JESUS H. ROOSEVELT CHRIST!"
A fat drop of blood squeezed from the end of her thumb, then another. She placed in her mouth and tasted the coppery saltiness of her blood on her tongue and sucked until the bleeding abated.
Claire was sitting with a lap full of pale filmy voile hidden away in her storehouse and wondering how she began this folly. What had possessed her to attempt such an endeavor?
Once she determined that she wouldn't be marring anything with her own blood, Claire picked up her work with a deep sigh. Outside, the grass was still green like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, grayish clusters; and there were purple-stained violets at the base of the trees. The day was beautiful, and she would have given anything to be out in the crisp air and walking along the lovely game trails that served as paths whenever she sojourned into the forest. Or she would have relished tending a wound other than her own poor sore fingers. She daydreamed for a moment that instead of silk thread and fabric her hands, she was using catgut to suture flesh. Claire Fraser was not one for sewing, at least not as conventionally understood, but then what was a surgeon but a tailor of the body?
She was plagued with frightful dreams of setting a sleeve wrong and thus had carried a chip on her shoulder since breakfast. Enough for Jamie to ask if she had gotten her courses, and he was lucky to still be alive. It was not a pleasant day, and to make matters worse, it rained through the morning, keeping Jamie from the tasks he had planned, and he sat and sulked by the fire. He would not talk; he sat by the hearth and ate his breakfast with the air of a martyr. After breakfast, he worked to splice a broken bridle in grim silence; then, he betook himself to the stable and would not be lured from that retreat. He even responded to Jenny's entreatments with maddening indifference.
Claire had found Brianna crying by the side of the house for no reason that could be determined, But when she tried tactfully to find out what was wrong, her daughter peevishly wanted to know if a human being couldn't just enjoy a cry when she felt like it without being hassled. So she folded her arms and stole away, leaving her to her enjoyment.
This was the last straw that sent Claire to find sanctuary in her storeroom to continue work on the project she wished she had never challenged herself with. But in for a penny, in for a pound. There was no turning back. And Claire had never wished for a Singer sewing machine more in her life.
As she waited for the soreness in her thumb to fade, she took a breath and closed her eyes, taking in the sound of the wind in the trees outside. It was uncommon for Claire to have a moment of peace and quiet. There was always something that needed doing or someone that needed her attention. In fact, right now, there were any number of things that could occupy her time, but the idea of a pair of blue eyes looking at her was her motivation.
It had taken a long time for her to settle on what type of dress she would use as her weapon of seduction. She had nearly three hundred years at her disposal, after all.
No pressure or anything...
She eliminated the 17th century right off. As much as she had come to begrudgingly embrace a set of stays and what they did for her decolletage, it was clear that it was nothing but humdrum familiarity for Jamie. Also, cast aside were the eras that weren't in her realm of experience, especially the 1830's with its ruffled flounces and gargantuan sleeves. The 50's too fussy, the 60's...too boxy even if the short hemlines were daring. No, she had a different time in mind.
Figuring out what fabric to use had been a challenge in itself. There was no hopping to the store for charmeuse or sateen. She finally settled on cannibalizing a biscuit-colored voile petticoat that yielded her four yards of fabric. It had a translucent quality that shifted in the light, and she felt would do the job she needed of it.
Working this voile engaged her whole body. She held the fabric in her hands and stretched in this way then that. Laying it on the ground, she measured with herself as her measuring tape. She was the dress form and draped and pinned the thin material to hug the curves of her body.
The way it molded to her figure with a clinging softness recalled a very particular and lost glamour. A time occupying both her past and her future — a time of Garbo movies and Edith Pilaf or Gershwin tunes playing at Le Gerny; when the Jazz Age had been her present. A time as opposite the 18th-century silhouette as one could get.
Somehow she had made this look so easy. But then she had been...or will be...a genius. Claire knew she was only a pretender.
But she needed to focus. She needed to reach back into her past to remember the lessons that were guiding this dress-making attempt. The knowledge was stowed there; she just needed to unpack it. Claire leaned back in her chair and let her memory enfold her; time was fluid as the fabric that slipped over her fingers.
