expensive?” she faltered.

Margherita laughed. “All right, I’ll confess.
This year I finally convinced your mother to entrust the purchase of at least
some of your Christmas presents to me. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be
able to give your Uncle Sebastian his usual largesse of painting supplies, but
I pointed out, providentially it seems, that you were getting older and
probably would start to need a more extensive wardrobe than
I
could
produce. And that your mother, not being here, could hardly be expected to
purchase anything for you that would actually fit. So although some of this is
from us, the rest will be from Alanna and Hugh.”

“Ah.” She nibbled the corner off a
potted-shrimp sandwich, much relieved. “In that case—”

Margherita laughed. “I know that look! And I knew
very well that you would be more tempted by the bookstore than the seamstress!”

She flushed. “But I
would
like a hat. And
gloves. And shoes.”

Then recklessly, “And silk stockings and
corset-covers and all new underthings!”

“And you shall have them,” Margherita promised
merrily. “But I am very glad that your uncles are off on their own
errands, because by the time this day is out, they would have perished of
ennui!”

BOXING Day was one of Marina’s favorite days of the
Christmas season, second only to Christmas itself. Perhaps this was because she
really enjoyed giving gifts—not quite as much as receiving them, but she
did take a great deal of pleasure from seeing the enjoyment that her gifts
gave.