Author's Note: Thank you so much for your patience. I really hope the chapter makes up for the delay in posting.
Also, there'll be cameos scattered across to real costumes on the show. Please, enjoy :)
_._
Monday, the 24th of February, 2020
9:01 a.m.
"Now, ladies,"
Molly Curtis really wanted to respect Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. But when all of the costumes were only just out of reach, her eyes couldn't help but drift away, her attention fading.
"Mr. Carson, Miss Vance, and I will be personally checking every costume to ensure that the final selection is appropriate." The Scottish teacher began to warn them, barely maintaining Molly's focus. "Under no circumstances is anyone to be wearing anything that hasn't been approved by the three of us."
Of course. Who would be that stupid? Now can we plleeeeassseeeeee try them on? Pretty please?
"Which means that,"
I"m guessing not.
"It is imperative you judge your potential costume not only on whether it's appropriate for the song, but also on whether or not it's appropriate for a school production."
C'mon, Mrs. Hughes. We're totally mature when it comes to this stuff. We can be trusted not to be stupid.
"Remember, if you're unsure, let it go. There's plenty of other costumes from which to choose."
We know, we know, we know––
"And also remember," Mr. Carson quickly interjected, "The three of us will be checking each and every outfit. And there will be a record of whether or not your costume has been officially approved."
Of course there will be: it's you. If there wasn't an 'official record' I'd be surprised.
"Now, if there are any questions?"
Nope! No one's got a question––
"Erm, Mrs. Hughes," Camillia Botterill, if you make so much as one complaint, "Are these really our only options?"
"I'm gonna kill her."
"Molly?" Oh, they'd heard that, the teachers did. "What did you say?"
_._
4:46 p.m.
"Okay, but how about this?"
"Abigail Hankins, if you think for one second that orange, feathers and purple sequins go together, I am officially banning you from this octet."
However, for once, no malice entered Penelope's tone. In fact, the young lady seemed to be incorporating a dead-pan humour, one that served to crack up everyone within earshot. It seemed the private conversation Penelope had with Daniel, the one person in the octet who could reach her, worked. The prima donna in the making still craved the spotlight, but was slowly becoming more of a team player.
"No, I think this would be far more fitting for the occasion." Penelope then proceeded to hoist up a dress for everyone to see. The thing could only be politely described as… garish. "Does it not simply scream Call Me Madam?"
"Okay, if I'm not allowed to rock my beautiful outfit of orange, feathers and purple sequins, I don't see why you should be allowed to wear that––"
"Ladies, ladies," Connor Pond stepped forth, his grin filled to the brim with mirth, "I don't know how to say this,"
"Go on,"
"But, I really think there's only one person who can pull off either outfit."
They both leaned in, tempted by what was undoubtedly be a joke, "Who, Connor?"
However, before the tenor could reveal his punchline, "You are not making me wear anything, Connor Pond!"
"But, David," His peer started to proclaim, unabashedly taking hold of both Penelope and Abigail's gaudy treasures and ushering them toward the bass, "You'd look sublime!"
_._
4:51 p.m.
"So, you'd think mucking about with pigs would be a ghastly business, wouldn't you, Matthew?" They had been secluded away from the others, surreptitiously glancing through what remained for costumes.
"Sure, I believe it." He hadn't a clue either way, the idea never occurring to him.
"Well, actually, and if you mention this to anyone," But his cousin seemed positively enthralled with the idea of trusting him with every detail, judging by how she beat about the bush.
"I wouldn't dream of saying anything," And Matthew wouldn't. He wouldn't betray her confidence.
"Good." She took a moment to eye a gown, trying her best not to show how happy she was about the prior weekend. "In that case, I suppose I can admit that it was, dare I say, amusing."
"'Amusing'?"
"Shall I be explaining myself or not?" But Mary wasn't cross, not really. In fact, a hint of a knowing smile played around the corners of her stare, even as she fought back the mildest of blushes.
This had to be the first time they were talking to each other, really talking to each other, since the start of the semester. Neither knew what the other's thinking for this was. And both were equally unsure as to what prompted this.
Only that it was really nice to finally be talking again.
_._
5:02 p.m.
"Oooooooh!" Phyllis grinned at the enthusiasm of one Daniel "Danny" Boretsky, the Texan's energy infectious even through a video-chat, "You just have to try that on!"