She remembered that summer. She was eighteen, and it was 1936. It was Paris between the wars. The city was like an old dame, waking from the jubilation of the German defeat only to be left listless once the Depression set in. The hot August air was stifling in the city, its beauty muted in the muggy Parisian haze. Claire mopped at her face with a handkerchief even though it was well past the point of being effective. Dark, damp curls clung to her neck and forehead. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and tried to discreetly adjust the garter clips that were digging into the top of her thighs, and cursing the tight elastic of her girdle and longing for a cool breeze to touch her fevered skin.
Paris was a beautiful city, but she couldn't say she felt beautiful in it. She was tired and out of sorts. It could have been their sleeping arrangements- or lack thereof. They'd been resting on trains and station platforms so far. Uncle Lamb had insisted that they reach their destination as swiftly as possible. As though to let up the pace would cause him to lose momentum, like a locomotive charging up a steep incline. The relentless pace and meager train fair had not improved her mood.
She cast her eyes down to the front of the cavernous auditorium. It was so full that she had only been able to find space in the back of the Gallery. Uncle Lamb was in the middle of an impassioned speech about the importance of amphorae. Examples from the Neolithic to the Classical period sat on stark white pillars, their ceramic surfaces painted and decorated with images of legend and nature. The Greeks, after all, never shied away from gilding the lily.
Her uncle, trim and spritely in his suit that he reserved only for academia gestured towards each one excitedly extolling the virtues and function of each. The audience was electrified by his enthusiasm. This drew a smile to her lips, and she felt her mood rise with the tide of excitement. And she understood it. The appeal of a vase. How the lines and curves created not just an object of beauty but an object of usefulness.
"Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought.
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say' st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'"
Claire looked suddenly to her left to see a small woman with graying hair and bright eyes smiling at her. She was a tiny thing in a smartly tailored black silk dress, with snow-white hair and intelligent eyes as black as her dress, thin, veined hands folded on her lap on an open notebook. She had a sad, lovely, gentle look about her, but Claire had a suspicion that her apparent fragility was deceptive. She was enveloped in an air of invincible lady-likeness that was unlike anything she had encountered before.
Claire returned the smile, barely missing a beat, and promptly sat up a little straighter. "Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn," she whispered.
"Indeed you looked like you were thinking of poetry while listening to the lecture." she laughed softly, keeping her voice low.
"I'm Claire Beachamp, That's my uncle down there speaking."
The little woman's eyes sparkled. "Dr. Beachamp is your uncle? How wonderful. His knowledge of Classical Greece is so inspiring."
Claire looked at the book that was held tightly in the woman's hands. It appeared to be a sketchbook, and Claire could see hastily drawn figures on its open page. She was curious as to their purpose. But before she could speak again, rapturous applause thundered out. The lecture was over and obviously well received.
She stood up, grateful to stretch her legs at last but also eager to continue to talk to the fascinating woman beside her.
"You have introduced yourself to me, and I will return the favor. I'm Madame Madeleine Vionnet," she said simply.
Claire blinked. That name. Why did she know that name? Or why did the way the woman said the words make her immediately feel that she had met someone worth knowing? Her mind rapidly processed all the information available, the lecture, the sketchbook, the figures drawn hastily. Then it dawned on her.
Madeleine Vionnet. The designer.
Her dresses had graced the pages of Vogue that had occupied her time when her books grew tiresome, and she had wanted to rest her eyes on pretty images as the train rattled its way across the European landscape. Claire, while unconventionally raised, was as attracted to the beautiful and glamorous figures of magazine and screen as any other girl her age.
She was tongue-tied for a moment and stood in what she was sure was a stupid manner. Madame Vionnet took pity on her and helped how she could.
"I would love to meet your clever uncle." she said kindly, "Could you arrange an introduction?"
Claire was finally able to regain her capacity for speech and nodded emphatically. "Of course!"
What are you doing this afternoon? You must be hungry. I would love to invite you both to lunch."
"That is so kind. Unfortunately, I have been engaged to speak with the Ecole faculty this afternoon. We have an invitation for a social engagement tonight, but we didn't come prepared for that. I promised I would take Claire shopping for something suitable. But I don't know how I will accomplish being in two places at once." He scratched the back of his head and looked at Claire apologetically.
Madame Vionnet smiled charmingly. "Why don't you let me take care of that. I've taken an interest in your niece and could use a companion for the day. I plan on spending an hour or two at the Louvre. I can help with a dress as well."
Claire looked at her uncle, and he nodded agreement at the scheme. After a few more moments of discussion, it was all arranged, and they were off on an adventure.
