AN: Not much happens in this fic. I wanted to write about the process of a Victorian woman getting dressed and how long it might have taken her. It is based on a YouTube video called Debunking Victorian Myths. Number 1. Dressing Up Victorians. By Prior Attire. The aim of the video is to prove that it did not take women hours to get dressed in the 19th century. I'm sorry for any mistakes and thank you for reading.
Two years ago when The Times had published the concise paragraph announcing the engagement of Mr Sherlock Holmes to Miss Margaret Hooper, people up and down the country quickly formed an opinion on the matter and felt compelled to share their thoughts with one another, some vocally and others through the written word. Tongues wagged, letters were written, and telegrams were swiftly delivered.
Some, mostly unmarried men, grumbled that the eccentric consulting detective had no business in getting married. The Work needs his full attention, they argued, and, besides, who will represent us bachelors now and prove to the world that a man can be happy without a simpering woman hanging off his arm and spending all of his hard earned money on new hats?
However, the majority of the gossipers were quite happy about the announcement. It was only right and proper, they said, that a man of Mr Holmes' intellect should take a wife and start a family. The country needed intelligent men to father intelligent children. The future depended on it. To refuse marriage and everything that it brought was, well, selfish, like placing a fireguard in front of a roaring blaze to prevent others from feeling its warmth.
The gossip only increased after the happy day.
There were a sizeable number of women who despaired over Molly's well-being and sanity. Mr Holmes does not know how to keep a wife, they moaned. He allows all sorts of unsavoury characters into the house! And he conducts odorous and dangerous chemistry experiments! At night he perches on the roof with a brass telescope to observe all of the comings and goings of the street. A delicate woman like Mrs Holmes will be driven insane even before their Paper Anniversary has come about. Poor girl!
They were wrong, of course. Sherlock and Molly Holmes were perfectly happy in their marriage and absolutely devoted to one another. It didn't matter to them what people thought about their relationship.
Molly awoke early that morning. The first thing she saw was the watery patch of sunlight illuminating the wooden cross hung on the wall. She uttered a simple morning prayer under breath, before squeezing her husband's hand and asking, "Are you awake?"
Sherlock shifted slightly next to her, but didn't open his eyes.
"That depends," he murmured in a thick voice.
"On what, my love?"
"If you can see your breath."
It was a cold morning. There was frost on the window pane and even though Molly felt warm under the pile of blankets that covered their bed, there was a chill in the air which nipped at her nose and brushed against her cheeks.
She tilted her head up towards the ceiling and huffed loudly. Her breath condensed into a white cloud before quickly fading away.
"I can see my breath," she confirmed.
Sherlock groaned loudly, pulling the blankets over his head in a swift movement which made Rufus the cat hiss like a snake. He bounded onto Molly's lap with a grumbling sort of meow.
"Don't get up," Sherlock's muffled voice ordered. "Wait for the fires to be lit."
Molly didn't say anything, but began to absently run her fingers through Rufus' fur, feeling a little bit caught out. She had been thinking of abandoning the bed. Yes, the cold would bite at her skin at first, but once she was dressed and with a cup of coffee in front of her she would be quite warm enough and ready for the day ahead.
From outside she could hear the rumble and clatter of carriage wheels and horse hooves on the cobblestones. London was waking up and it would only get nosier as the morning drew on, relenting only after the day was done. One became quite used to the din after a time to the point that you would no longer hear it unless you specifically listened for it, but Molly knew that now she was wide awake and feeling restless it would be impossible for her not to hear every creak and clatter and clip-clop that rung out over the street. She could not lie in bed for another minute.
"I am going to get up now," she announced, not at all afraid that Sherlock would reprimand her. He was a good man and a poor husband in that way, or so some people claimed. A man should keep his wife under tight control, never allow her to have too much freedom, and certainly never allow her to just get up whenever she liked. But, Sherlock wasn't at all like that. He might occasionally give Molly an order or instructions or advice, and if she chose to ignore him then he never commented on it. Molly loved him dearly for that and to her was the best husband in the world.
She threw back the blankets (drawing another furious hiss from Rufus) and carefully pressed her feet against the hardwood floor, drawing in a sharp breath as ice seemed to leap through the soles of her feet and up her legs. She slipped on her slippers and tugged on her heavy dressing-gown, pulling it tightly around herself. Then she padded lightly across the floor, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboard and stepping lightly over the discarded train conductor's uniform Sherlock had worn for his last case.
