The Harlot's House
Having become fully at ease in my new home, I awake each morning eager to embark on some sort of adventure. So far, I have not been disappointed. Truly, this place is so much more diverse and engaging than tedious old England. Oh, wouldn't Father have something to say if he'd heard that? This freedom to say as I wish is exceedingly refreshing. After all those years in a boarding school where they watched you like a hawk, can anyone really blame me?
Today, I am feeling spontaneous. Perhaps tonight I shall attend the theatre? I shake my head vehemently—I did that just last week. It is time for something that can occupy me for a day or several at a time. Taking a walk seems a bit too mundane, until I decide on a purpose. Of course! I wonder why I didn't think of this before, and then rush to get ready.
Given that my apartment is closest to Place de la Concorde, I have settled on taking a day to explore the shopping district. Champs-Élysées is rumored to be the very best, at least according to girls at Spence who actually had the time to go there. No one ever seemed to grasp the concept that the fact that my mother briefly lived here has nothing to do with my getting to visit. True, I have ventured this way a few times in my life, but for the most part that consisted of sitting in the hotel room, bored, while my father entertained company or my mother busily rushed to her salon. That, in my opinion, is no way to enjoy this sort of place. It has to be taken in stride, and as I am rather impatient, they will have to be big strides.
Excitedly, I don my coat. Time for an adventure, if only of minimal proportions. Ah, well. Can't expect to conquer the world every single day, now, can we? If that were the case, even I would run out of ground to cover at some point.
I rush out the door, securing the lock with the key I keep around my neck. It can't be past noon, and I have no intention of returning home until the sky is completely dark. Oh, joyous freedom! Everyone kept saying, as if it made some sort of difference, that living on my own was going to be too much for me to handle. I would surely, people whispered just loudly enough for me to overhear, come crawling back to my family, to the safety and security of their unyielding ways. Right. I should like to see that very much, because from where I stand, I have never been better. Once my inheritance was secured, I had not a worry in the world. Of course, it isn't as though I can gallivant about without a single care, but I have learned enough to be able to ensure everything is kept in order. Today, it is. I am fully ready to take on all that Paris has to offer me.
Once down the steps, I breeze along the sidewalk, not bothering to catch a hansom or anything of the sort. Today, I shall be in total control of where I go and when I get there. Besides, Champs- Élysées is hardly considered far from where I live. I have seen it briefly, in passing, on my way to and from other locations, but cannot honestly say I have ever had the chance to explore it on my own, much less dedicate an entire day to it. It is barely visible from my position among the crowds of people coming and going early this afternoon. The weather is absolutely perfect for this kind of an outing, and I have never felt more airy or fresh in my life. My dress, a forget-me-not shade of blue, sports sleeves that bare all of my forearms, and I feel quite daring. Someday very soon, I shall act on my promise to aquire trousers. For now, this is enough.
I turn onto a row of shops and fight the urge to make some absurd sound of happiness. Surely my foolish grin is already enough to give me away, but I cannot seem to make myself care. As far as the eye can see, colorful boutiques line the streets, and people come in and out every second. Women on outings, stopping for a treat at the bakery, perhaps, or families indulging their young children in a new toy or two from the shop on the corner. Twirling my parasol gaily, I stroll down the closest row and begin looking through the windows. The stores in England are nothing compared to these. Everything is so forward, almost ahead of its time, at least to someone such as myself who is accustomed to living across the sea. Of course, it is common knowledge that what is in vogue here will be the height of fashion in London months from now, once word gets across, I suppose.
On a whim, I dart into a dress shop whose name I forget to note. It is a quaint little place, with several eye-catching shades of garments. Drab, it is not. The owner is more than likely in the back taking care of stock, as I can hear someone moving around in another room. I browse through the selections, taking a particular liking to a violet-hued number. The skirt is noticeably more formfitting than is the norm, and the sleeves come to just above the elbow, with delicate ruffles of a lighter purple trailing around the cuff. The neckline is rather daring, with a clever bow placed at an angle on the right side. The bodice slopes downward into the skirt, and I find myself very adamant about the prospect of trying it on. It's like nothing I've ever worn or owned before; therefore, I must have it. The shopkeeper, by now, has entered the general vicinity, carrying a few boxes of hats. He places them on the countertop and approaches me with a sincere smile.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he greets in a slightly lower voice than I was anticipating. "Have you found anything that has caught your interests?"
"As a matter of fact, I find this dress here to be extraordinarily appealing." I grasp the skirt lightly and wave it toward him. "Is there any possibility of trying it on before I purchase it?"
"Of course, of course!" the man's eyes light up. "It is an honor to have people who wish to try on my wares. Right this way." He leads me, as well as my soon-to-be new dress, to the back where a line of soft pink doors are located. "This one is vacant," he muses, opening the third one down. Sure enough, behind the other two, I can hear soft mumbles of ladies who are also trying out new styles. I smile in the most genuinely friendly manner I can. Ever since I moved here, that seems to happen quite often.
