AU notes:
- I won't always go into so much detail with the ritual of dressing, but I wanted to include one scene showing the laborious process that Victorian women went through in clothing themselves. For some of the more obscure terms, I have asterisked * and provided a brief explanation at the end of the chapter. This fic is set around the first half of the 1850s, before the invention of the crinoline cage, hence Hermione's many layers of starched petticoats in place of the cage-and-hoop that became popular after 1856.
- Regarding underage magic - the law restricting this did not come in until 1875, so I'm assuming that under-17s were allowed to use magic in their homes, but only with strict adult supervision. Official training would begin when a child came 'of magical age' at 11, when their magic had stabilised enough for them to safely wield a wand. S/he would then either be sent to school, or home-schooled by their parents, or, like Hermione, become something like an apprentice, receiving training for a magical trade to "earn their keep". The rich nobility would receive tuition from a privately-engaged tutor.
...
I did not anticipate sleeping well that night, for I went to bed with a mind awhirl with all the strange, almost fantastical events of the day. Yet mere moments after my head touched the plush eider-down pillow, exhaustion overruled all else, and I slept soundly and dreamlessly the night through.
There was a small cuckoo-clock fixed above the headboard of the bed which I had charmed to awaken me at dawn, and it was to its trilling, mechanical birdsong that I was roused from my slumber the next morning.
For the first time I could recall in my life, I experienced the disorienting sensation of opening my eyes to utterly unfamiliar surroundings. For what seemed a long time—yet was probably but a few seconds—I wondered where I was, and if I were dreaming, before memory flooded back to restore comprehension. I was perhaps even more disoriented thence to recall all that had transpired yesterday, and found myself much disturbed by a vivid image arising to my mind, of a pair of silvery eyes, gazing upon me with icy inscrutability, and the echo of a silken voice, murmuring, "Miss Granger, I presume..."
I sat up, staring about me somewhat incredulously. The soft morning light, diffused by pale-green curtains, combined with the floral theme of the furnishings and wall-paper, made me feel like I was in some enchanted garden grotto.
An unbidden smile spread over my lips and my heart began to drum quickly and lightly with a pleasant excitement. Today, I was no longer "Hermione, the muggleborn foundling", but officially, "Miss Granger, Governess at Malfoy Manor."
Slipping from my bed, I made a circuit of the room, re-inspecting and admiring everything for the sheer pleasure of it. How came I to be here, in this lovely boudoir fit for a princess? What lucky star fell over my sky, that I should awaken in this feather-quilted bed, surrounded by such luxurious affluence?
I moved to the mirrored dressing-table to take a glimpse of myself in this elegant new context. How incongruous I looked! So small and inconsequential, my figure swathed by my plain linen nightgown and frilled cotton nightcap... I ought to be a tall, beautiful gentlewitch, clad in whispering silks and gossamer lace. ...I wondered if the previous governess, Miss Weasley, had sat before this very same mirror, beholding her appearance with all the complacency that I lacked. I imagined her, in a state of elegant déshabillé, arrayed in a French peignoir* of pink chiffon that clung to her alabaster curves like a second skin, combing her titian lengths, smiling at her lovely reflection...
Swallowing a sigh of dissatisfaction, I turned away from the glass, mentally scolding myself for dwelling over-much on my appearance. It was a habit my Aunt had often tried to cure me of, but had rather engrained in me instead, by her almost-daily mentions of my plainness and lack of "feminine graces".
Picking up my wand from the dresser, I sought my cotton chemise from the chest of drawers, bringing both items with me to the bathing room.
I drew a shallow, lukewarm bath with my wand, using a combination of Aguamenti with a light Tepidus. My "Every Witch's Guide To Household Œconomy" warned against submerging in a hot or deep bath before noon, citing "magical distemper in the female brain" as a probable consequence.
Even with a Colloportus sealing the door, I could not help feeling rather self-conscious and even a little guilty as I removed my nightdress to step into the shin-deep water. My Aunt had disapproved of the practise of daily bathing, something she felt encouraged needless over-familiarity with one's own flesh, preferring the modesty-preserving Scourgify and Teregeo spells with which to keep everyday grime at bay. Therefore, a bath was a weekly ritual, performed on Saturday eve in a round copper tub in front of the kitchen fire, with a muslin chemise to maintain propriety.