She moved silently to his side of the bed, folding back the blankets away from his head so that she could bend to quickly plant a kiss on his forehead, whispering, "I love you." She left the room with barely a sound and walked down the hall to her dressing room, neatly dodging the piles of books which stood here and there on the worn carpet.
Molly considered herself fortunate to have such a room all to herself. Sherlock did not like large houses, and so after their wedding they had moved into a town house that was only just big enough for two newly-weds starting out together, although they could have afforded something that was more spacious and grand. It was another point of gossip. However, Sherlock had been considerate enough to have one of the spare bedrooms turned into a dressing-room for Molly, as a place where she could wash and dress in private. He knew that he was not allowed in there.
It was also the only tidy room in the whole house. Sherlock seemed to struggle to understand the concept that each room should only have one function; a struggle which led to so many maids handing in their notice after finding it nearly impossible to carry out their duties. If Sherlock had been untidy in his rooms at Baker Street then having a whole house at his disposal only made him worse. He'd left a sabre in the umbrella stand, hung a bear-trap on the coat rack, and secured a rope with a noose tied in its end to the stair banister; his violin would frequently show up in the most alarming of places which shall not be mentioned; and Molly had forced him to apologise to Ruth after he'd left the severed thumb of an unfortunate engineer in the butter-dish and had forgotten to dispose of it. All of these things Molly could tolerate because she had the dressing-room to herself, although after two months of marriage she had put her foot down and banned her husband from conducting further chemistry experiments in the bedroom. You could still see the scorch marks on the wall.
The dressing-room was comfortably and simply furnished with a wardrobe, mirror, dressing-table and a small sink. Molly rarely turned on the taps or even removed the plug. She didn't like the idea that their home was in anyway connected to the sewers, where the filth of London lay, stinking and bubbling and full of disease a few feet below their feet. How did they know that the germs couldn't crawl back up the pipes and infect the rooms? And yet she was happy to have a jug of water filled up at the kitchen tap and brought up to her dressing-room. She supposed it was a case of out of sight out of mind.
She poured the water into the porcelain bowl and splashed her face. It was icy cold, of course. Sherlock wanted to have a gas heater fitted and a "proper bathroom" installed so that they could enjoy a warm bath just by turning on the hot water tap. Again, Molly felt a little hesitant about the idea. To have a gas heater fitted and extra pipes installed and a spared bedroom transformed into a bathroom seemed like an awful strain to place upon their small, jumbled home just for the sake of a bath, especially when they had a maid who was more than capable of carrying bowls of hot water upstairs for them.
Molly sat in the chair in front of her dressing-table and began to brush out her long, brown hair, making sure to fluff out her fringe. The use of make-up was frowned upon and was considered to be only something used by whores, but a woman liked to look her best, so if make-up was not allowed then she would concentrate her attentions on her hair. Molly was no exception. Once she had finished brushing she pulled the hairs out of her brush and placed them in a silver box. She almost had enough to create a new hair-piece. Then, leaning forward, she swept her hair upwards, pulling it into a bun and securing it in place with hairpins. After that she took a plaited hair-piece from its home in its drawer and wrapped it around the bun. A slightly untidy look was thought attractive, so Molly carefully pulled out a few wisps of hair from the bun so that they hung on either side of her face and twisted them around her finger to give a slight curl.
Cosmetics was not approved of, but that wasn't going to stop Molly or any other woman from trying to improve her looks. In her medicine box she had number of face creams to improve the quality of her skin – all considered to be medicinal, of course, although the use was purely for cosmetic reasons. The natural look was highly favoured, but Molly had no desire to go around London with spots on her chin. At the bottom of the box was a folded piece of red wrapping paper Molly had purchased from the local paper shop. She carefully snipped off a small square and then dipped it into the bowl of water, before pressing the square to her lips and cheeks. The red dye transferred from the paper to her face, colouring them slightly, but was not strong enough to be so obvious. After that she used a burnt cork to darken up her eyebrows. She knew that Sherlock must know what she did every morning, but he never said anything. He pretended not to know in order to spare her embarrassment. Bless him!
That all taken care it was time to get dressed.
Molly went behind the screen and removed her dressing-gown and nightdress, replacing them with a pair of split-drawers and chemise, which she quickly tucked into her drawers. She was feeling cold now, but the chemise was still needed to absorb any sweat and protect her corset and clothes. Particularly the corset, those things were never easy to clean!