Thomas, ever the good-natured boyfriend, disappeared from sight to slip on the mess of fuchsia ruffles and electric green chiffon that had been suggested. When he finally returned, slinking across the way as he did so and pretending to be on the runway, Phyllis almost dropped the phone from the roaring laughter –– her guffaws and Danny's chortles overpowering her concentration when it came to holding up the mobile.
"It's perfect, I know." The baritone informed them with a straight face, his demeanour managing not to crack in spite of the fact that he'd never looked so ridiculous. That he was also posing dramatically, as though there was a paparazzi before him, didn't help them maintain decorum.
"That's the one!" Danny declared once he regained his breath, "Tell Mrs. Hughes and Miss Miller you have found the perfect outfit!"
Seeing as how the octet was Mrs. Hughes and Miss Miller's pet project, it had been decided that Mr. Carson and Miss Vance didn't need to approve these outfits. Which meant that the eight students had a little more lee-way when it came to their selections –– not that any of them were genuinely going to indulge.
"I'm afraid that is not the 'perfect outfit', Thomas, Daniel, Phyllis." All three froze at the sound of Mrs. Hughes arriving on the scene, the students quickly whirling around to profusely apologize for unwittingly offending the woman with their jokes.
"Agreed, Mrs. Hughes," Oh, God no. Miss Miller had joined the group, her eyes scanning the costume in question. The two women shared a look, shaking their heads in disbelief before turning back to the chastened teens, firmly agreed:
"It can't be perfect: it's missing glitter."
_._
5:04 p.m.
After inwardly cackling for the last minute, enjoying that little joke about Barrow's outfit with her new partner in crime, Phoebe Miller found herself relieved this was working. They still had a ways to go, seeing as how the two schools continued to segregate themselves for most of the rehearsals.
But to hear the genuine laughter from today, to recognize that the students were beginning to listen to one another as a team and not eight individuals, it was something.
"Thomas? Is that you underneath that organza?" Phoebe turned at the sound of Penelope calling out to the baritone, tensing at the question. The two students seemed neutral in general, at best, meaning that this interaction could in any direction.
"Now that's an outfit! I don't know Penelope, I think Thomas's gonna give you a run for your money." Abigail pointed out, applauding Barrow's choice in apparel –– grinning as he bowed facetiously in response.
"Oh, Thomas wouldn't dare." The soprano primly responded, now decked out in a monstrosity of tulle. The teachers couldn't determine if it was supposed to be a dress or a jumpsuit, the layers puffing out to make the diva look like a pastel pink snowman, "I'll just have to see this for myself!"
As the students began to come together over this, their normal boundaries slipping away, Phoebe couldn't help but wonder aloud, "They've got it all memorized, I think we can give them a few more minutes." Then, turning to the only one who might oppose the idea, "That is, if that's all right with you, Mr. Ross?"
The man understood, having seen these eight students in action before. He knew this change in attitude was to be treasured:"Works for me. They know their stuff."
"That they do." Mrs. Hughes echoed his sentiment, pleased.
_._
Tuesday, the 25th of February, 2020
12:03 p.m.
They had ducked out of the second fourth floor once again, however, this time it had been due to Linda's bold insistence. "I can handle any soloists that come, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes," She bluntly informed them, ushering them toward the door, "And you might as well try on costumes now before everyone else does on Friday."
The knowing look she gave them both, one that implied their sanity might be saved if they weren't trying costumes on for the first time in front of Alice Neal and her scathing criticisms, is what persuaded them in the end.
Of course, they would never admit to it.
"Suppose this gives us inspiration for the duet?" Elsie had dryly remarked as they ventured downstairs, having been blanking on an appropriate song to select. She rather liked the idea of not being behind a curtain, watching him conduct in silent observance, but instead getting to stand by his side for all to see.
However, the teacher also wanted to make sure that they made the right impression on the school population –– not wanting to set the wrong example for their students. Similarly to last year, she didn't want to risk any sort of scandal, especially with the wedding only months away. She could already see the sort of outrage Alice would stir up at the very idea of this duet. And who knew what that would do for the school's reputation.
It turned out, however, that the moment the clothing racks came back into view, all thoughts of a duet were thrown to the winds. Apparently, they were as invested in the whole process as their students, once given the chance to have a little fun.
