A/N: It occurred to me that this is probably a pretty significant missing moment, so I thought I'd weave it back in. Hope you enjoy, and again, all you lurkers, I'd love to know what you think!
They are to be married on Sunday. The girl hasn't a white dress to her name, so the man sends his young footman out into town to fetch one. The earnest boy returns with an atrocious thing, a mess of giant capsleeves that is certain to overwhelm the girl's slight frame. His brow furrows in disdain at the sight of it, and for the first time in along while, he is rendered speechless. So he tells the boy to prepare a carriage and dispose of the creation first thing in the morning. The fabric is far undeserving of what little he's seen of the girl's delicate form.
Perhaps a set of drapes will do it justice?
He shrugs on a freshly pressed coat and sets out for the porch, climbing into the horse drawn carriage the moment it arrives. To town, he commands, and with haste!, for their is much to be done and alarmingly little time to see it through.
The shop is one he frequents purely by necessity. He has learned early on just how important appearances are in a society like his, so he tailors his suits and shines his shoes to fit the stifling aristocracy. His mask has been dismissed by his precious few neighbors as something of an accessory, a final touch to add to the mystique that he supposedly lives to exude...
He's caught a whiff of the gossip, and if he didn't find it so terribly depressing, he'd probably be amused.
Snapping out of his reverie, he sets foot into the shop and scans its periphery for Mamie. To his relief, the eternally ruddy-faced woman emerges from between rolls of colored linen, stopping in her tracks at the sight of the eerie porcelain planes.
She stutters out a few formalities. He feels a swell of inexplicable sympathy and decides to end the woman's suffering. A wedding dress, the most beautiful she has, but simple and slender and pure. The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and if he's not mistaken, a ghost of a smile plays at the woman's pursed lips. He can see that she's grown comfortable, a wretched thought, so when she begins to form an inevitable question, he pours the purse of bills and coins onto her counter to silence her. She peers down greedily with beady eyes at the sparkling precious metals. Sunday, he tells her, and after that, there are no more questions.
Christine folds the dress with the wistful sigh, and wraps it once again in layers of wrinkled tissue. She slides the box back into place, and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, wishing he was as near as his memories.