I washed quickly, unable to really enjoy the novelty of a private bath. I was too excited and nervous, my mind already bent to the forthcoming meeting with Miss Clarastella Malfoy. I did not have the time, nor the inclination, to luxuriate, for I wished to heed Mrs Marsh's recommendation to inspect the nursery before I met my pupil at nine.
Climbing out only a few minutes after getting in, I utilised a Hot-Air Charm to dry myself down, then slipped into my chemise before returning to the bed-chamber to dress.
I selected the best of my underlinen: my cambric drawers, knit-lace stockings and the newer of my two baleen* corsets. Securing the busks with a tightening and tying spell, I then overlaid a stiff horsehair jupon* followed by six starched muslin petticoats (Aunt Agna maintaining that to be the correct number of layers; any fewer might reveal an indecent outline of limbs—("remember, dear, a respectable lady has 'lower limbs', not legs")—whilst any more she considered flaunting and excessive.
Over the corset, I slipped on my camisole and tied my wand-pocket around my waist.
Finally ready for my dress, I went to the tall wardrobe and selected the second of my poplin gowns: this one of a muted lilac hue that I felt would appeal the most to a five-year-old girl. I stepped into the garment, pulling the bodice up and carefully swivelling my wand-pocket to align with the gap in the side-seam of the skirt. I cast a fixing charm to fasten the row of hook-and-eyelets running at the back of the bodice, and a tacking charm to attach an engageante* to the hem of each wide sleeve.
Properly attired at last, I incanted a Featherlight over the entire ensemble, sparing a thought for all the muggleborn women who had no recourse to relieve their frames from such a burdensome prison.
Drawing one of the chairs to the white mirrored dresser, I proceeded to arrange my hair as I had yesterday—indeed, as I always did—taming my unruly curls in two tight plaits that were crossed at the back and fastened at the nape. I then attached a black lace day-cap to match the black mourning trim of my dress.
By the time I was ready to Accio my black leather ankle-boots onto my feet, the clock above the headboard told a few minutes before seven, leaving me just enough time to draw the curtains and brew a pot of tea, before my breakfast was due to be served.
Sure enough, upon the stroke of the hour, a sharp rap on my door heralded the arrival of food.
This proved as abundant and elegant as last night's fare—none of my Aunt's thin version of 'gerty milk*', or the greasy slices of fried 'hog's pudding' and potato cakes served on a Sunday—but a collation of light and palatable foods to choose from: scrambled eggs, fresh oysters and 'scrowled' pilchards*, slices of jellied terrine, and sugared grapefruit halves. Besides these dishes, there was a small basket of hot buttered rolls, accompanied by pots of lemon curd and marmalade, and a refreshing elderflower cordial.
It was far too much food, even if I'd had the heartiest appetite, but especially now, given the excited state of my nerves. In truth, the aromas, though delicious, made me feel rather ill than otherwise, but I forced myself to eat, reminding myself that it would not do to become faint through lack of sustenance. I partook of a few spoonfuls of egg and one roll, washing it down with a fortifyingly strong cup of tea.
When I had eaten all I could manage, I Vanished the remaining food, thinking to myself that I must speak to Mrs Marsh about moderating the meal portions. I cleaned the plates and cutlery with a dish-washing spell, stacking them with the dinner things from last night. I supposed a maid would come to collect them during the day.
Before venturing out, I took one last glimpse in the glass at this 'new' me, and felt reconciled that, though neither fashionable or beautiful, I looked exactly as I ought: a neatly turned-out young witch, dressed with sober dignity, ready to earn her keep, provided the work did not degrade her self-respect.
Though my expression betrayed the agitation of my nerves and imbalance of the humors in my body, I fancied there was a certain resolve in my eyes, and in the set of my jaw. I was determined to make a success of my position. I would not turn back to the life of fatiguing menial labour and probable privation, which had loomed so near, as the fate of a homeless muggle-born seamstress. I would make a good account of myself, and all who sneered and doubted might...(I latched upon a phrase I'd once heard that would have scandalised my Aunt)...they might go to the deuce!
...
Not wishing to disturb anyone still a-bed, I cast a Quietus on the soles of my ankle-boots, and crept down the length of the wood-panelled hallway. Reaching the nursery door, I pressed it open and slipped inside, shutting it noiselessly behind me.