She came out from behind the screen and once again sat down in the chair to pull on a pair of white, woollen stocking which came above her knees. After that she put on her black boots. She knew she must look a little funny, sitting there in just her underclothes and boots, but it was the best way. Always put your shoes on before your corset, her mother told her.
She was proud of her boots. They had been a birthday present from Sherlock. They were of a good quality, reaching up to her calves, but were fastened by a long line of tiny buttons. Molly used her button-hook to do them up one by one, bending over awkwardly. Thankfully she was an old hand and the task didn't take her too long to complete.
After she was finished she sat up and stretched her burning back. Now it was time to put on her corset. She stood with her back to the mirror and began to deftly lace it. Mary had once told her that Dr Watson sometimes assisted her with her corset and that it was a moment of intimacy between the two of them. The following morning Molly had asked Sherlock to help her, pleading incompetency, but he had flat-out refused.
"I won't stop you from wearing one if you so badly wish to crush your insides," he'd told her curtly. "But, I won't help you either. Not that you need it. I know your nimble fingers; you can lace that contraption inside of two minutes."
Molly had bowed her head, biting her lip, presenting herself as the very figure of shame.
"I see that you won't be moved on this issue."
"No."
"But, since you so strongly disapprove...might you help me remove it before bedtime?"
Sherlock's face had coloured slightly. "It is entirely possible that I might."
Molly gave the laces of her corset a final tug before securing them into a bow across her stomach. She paused to admired her figure in the mirror. It had become something of ritual for Sherlock to remove her corset for her. She was already looking forward to the evening when she would feel his fingers brushing lightly over her stomach and then her back as he carefully removed her clothing, sometimes kissing her between the shoulder blades...
Molly snapped back to the present. She was only half-dressed, although now she was regretting even that when she could be snuggling up close to Sherlock in bed.
She reached for her bustle cage, a light piece of framework covered with cotton designed to give a lady a more feminine shape and to help keep her dress off the floor. How she despised the cumbersome thing, but unfortunately it was in fashion and so she felt compelled to don it everyday. Huffing slightly she used the bustle's tapes to tie it around her waist, tying it more tightly than her corset (she had heard tales of bustles coming lose and falling to the floor at the most inappropriate moments) causing it to swing from side to side slightly as though it were an oversized tail.
She quickly wrapped her cotton petticoat over the hated bustle cage, tying it at the side, and then spending some time fastening each miniscule button.
Next came her corset cover. It looked like a thin cardigan. Molly slipped it on and immediately began to do up each button down its front. She always started to grow a little weary of buttons at this stage in her dressing.
Thankfully, the foundation skirt was a less fussy item of clothing, no buttons for a start. It was a deep red colour and made of silk; Molly was able to easily lift it over her head and pull it down into place on top of the petticoat. Reaching underneath it, Molly found the tapes which allowed her to control the volume of the skirt. Pulling on them tightened the skirt against the bustle cage. Then she smoothed out the wrinkles with her hands and had a little hop to help shake it into place.
The apron over-skirt followed. It was made of a slightly more purple shade of red than the foundation skirt. As before, Molly lifted it over her head and pulled the swaged apron into place. It was secured in place by cords, so Molly had to reach around her back and tie it under the apron over-skirt so that the knots were hidden. Molly checked her reflection in the mirror. The apron had an almost rumpled look to it, but as least it gave the outfit some texture.
She was almost dressed. All that was left was the bodice. It was red to match the rest of her outfit, but unfortunately had the most fiddly buttons of all, a final hurdle before the finishing line. Molly pulled it on over her corset cover and used her button-hook as she lent forward into the mirror. Her progress was hampered by some of the lower buttons pulling out of the button-holes as she worked on the top ones, so she had to go back and re-fasten them.
However, before she knew it she was done. She looked over her appearance once more and judged herself to be quite presentable. A glance at the carriage clock told her that today it had only taken her eleven minutes to dress herself, twenty if she wanted to include the time she'd spent on her hair.
She went downstairs and was a little surprised to find Sherlock sitting at the dining table and reading a newspaper. She had fully expected him to stay in bed for most of the day, as was his way after a long case. But, she was glad to see him.
"You took your time," he said. "I've been waiting for you."
She smiled sweetly at him and took her place beside him.