"My, my." All teachers agreed that it would be best that it would be best to set aside the fact that The Music Man was supposed to take place around 1912 in America –– seeing as how they didn't have those costumes on hand. Instead, they would all find costumes based on their own Edwardian era. Or, rather, the gentlemen would find matching outfits that resembled barbershop at its finest. The ladies, on the other hand, would scour the racks for anything that remotely looked like it came out of the Edwardian era. "I think we've a few options here."
"Only 'a few'?"
Elsie chuckled, pleased he was returning the quip.
The lighthearted air would only help with the matter.
The woman already knew this would be a difficult task, even with their resources. It wasn't the fact that they were unlikely to find something fitting; more so that any costume chosen would incur all sorts of criticism, which meant she had to be abnormally selective.
Charles, however, had no such hesitations about the whole thing.
"Are you sure that's the one you'd like?"
Elsie softly sighed at the protestation, turning around in the ensemble piece in question. It was a plain black dress, a conservative one that fell to her ankles. The majority of it was a patterned fabric with lovely splashes of chromaticism around the collar and the wrists. Others might have referred it to a "spinstery" in nature, but she herself found it more mature than anything.
"Charles, I'm not singing lead on this. I'm the bass." Besides, she had no desire to stir up any talk of stealing the show by wearing something extravagant. Moreover, in her eyes, this is what the Edwardian era looked like. Perhaps it might've been more suited to a housekeeper than a lady from the time, but this is what felt appropriate. "And, you said yourself this had more style than the navy blue."
He'd also said the charcoal skirt and the pale blue blouse –– a combination that looked relaxed, perfect for a day at the beach and prettier than most of the other options –– looked to be ten years past the era. In fact, every dress or outfit she'd selected was either too simple or too modern in his eyes. And his opinions were becoming so adamant she seriously considered chucking him out of the dressing rooms and picking something on her own.
"But what about this?"
Elsie turned, gaping at the gown he brought out, profusely shaking her head at the thought.
"Charlie," The man stiffened, but they'd talked about this. He himself had asked her to use it once in a while, wanting to put the past behind him. Still, whether he asked for it or not, his fiancée knew it would take some adjustment. "That would not be appropriate. They wouldn't have been wearing gowns like that in The Music Man –– certainly not for 'Lida Rose' or 'It's You'."
"At least try it?" It was an enthralling creation of black lace on a cream satin, layered so as to maintain an illusion of modesty. By today's standards, it was rather modest. And, still, there lingered a hint of allure stitched into the piece, refinement weaving together with enchantment to create a stunning vision of class.
"No." The word was soft but firm, the woman gentle yet determined. "No, I won't try it."
Charles frowned, disappointed as she knew he would be.
But, really, it felt like too much in her mind. Too much extravagance for a small act. And, no doubt, this would be something that would upstage the others –– one of the last things she wanted to do, not when there was already an unpleasant atmosphere infecting the group.
"However," Much as Elsie would rather just take the black dress from before or even the navy blue, she knew in her heart she wouldn't be happy in it. She would make it work, and would look to be of something from the era, but it wouldn't be right. So, that only left one more option: "I will try this."
What she held now was not an evening gown. It was also not a piece suited for a servant. Rather, it struck her as a costume for a relaxed day in life, perhaps worn on a stroll. The pastel pink blouse, dotted with charming hints of flowers, came with a timeless white brooch and a lovely black hat as well as a matching jacket and skirt. It would blend into the background whilst maintaining the tone of the era.
And, most importantly of all, she liked it.
"Well, I suppose it's something." His eyes still glanced in the direction of that other gown, the one she refused to try on, even as he conceded. She gave a faint, exasperated smile at the man, finding his incapability to fake enthusiasm more amusing than anything.
"I'm sure you'd prefer this over nothing at all," The choir teacher quipped knowingly, her smile widening as she walked off to try the ensemble on.
"I wouldn't say that."
She stumbled, a blush creeping into her step as the woman kept her back firmly to him. But two could play at this game, "Don't tempt me, Mr. Carson."
"I would never think of doing that, Mrs. Hughes."
Never, indeed.
_._
3:42 p.m.
Edith Crawley had stumbled upon the dress quite by accident, her hand having brushed up against the soft material when she wasn't looking.