An exhale of pleasure escaped my lips as I beheld the interior. What a pleasant room it was! Light and spacious, decorated tastefully but with the whimsy of youth in mind, and well-stocked with such entertainments that I could only have dreamed of as a child. A large window overlooked the same panorama of meadows and fields I had observed yesterday, first from the Porter's cart, and then later from the chamber in which I met Master Draco.
Although the morning was overcast with clouds, the room was flooded with daylight, and retained a cheerfulness that the dreary weather could not extinguish.
I began to drift about the chamber, admiring and inspecting the neat furniture and pretty toys and objects filling the space. There was a Rocking Horse which blinked and tossed its mane, a whole couch of china dolls exquisitely dressed in witches robes and ball-dresses, and a basketful of colourful toys: spinning tops, Indian rubber balls, little tin animals &c, all of which were charmed in various ways to delight and surprise a youngster at play.
Built into the interior wall was a small fireplace, protected by a wooden screen, before which were stationed two comfortable chairs. Nearby there stood a bookshelf, filled with picture books, including, "The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Abridged For Little Ladies", "The Complete Toadstool Tales by Mrs Bloxam", and "Mother Buzzard's Nursery Rhymes For Well-Bred Children."
On the opposite side of the room, a blackboard had been mounted, and facing it was a small, child-sized desk, evidently meant for my pupil. A larger desk stood in the corner, furnished with ink and quills; this, I supposed, was meant for my own use.
The back wall was covered with brightly-coloured pictures and prints with moving illustrations, the largest of which displayed an alphabet with rhyming couplets:
A is for Accio, a spell to fetch and bring,
B is for Billywig, be heedful of its sting!
C is for Cauldron, used to mix and stir,
D is for Dragon, we mustn't anger her!
...and so on it went, all the way down to,
Y is for Yew-tree, your wand it may beget
Z is for Zouwu, a cat we ought not pet!
On the whole, it was a charming environment, stimulating and attractive to a child's sensibilities. How utterly different to the dingy little corner of my Aunt's kitchen, where I practised my lessons under threat of no supper; or, once I was 'of magical age', the stifling front-parlour where I learnt hundreds of complex, yet tedious, sewing spells...
This thought prompted me to seek for Clarastella's lessons, that I might determine a general sense of her intelligence and academic development.
Moving over to 'my' desk, I opened a cabinet attached to one side. As I'd hoped, I discovered inside several neat stacks of scrolls and books, which I brought out and laid open upon the leather desktop, and began to inspect.
They chiefly contained the usual childish tracings of shapes, letters and numbers one might find in the school-books of any intelligent child just beginning to learn the rudiments of literacy, perhaps a little more careful and restrained than what was quite typical of her age, but not otherwise extraordinary. Besides her lessons, there were also several folios of primitive drawings and scribbles, of flowers and animals &. all of which seemed to conform (in my mind) to the usual artistic endeavours of a child between five and six years of age.
From what I observed, Miss Clarastella was, though perhaps not precocious, certainly bright and responsive. There was a studiousness to her work that suggested a diligent mind, though perhaps not an expansive imagination. If there was anything unusual to remark upon, it was an entire lack of childish caprice. Miss Malfoy was, it appeared, quite a self-controlled young lady.
Putting away the books and scrolls, I sat at the desk, looking thoughtfully about the room.
At length, my eyes fell upon a curtain on the wall beside me, drawn closed and apparently covering a window. Rising from my seat, I drew it open and was rather thrilled to discover a direct view over the sea. I was immediately captivated by this prospect, and for some time gazed out at the heaving, roiling body of water, dark-silver under a canopy of morning cloud, powerful waves crashing upon the rugged shore far below...
Lord Malfoy's eyes are the exact same colour... The thought surfaced unbidden to mind. ...Silver, glittering...so cold and so fathomless...
I shivered and turned away from the window. Unsure what next to do, I moved toward the door, thinking to return to my room until it was time to meet my pupil. But I had not gone three steps when a clock on the fireplace mantle-piece began to chime, and I realised that it was, indeed, already nine o'clock.
Almost in the same moment, the door suddenly swung inward, and there, upon the threshold, stood two very different personages.
The first was a little girl with a pensive face and large eyes, a most unusual colour of opalescent pale-violet. She reminded me of one of the fragile china dolls congregated upon the couch, with her fair complexion, delicate features and silky golden ringlets. Even her clothes were doll-like: she wore a white knee-length satin dress and blue ruffled pinafore, beneath which lace pantaloons met with dainty slippers of blue watered-silk. This miniaturistic impression was, perhaps, exaggerated by the contrast created by the second person who stood a little behind her, dwarfing her diminutive figure with a large and towering aspect.