The forenoon passed in a whirl of happenings, a lovely lunch in a cool dining room, a ride through the streets of Paris, and to the wide concourse of the Louvre. And not a half-hour later, Claire stood with her hands clasped under her chin, her breath held with rapture.
The figure before her commanded attention, her chest thrust forward, the marble rippled over her stone torso, clinging to her hips and belly. Her body is free and unencumbered. Her wings were aloft as if she was ready for flight, or perhaps she was alighting softly to earth.
She was faceless, but her body exuded sensuality and power. Her personality was spoken through her body. She was wings, hips, stomach, breasts, and legs and somehow more than that. She was truly more than the sum of her parts. She was the Venus of Samothrace. Or Winged Victory, as she was commonly called and she stood planted for centuries on her marble prow, an eternal wind breathing softly against her marble skin.
Claire cast a glance in Madame Vionnet's direction; she was sketching with abandon. Her pencil swooping in long flourishes against the parchment. They had not spoken for a half hour or so as Claire studied the sculpture in front of her and Madeleine's hands moving furiously. The way her brow's knit together and the way her mouth was set made Claire wonder if her hands were keeping up with her mind. Eventually, she stopped and placed her hand on Claire's shoulder.
"I'm glad you could see her. She and I are good friends. She tells me her secrets, and I draw them down. I spend much time here to get inspiration."
"And what secrets has she told you?" Claire asked curiously
"Today she tells me that when air encounters an obstacle, it flows over it and around, but the object remains undisturbed and unchanged by it. But with too much force and it's destructive and moves away everything in its path, leaving nothing behind. Fabric is the same. It should flow around the body, not destroy the body. A dress shouldn't hang off the human form. It should show its lines; it should be brought to life by the body. No ornamentation is needed, and it shouldn't be needed. It's only playing second to the architecture of the dress. Look at her, Claire, don't you see?"
Claire looked at the statute again critically. She did see it.
Their time at the Louvre was over too soon but they went by taxi to 50 Avenue Montaigne. She stood looking up at the impressive five-story building that was home to the Vionnet Ateliers. It was a proud, exclusive looking building that drew its avenue of trees around it. It looked like it wouldn't associate with anyone or anything common.
Madame Vionnet slipped an arm through hers and proceeded to do the honors of showing her the House of Vionnet. Madeleine had already shared the particulars on the ride over 1,200 seamstresses pattern-making, cutting, sewing to bring her vision to life every day. But to see it was another matter. They walked through the rooms, busy with work. Scissors slashed fabric with a snicker-snack sound that echoed, and the dull hum of sewing machines pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat through the corridors. They moved upward until they came to what Madame Vionnet called "her study". It had the feel of an inner sanctum, filled with its own kind of creative magic. They sat on mahogany Sheraton chairs. It was hung with silver-stripe wallpaper. Heavy brocade curtains at the windows and marble-topped tables, one was bearing a peculiar figure. It looked like a large doll, but it was the size of a small child. Fabric was draped upon it, and sketchbooks and notepads littered the table in front of it. An enormous chandelier, all glass, and crystal was suspended from the ceiling. A round mirror with a clock in the center chimed smartly.
Madame Vionnet did most of the talking. She was eloquent and matter of fact and showed Claire hundreds...more or less... of her sketches and prints of Grecian statues, Egyptian frescos, and classical vases that served as inspiration for her designs. Claire found the conversation stimulating and was able to contribute handily.
"How do you even begin to turn these into something that can be worn?"
"It starts with the fabric. I prefer fabric that drips from the body. It's better suited for revealing the form underneath. The fabric combined with the woman speaks to me." she said candidly. "We cut on the bias, here. That is my genius, using a cutting technique previously used in creating collars. Bias cuts involve cutting the fabric against the grain. It's how the woman is revealed."
There must have been a look of confusion on Claire's face because Madame Vionnet clucked her tongue in an exasperated way and gestured for her stand up to come closer to the table
"Here. Lesson one, Fabric cut this way is not symmetrical."
She picked up a small square of muslin and pinned it to the front of her small mannequin at a 45-degree angle. Claire watched as the folds from each side of the center-hung differently. She unpinned the piece quickly and picked up a larger piece of muslin and draped it on only one side of the dress form then repeated the process on the other side, working towards a central seam. The fabric gathered in the center and fell like a waterfall, hiding the seam.