"Thank you. I'm sure I'll be most pleased." With that, he gives me a polite nod and departs for the sake of privacy.
I shed my current outfit and drape it over the chair that has been placed inside the room for comfort. Kicking off my boots and removing my gloves, I continue to undress until I am in naught but my chemise. In this lighting, it has a rather pleasing effect. I allow myself to take a few glances in the mirror and angle myself experimentally. To be completely honest, I never understood what people saw in me, especially with friends like mine. Obviously, there was never any comparison with Pippa. With her striking contrasts, and those eyes, the very color of the dress I am about to put on, it was nearly impossible to feel like anything next to her. I loved her dearly, of course, but there was always that quiet feeling of being in one's shadow. There is a difference between sheer beauty and sexual appeal, you see, and while I may not be lacking in the latter, the former is what I truly desired. Even the way men look upon you is noticeably different. When Pippa would enter a room, it was almost as though they were in awe. At dances, the very sight of her would cause the brawniest of men to sport foolish smiles, as though they were no older than seven. Everyone wanted to be near her, simply for the sake of gazing upon her. Men gazed upon me, I suppose, but certainly not in the same way—or region, for that matter. While it is, in some form, a compliment, it becomes tedious to see the same expression of lust over and over. People looked at Pippa and thought of wooing her, or simply sitting next to her watching her play piano or do something else perfectly feminine. People look at me and think of unbuttoning the back of my dress. This, I know for a fact, because some have been so tasteless as to say so loud enough to be heard.
Gemma is another story entirely. She would never have heard me say it to her face, but every time she began railing on herself, going on and on about how she was awkward and plain or funny-looking, I considered giving her a good kick. She may be a physically intimidating person, to some. It isn't as though she's some freakish giant of fairy-tale proportions. She's just Gemma. Her golden-red curls, like fire spun into hair, were always the object of my envy—that, and her brilliant eyes. She has no idea how beautiful she is all-around, especially when she shows some confidence. When she stands straight and shows the world that feisty disposition we all know so well, she positively glows, to the point of outshining anyone standing near her. She is such a rare sort of beauty, after all, for I can count on one hand the number of redheads I've encountered in my life. She, of course, was lucky enough to be blessed with the happy medium of beauty and beauty. She looks like the subject of a painting of some wild wood fairy, and yet, there is something more. Being me, I can appreciate all forms of female appeal. I have seen Gemma in nothing more than undergarments. Though I can honestly say I never harbored any such feelings toward her, even I could acknowledge that her future husband is going to be a very lucky man. Enough said.
Taking a moment to forget myself in nostalgia and the like, I continue swaying gently in front of the mirror. I find I like the way my hair looks very much, as stray ringlets are coming loose from my updo in a rather alluring manner. The light catches it and gives it an almost white glow, though not to the extent of being the color of my skin. The lace straps on my chemise give me an air of femininity I am usually hesitant to show. I enjoy being ladylike, to a degree, but one could not describe me as soft. However, here, standing next to this chair, I can almost beg to differ. It is something I cannot quite articulate, but the look is strongly reminiscent of Pippa's sort of beauty. She was like innocence and flowers and femininity all combined and personified. Perfection. I would not go so far as to say that about myself, but it may very well be the closest I've ever come.
As I draw in a shallow breath, I am aware of something, though I don't know what. Then my door is thrown open.
I see him in the mirror before I actually turn, so I catch a quick look at the picture of shock on my face. I whirl around, but somehow do not register the need to cover myself immediately. Appalled, I stand there, wondering what business this sudden intruder has in a women's' dressing room.
His face burns bright red and he shoves one hand over his eyes.
"Forgive me! I—I—you see, I…"
"Yes, well, get on with it," I say impatiently, one hand on my hip. Keeping his hand across his face, the man angles himself a bit away from me and takes a deep breath.
"I'm so sorry, I apologize a thousand times. I'm still relatively new working here, and when Monsieur Badeau asked me to fetch him the new shipment of ribbons he was keeping in one of the spare rooms—I forgot to check that I was in the right place to begin with, I was acting in such haste…" He is somewhat hard to understand with his voice catching constantly. I sigh.
"So you threw open my door, correct?"
At this, he flushes yet again and drops his hand, then instinctively thrusts it back up. "On my honor, it was an accident—I feel atrocious even thinking about it. Next time I shall knock even if it is a broom closet."
"That is an excellent philosophy to live by." Between railing him with sarcastic jibes, upon getting a closer look, I can see that he is in fact relatively young. He cannot be older than twenty-one, at the very most. At least that proves his story holds water and he isn't just some sexually depraved loon who preys on women in dressing rooms. I cannot tell what color his eyes are, but his hair is a deep shade of brown. The lamplight picks out strands of gold, and that is about all I can tell given his current position.
"How's this for an idea?" I ask, thoroughly enjoying giving him hell for his mistake. "Why don't you back out of the dressing room so I can properly dress?"