The girl was, of course, Miss Clarastella Malfoy.
The tall, imposing figure was Lord Malfoy himself.
I stared, thoroughly discomposed, for I had expected Mrs Marsh or a nursemaid to deliver my pupil—and certainly not imagined to see His Lordship so soon after yesterday's perplexing 'interview'.
At length, the lord leaned a little forward, smiling (I suppose at my speechless dismay) and murmured, "Might we come in, Miss Granger?"
"Y-yes, of course, My Lord," I heard myself stammer, dropping a curtsy "—a-and Miss Malfoy—how do you do? Please come in, and—" I glanced about me in confusion, then gestured to the chairs by the fireplace— "won't you sit down?" Then I winced, realising that two chairs would not do very well for three people.
However, the noble-wizard only gave a gracious nod, and, reaching down to encase the little girl's hand with his own, he gently steered her toward the chairs.
As he walked, he took his wand from an inner pocket of his coat, and transfigured a rug by the fire into a third, smaller chair, installing his daughter upon it. Conjuring a silver trinket, he gave it to her, and, with a brief stroke of her hair, bid her in a soft murmur to sit quietly. The girl, with complete docility, began to play with the object as noiselessly as a mouse. Whether she was naturally tractable, or if she was as over-awed by her imperious father as I was, I could not rightly determine.
Lord Malfoy then turned to me, and gestured to one of the chairs, into which I practically scurried, as he assumed the other.
He seemed quite at his leisure, half-reclining with one leg extended and the other tucked beneath his chair in an elegant and easy posture. I, on the other hand, felt at a loss as to where to bend my eyes or put my hands, and resorted to fix one upon the other, as a means of occupying both.
"Miss Granger," the noble-wizard spoke, "I hope you do not mind my intrusion."
"Of course not, My Lord," I replied, still staring at my hands.
"I will not keep you long." There was a pause, which lengthened rather uncomfortably; at last, I was forced to look up.
As perhaps I ought to have expected, the Lord Malfoy's gaze was resting, rather scrutinisingly, upon my face. I felt the colour rising to my cheeks, remembering all too well yesterday's intrusive infliction of Legilimency. I was dreadfully afraid that he could read my thoughts even now, and yet all I could think was, How exactly like the silver sea his eyes are!
Hoping to banish this thought from my mind, I faltered out, "D-do you wish to speak to me particularly, My Lord?" At his widening smile I flushed more deeply, and hastily amended, "That is—did you wish to speak to me about something in particular?"
"Indeed, I do..." he replied with suave civility, "but firstly, I suppose introductions are in order. This is my daughter, Clarastella. Clara, my dear," he addressed the little girl, "do you know who this lady is?"
His daughter looked up from her toy, regarding me with serious contemplation. "My new governess, Papa," she replied, in a high and slightly lisping voice.
"And do you recall her name, Clara? Remember, we practised it together." (I felt myself trembling somewhat at this notion, but disguised my disconcertion by attentively awaiting his daughter's reply.)
"Miss Granger," the girl readily supplied. She slid off her seat to stand, and made a careful curtsey. Immediately, I stood and did the same. I believed, for all her poppet-like appearance, that she was a serious and sensitive little girl, and I wished to treat her with the respect I felt she deserved, and hoped she might return.
"Now, Clara, do you think you will contrive to be a good girl for Miss Granger?"
"Yes, Papa."
"You mustn't anger or vex her," he drawled in a faintly-mocking tone, "or she might send you to Azkaban."
"Your father is only teasing, Miss Malfoy," I quickly put in, for too-well I recalled the crushing weight of such a threat when I was that tender age, and I did not appreciate being associated with anything so frightening. "I should never send anybody there."
Lord Malfoy's lips curled with amusement. "Indeed? And how would you see fit to correct those who do you wrong?"
"I should ask them to apologise," I replied firmly, then suddenly gulped as I realised he might think I was referencing yesterday's altercation.
However, Lord Malfoy only chuckled urbanely, though his eyes narrowed a little. "Ah—but of course," he said. "Well, we can only be thankful that you are a governess, and not responsible for upholding the unforgiving letter of the law."
