Successful she might be, the cleverest woman in Europe she might be, but she was married in a pair of stockings that had been darned over and over again.
She was determined that she would pay for her own trousseau, every gown and pin and garter, and the money went to the things that people would see. It wasn't, after all, as if anyone would know that her stockings were worsted, and that they had been mended so often that they were really more mend than stocking.
At least, so she thought. It was not until they were alone that she remembered he would see them.
He was quite puzzled, and she had to explain, haltingly, that she had entirely forgotten that anyone would be seeing them — only, somehow, she was rather tongue-tied, and she actually gave him to understand that she had forgotten the existence of her bridegroom. He laughed until he had to sit down to catch his breath. And when, some time later, he began to giggle for no apparent reason, she realized that she would be reminded of this many, many times in years to come.
She had as many pairs of stockings as she could want, now. Her taste, though adventurous, was rarely gaudy, and her stockings reflected that— in silk, finely knitted, clocked, but only rarely in bright colors. No darning for her, now; the pairs that wore thin were given to her maid, who passed them along, goodness only knew whither. They were as light as air, and as soft; and so deliciously warm.
"There you are, madame," said her maid, pinning her fichu into place, as she tied her garter. "Nice and warm."
She wiggled her toes in her fine leather shoes and wondered why she felt so cold.
Her ruined stockings, once ivory, hung around her feet in muddy tatters. Even the sisters at the convent, who believed strongly in the sinfulness of waste, would have been inclined to consign these stockings to the fire. They were still warm about her legs, though her feet were stiff with cold, and she shivered in the chill as he took them off.
He looked up, with something like fear in his eyes.
"Did I hurt you?"
She shook her head. "No — I am just cold."
He nodded. His hand was warm on her ankle, and the water was warm, too. He bathed her feet in it, cleaning the cuts, and washing away the mud.
"You'll have to make do with a pair of my stockings," he said, looking at her foot contemplatively. "I haven't any ladies' things aboard, at present."
She nodded.
His stockings were of the finest silk, in colors to suit a peacock, with clocks bordering on the garish in their choice and quantity of colors. The pair he lent her was red.
"They're a bit large, I'm afraid," he said, trying vainly to tie them in place properly. "But they should do for the moment. I wonder if we could sew them shorter?"
"They're perfectly comfortable."
He smiled, and stood, a little stiffly, then eased himself down to sit beside her on the bed. He took her hand in his, and rested his head on her shoulder.
She would have to get up soon, she thought, and make sure he was comfortable. With his back in the state it was, he probably ought to lie down. For now, though, she was happy to let him lean on her.
She sighed contentedly, and tucked her too-big stockings up under her skirts.
She was finally warm.
Notes: This was originally published on AO3. I remembered reading at some point that men's stockings, in the 18th century, were meant to be seen, and thus usually more of a fashion statement than women's stockings. Other influences include wearing reproduction silk stockings for the first time (so comfy), a late-night binge through various bookverse fics, and a scene from the novel The Definite Object, by Jeffrey Farnol, in which the heroine laments the fact that she has no nice clothing to be married in, but feels that she wants to wear only her own things to her wedding. I can imagine Marguerite feeling that it would be in bad taste to start asking her fabulously wealthy husband for money before the actual marriage (not to mention the fact that it would be prime material for gossip).