"Of course, of course!" He leaps backward as he speaks.
"Wait." I smile in spite of myself. Poor boy. I hope he realizes I'm just being Felicity. "As penance for your unforgivable crime of breaking into my dressing room, you may stand there and give me your opinion on this garment I am considering."
"That sounds fair to me," he says slowly, still looking deliberately elsewhere. He shuts the door behind him, and I can hear him shuffling a ways down the hallway, muttering to himself the entire time.
Quickly, I wiggle into the dress after undoing the snaps on the back. It slides onto me with ease, and the softness of the material is lovely. I reach behind, a skill I have perfected over the years, and close the back on my own. I take a moment to adjust it so that it falls just right, fluffing the bow and turning side to side. This is…new. I remember myself and glance in the direction of the socially inept boy.
"Are you ready?" I call. After a moment, a faint "yes" can be heard, so I sweep the door open with a flourish and step outside where he is waiting. "Well, what do you think? And be brutal, there are plenty of other shops in this district if this makes me look completely silly."
He seems to consider me, looking almost critical, for lack of better word. I watch with interest as he circles me, visibly mulling it over in his head. I would be lying if I said it didn't surprise me. Generally, the response I receive is one of almost a rapturous look of lust—usually directed somewhere around my breasts. This one is entirely unexpected. I fold my hands across my front and wait. After several long minutes, he returns to face me and cocks his head to the side.
"If you don't think me too forward—"
"Please." I hold up one hand. "Of all people, I am the least you should be concerned about offending with forwardness. An honest opinion will suffice, thank you."
"Very well." A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "I think that the shape is especially flattering to you. It compliments the contours of your body. As you can see, the cut of the dress is significantly more formfitting than most styles today, and it does you justice. Your figure is slender, yet womanly, which is something of a rare find. You know better than I do that it is generally one or the other."
I nod, speechless.
"The color, especially, is what I'm fond of. One might not think such a vibrant shade of purple could look natural against your coloring, but I maintain that it does. Your complexion and hair are both quite fair, but the flamboyancy of the color you're wearing doesn't overshadow them as, say, a bright orange would." He nods, and then looks at me expectantly. "So that's my opinion."
"How—" I pause, and think to find the right choice of words. "Where did that come from? You barge in there sounding all forms of awkward and inept, and then you pull this out."
"Well, I'm an artist." He shrugs. "I notice these things. I make it my business to. It's something I've been working on since I was young. It comes naturally."
"An artist?" I cannot tell if he is being facetious. "If that is so, why are you working in a clothing store?"
"Supplies and canvases don't buy themselves," he says, grinning. "Besides, working in this kind of environment gives me inspiration. There is a lot to look for, to look at. People, clothing, lighting…it keeps me happy."
I mull this over, turning lightly from side to side before I remember myself. I am bold, to be sure, but there is a fine line.
"How awful of me! I haven't even properly introduced myself. You must think me a right fool."
"No more so than someone who barges in on women getting changed," he answers sheepishly. "And the fault is mine; I should have made introductions as soon as…well…" he pauses. "We could just call this an exception. The circumstances, after all…"
"Quite right." I nod vehemently.
Solemnly, he extends his hand. "Johannes du Rone at your service."
At this, I let out a half-giggle before I can stop myself.
"Yes, I know," he sighs. "My family is of mixed heritage, French and Scandinavian. Seeing how neither parent would yield to the other and just have my name be completely French…"
"Oh, no. Forgive me, that was unacceptable of me." I try my best to look earnest, before adding, "Felicity Worthington."
"Miss Worthington." He makes a rather bold move and shakes my hand like a man's.
"Mr. du Rone," I fire back, reciprocating the gesture. It is a rare day indeed when I encounter someone on my level of cheekiness. I am about to turn to leave when he stays my hand and gives me that same curious look.
"If you don't mind, and you don't appear to be the kind of person who would seem to," he begins with a strange smile, "if you ever feel like lending yourself as a subject to one of my paintings, I would be entirely grateful. You are quite beautiful."
"Thank you, and I shall take that into consideration." I withdraw my hand. "And I thank you once more for your advice—I believe I shall purchase this fine garment straightaway."
"As you should," he replies, looking very serious. "And I should really see about locating those ribbons. Monsieur Badeau is likely thinking I met some untimely end by now."
"If you ever walk in on me again, you will."
His eyes widen in shock before he realizes that I am, yet again, speaking in jest. People really do seem to take my dry sarcasm as solemnity. No wonder everyone thinks I am such a condescending girl! This sudden revelation spurs me into laughter, and I re-enter the dressing room to get changed and purchase my dress.
It is, after all, an exceptionally memorable shade of violet.
Well, this chapter certainly made up for what the other lacked in length! I'm writing the other one as we speak, and let me just say, this is a lot of fun. I'm going to have to ask that if you read, you review, because suggestions at this point are greatly appreciated so that I know what to change, add, include, take out…
Till next time!
-Katie