"I am thankful for it," I said, unable to quite quell a challenging note in my voice. "Besides," I added, turning to my pupil, "Miss Malfoy looks like a very good a-and kind girl, and not at all vexatious. I'm sure we will be friends." Impulsively, I went to her and, kneeling down, I extended my palm. "Would you like to shake hands, Miss Malfoy?"
The little lady hesitated, her violet eyes curious rather than timid. Then, slowly, she clasped her little fingers to mine. I smiled. "I'm glad to meet you," I said.
"I'm glad to meet you," she mimicked in her high, faerie-like voice.
"How old are you, Miss Malfoy?"
"Only five," she answered, shaking her head and sighing, as if sorry for this sad state of affairs. "But I will be six soon."
"That is quite grown-up," I said encouragingly. "You will be able to teach me things, too, you know. We may learn from each other."
"What shall I teach you?" She looked genuinely mystified.
"Well..." I affected to give the matter deep consideration. "You can teach me the names of all your dolls. And you can tell me what your favourite flower is."
"Honeysuckle," she said promptly. "It smells nice."
"There, you see! You've already taught me something new."
For the first time since her arrival, the ethereal little creature smiled, her elfin features lighting up. I smiled in return, thinking, Then there is a child in this fae little doll's casing, after all.
Lord Malfoy, who had been silently watching the proceedings, abruptly announced in a rather dismissive tone, "Now you may return to your chair, Clara; Miss Granger and I have things to discuss that do not concern little children."
I felt exasperated by this sudden interruption, but Miss Malfoy complied with a softly uttered, "Yes, Papa," climbing back into her chair and gaining the silver object in her tiny fingers, commencing to play quite contentedly.
Her father cast a Muffliato over her, and presently began to speak. "Miss Granger, I trust you do not mind my conversing candidly with you, regarding my daughter."
"Far from minding it, My Lord, I should certainly prefer it."
"That," he said sardonically, "is a great comfort to know."
Supposing he was sneering at the primness of my reply, I pressed my lips together and was silent.
"I suppose you had time to look over her lessons?" he asked, loftily ignoring my indignation.
"Yes, My Lord," I replied.
"And—? You found her to be rather backward, I imagine? Slow-witted, and in need of instruction and discipline?"
"By no means, My Lord."
"Ah, then you have discovered she is really a prodigy. A child-genius, a paradigm of excellence—is it not so?"
Knowing that he was (in his mocking way) testing me, I replied, "It seems to me she is a paradigm, milord, of a perfectly normal little girl."
"I see; a paradigm of conventionality," he said dryly.
"She is still so very young, it would surely be precipitate to affix her with any epithet, other than her very pretty name."
The Lord regarded me with a quizzical smile. "Touché," he murmured. "It appears you have already taken to heart the role of protective tigress, defending her little cub."
Unsure how to reply, I was accordingly silent.
I wished His Lordship would not cast his gaze so piercingly upon my face—I was not used to being looked at by any gentleman, let alone a Lord of such striking and distinguished mien. It was, I thought, rather like sitting in the intense glare of a too-bright, too-hot sun, causing one's face to burn, throat to parch, and body to become uncomfortably warm. I longed for respite, for some forgiving shade...but, also like the sun, noble-wizards were not reputed for their clemency.
Proving that analogy, it appeared that my master rather enjoyed forcing me to speak through the technique of extending the silence until it was intolerable to bear. At last, rather desperately, I said, "My Lord—perhaps Miss Malfoy should start her lessons."
"Miss Malfoy's lessons," he drawled, "may wait, for the time being."
I felt myself growing restless beneath his maddeningly sphinx-like manner. "You said you should like to converse candidly," I said, provoked into speaking impetuously. "Pray, when will you begin?"
Lord Malfoy gave a short, sharp laugh. "A second hit to you, Miss Granger," he said, his eyes still levelled intently upon me. "Do you know, I suspect you have the makings of a most exceptional dueller."
"Thank you," I said coldly, resenting his sarcasm. "An adequate governess is all I aspire to be, at present." There was a lump beginning in my throat, for it seemed to me that he was deliberately amusing himself at my expense. However, I swallowed it down, sternly telling myself that I would not allow myself to be baited by a gentleman who evidently had nothing better to do to pass the time of day than taunt his new employee. I fixed my eyes once more on my hands, and decided that nothing would induce me to raise them.
"What are you thinking, Miss Granger?" The lord's silken voice threaded through my bitter ruminations.