"And there, you see? Symmetry."
"Next pins, you must have enough pins. There are never enough pins. We pin all seams and slip-baste from the garment's right side."
Madame Vionnet lifted another piece from the table. The garment was pierced through, impaled with hundreds of silver slivers that looked like fringe in the light of the study.
"Once pinned, you must set it. This work will be done by hand." she laid it aside then traced her finger along the edge of muslin that was still pinned to the doll. "And the final lesson. The neckline, I'm fastidious about how it lays. It mustn't gape open no matter how low; it must follow the curve of the breast, suggest its presence and frame it but never expose."
Claire nodded. She would never dare to argue.
"Now let me look at you. We have to get you ready for your evening in society. So tell me what you like about yourself. What do you think is beautiful?"
"Isn't it very vain to talk about anything when you have yourself being beautiful?" asked Claire.
"It's not a bit vain," said Madame Vionnet bristled. "It is not vanity to know your own good points. It would just be stupidity if you didn't. And you don't seem stupid. Let's see," She looked at her critically, and Claire felt herself blush rosily at the scrutiny.
"Your good points are your skin and your eyes. You have ears you shouldn't be ashamed of showing. And of course, every woman's figure is her good point. My clothes are made for women of every shape because clothes are meant to show the body rather than the other way around."
"Over there." The older woman pointed with her blue-veined hands to a changing area, "Take off all of your undergarments. They will do nothing but ruin what the dress is meant to achieve."
Meekly Claire ducked behind a screen on the far side of the room. Her mind was whirring, only slightly concerned about what she would be clothed in. She hung her garments on top of the divider as he stripped and then held her hands up to receive what Madame Vionnet had selected for her.
Claire took the dress into her hands. It looked like little more than a champagne-colored strip of silk. It didn't look like much. There was no zipper or buttons that she could find, so finally she just pulled in on over her head. There was a long strip of fabric that she was perplexed about, and one strap seemed to need to be twisted. It took her several minutes to get it right, but the effort is worth it. The dress felt so light and flowing that it almost felt like she was wearing liquid silk.
She walked out from behind the partition, and she looked at herself in the full-length mirror and gasped.
Her reflection was making her rethink everything she has ever known about fabric and flesh. The complexity of the construction meant that the design came alive only when worn or draped on the body. It was meant for three dimensions and cut to smooth over the figure. This evening dress dipped into the small of the back; it slid under the clavicle to form a soft cowl neckline, and bias-cut fabric draped artfully to allow for the curve of the stomach and the arch of hip bones. The deep drape of the fabric created vertical bands of light flowing down her figure, elongating her silhouette, which was first blurred and then brought into relief as her movements caused the swathes of fabric to shift and form around her. It gathered slightly to round over her buttocks and clung to her thighs; the fabric slipped from her lithe frame to trail on the floor behind her.
Madame Vionnet stood next to her as Claire turned this way and that, trying to take in the dresses' full effect. She seemed to sparkle with it an inner light, and she moved through the golden air like a slender figure on a Grecian urn. The dull shadowy room sparkled, too. It lived when she stepped into it.
"You see, the dress must not hang on the body but follow its lines. When a woman smiles, the dress must smile with her." She said warmly and nodded her approval. "Walk as if you owned the earth. Because tonight you do."
Claire smiled at her reflection. Suddenly she was the Winged Victory of Samothrace, ready for flight. Nothing could stop her. And that night, nothing did. Dinner was in a big, glassed-in club ballroom; paper lanterns had been hung all about it, shedding mellow-tinted light on the pretty dress, her glossy hair, and unlined brow.
The shadows were growing long when Claire finally broke from her reverie. Madame Vionnet's lessons wended through her mind, and she took up her work again, the same piece that she had ripped and stitched countless times only to find it had bunched where it should lay smooth. She tried to tell herself this was teaching her patience. She took a deep breath and began again on the troublesome seam. She finally found her rhythm as she felled the small stitches in place. Her line was smooth and straight. Her confidence rose with each placement of the needle.
She would succeed.
She would work continuously with these materials in order to gain the style and fit she envisaged. She wasn't a dressmaker or a designer; she was, though quite unconsciously, acting the part and tasting all the subtle joy of the artist. And this was so much more exquisite than any material pleasure. Her body was her canvas, and her husband, her audience.
And she couldn't wait for the unveiling.