"Nothing, My Lord," I said quietly, refusing to look at him. "I am only waiting to hear what Your Lordship has to say."
Perhaps he sensed my mutiny, for when he spoke again his voice was gentler, and no longer mocking. "Rather than say, I have something to ask of you," he replied. "You see, despite your assertions to the contrary, my daughter does in fact show signs of a certain...reticence in her development, which I should like you to monitor and report upon."
At this, I could not help but look up, much surprised. "In what way is she reticent, My Lord? Her understanding and intelligence seem—"
"I speak not of understanding or intelligence," Lord Malfoy interrupted, "but of magical capacity. There begins to be...doubts upon the subject."
"Oh! But she is not yet even six! I believe many children do not exhibit their power until seven."
"Malfoys are not 'many', Miss Granger," the noble-wizard said, with a supercilious grimace. "Our family have always manifested signs of magic from birth. Clarastella is the first exception in living memory."
"I...I see," I replied doubtfully. Then, thoughtlessly, I added, "Perhaps she takes after her mother."
This time, there was no amused expression or mocking smile to meet my rash words.
Much to my alarm, his shoulders suddenly stiffened; the grooves bracketing his mouth deepened, and his haughty face clouded with something darker than displeasure. His gaze, too piercingly hot before, now became too frigidly cold; the sun may blench, but the frost will corrode, and I, trembling like a denizen of antiquity in the shadow of an eclipse, shrank back, frozen and silent beneath this wintry glare.
But after a moment (which indeed felt closer to an eternity) the occultation passed, Lord Malfoy's daunting severity relented; briefly he murmured, "As you say," and once again seemed all suaveness and urbanity.
Taking from his breast-pocket a folded piece of parchment, he delivered it to my hand with a casual flick of his wand. "This comes from my housekeeper," he said. "It is the daily curriculum Clarastella has been used to following heretofore. You may adjust it as you see fit."
Somehow, I managed to un-clam my tongue from the roof of my mouth and reply, "Thank you, My Lord."
"I believe your trial is of six-week's duration?"
"It is, My Lord."
"I should like regular reports on my daughter's progress."
"Very well, My Lord," I replied, my heart sinking a little as I contemplated before me, many more such unnerving interviews with my master. "Er, when would Your Lordship wish to—?
"I will send for you, Miss Granger," he interjected, with a dismissive wave of his jewelled hand.
Abruptly standing, he made a crisp bow, to which I hastily arose and returned.
With another swipe of his wand, His Lordship removed the Muffliato surrounding his daughter and, approaching her, bid her to return to him the silver trinket. Without protest, the little girl relinquished her plaything, for which she was rewarded with a brief caress of her cheek. "I shall leave you with Miss Granger now, Clarastella," he murmured softly. "Be a good girl."
"Yes, Papa," said she.
Moving to the door, Lord Malfoy paused and turned to address me a last time. "I have taken the liberty to provide you with a small selection of reading material," he said off-handedly, "mainly pertaining to the theories of magical self defence. If, after your trial time has expired, you are engaged to stay on with us, we will look at putting some of those theories into practice."
I think I stammered out some words of thanks, but I was too much taken by astonishment to know exactly how I replied.
"Good day, Miss Granger," he said with suave brevity. And before I could so much as curtsey, he was gone, the heavy oaken door firmly shut behind him.
I remained where I was, staring at the door for who-knows how long, until at length I was brought back to myself by a soft touch upon my hand. Clarastella had noiselessly approached, and was looking up at me, her unusual violet eyes serious, but not bashful.
"Shall I teach you my dolls' names, please?" she asked, with that curious formality so incongruent to her young age.
I smiled, and took her hand in mine. "Yes, Miss Malfoy," I replied, allowing her to lead me toward the couch upon which the exquisitely-dressed horde were nestled. "I should like that very much."
...
Text notes:
*peignoir - a light negligee dressing-gown, made of sheer material
*'baleen' corset - often known as 'whalebone', however, it is actually keratin found in a whale's mouth, both strong and flexible
*jupon - literally, the French term for petticoat; also a stiff, structural petticoat
*engageantes - false sleeves with cuffs to cover the lower arms, attached to the hem of a wide/opened/short sleeve.
*gerty milk - a traditional Cornish breakfast made with thickened milk poured over bread
*scrowled pilchards - a traditional Cornish preparation of grilled sardines, split and seasoned with pepper