"What's this?" Delicately pulling the gown away from its hanger, she found the sea foam green creation to be stunning. With an elegant slit running down the side, creating a tasteful ripple effect, she knew that this had a chance for working in Drowsy Chaperone. This looked like it was right out of the 1920s, the very era that the satirical musical took place in. And seeing as how she had snagged the title role –– being cast as the Drowsy Chaperone herself –– she knew it wouldn't be frowned upon to wear such an enchanting piece.
If nothing else, she would try it on.
It would only take her five minutes to realize it was so much better than she could've ever imagined. Not only that, but she would soon realize she wasn't the only one who took well to these costumes.
"Evelyn," She said in shock, looking at her friend as he emerged from the changing area. The young singer looked perfect for his role as the Man in Chair –– decked in cable-knit sweater on top of a striped sweater vest, a long-sleeved button down shirt, and brown corduroys, complete with a red tie. "You look perfect!"
"You really think so?" He asked shyly, a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She firmly nodded, knowing his character well. The Man in Chair –– an intentionally nameless character, much like her own –– was the narrator of Drowsy. The character was a reclusive fan of musical theatre, content to be secluded by the world and surrounded by his records of the Golden Age of Broadway, among other eras. This was the type of character who was brilliant but timid, greatly knowledgeable but private and often dismissed.
In other words, a character that Evelyn Napier would understand very well.
"I really do!"
But her friend had taken note of her outfit and all thoughts of his own costume faded.
"Edith," He said, finally seeing what she wore, his eyes widening, "You look perfect."
She blushed at this, unused to the praise. "I think everyone does, don't you?"
And they really did. Joseph Moseley, and Henry Lang were now esteemed gentlemen from the era; Phyllis Baxter was practicing her ukulele for her part in the song, her periwinkle gown fluttering through the air with each gentle movement; Septimus Spratt was pulling the gangster look off rather well, his two henchwomen in the song –– Megan Abbott and Gwen Dawson –– laughing over something in their chef outfits; Laura Foster chatted away with Tony Gillingham, the soprano's espresso skin tone beautifully complemented by her stunning aviator outfit.
Truly, the more everyone found the right attire, the more the various archetypes of the twenties came to life.
And, frankly, it was all so dazzling to witness.
_._
4:16 p.m.
"Aren't you quite the rebel?"
Andy swiftly turned around at the voice, grinning. As his costume aimed to resemble a revolutionary from the Paris Uprising of 1832, the time period in which Les Mis took place, Ellie's compliment had him pleased.
"You're not looking too bad yourself, Ellie. Or should I say, Cosette?" She beamed, twirling about in her dress, looking rather tickled. He couldn't help but smile at this, his eyes committing this beautiful image of her to memory.
"Think they'll approve?" The soprano asked, a trail of insecurity threading itself into the words, the first he'd ever heard.
The tenor scoffed not unkindly, confident, "They'll love it."
_._
Wednesday, the 26th of February, 2020
9:52 a.m.
"Rose? You still changing?"
The soprano in question resisted the urge to smile mischievously at the question, "I'll be just a moment, Sybil!"
"Isn't that what she said five minutes ago?" Good old Mary could be counted on to hold a regal sense of disdain. But it didn't bother Rose. She'd found her piece for 42nd Street and all that was left was to convince Mr. Carson that it was absolutely appropriate for her to wear this.
"Rose, if you're not out there in forty seconds––"
"All right, all right, I'm ready." Trying her best not to smirk as she opened the door to the dressing room, Rose strutted out into the hallway and joined the three ladies.
"Oh my God, that's amazing!" "Please tell me this is what you've decided on!" "There's no way Mr. Carson is going to let you get away with that!"
Smoothly turning about in her sharp tuxedo, Rose tipped her top hat and gave her best grin, "I was thinking about that. If I get my costume checked by Mrs. Hughes first, I bet it'll work out just fine."
"But," Mary wasn't quite spluttering, though it was a very near thing, "You'll be the only girl dressed like that,"
"Exactly!" Sybil interjected, thrilled, "It'll be perfect as the soloisist!"
"And," Edith began to add, a pleased gleam in her eye, "It's quite classy. Even you have to admit that, Mary."
"I certainly do not." She paused, thinking the matter over. "But I suppose, for Rose's sake, I can concede the point."
"Did you hear that, Rose? Mary'll be 'conceding' the point!"
"Oh, but speaking of perfect costumes," The youngest Crawley daughter brought up, not wanting another row to break out, "What'll your witch costume look like?"
"That is for me to know and you to find out. Though, I will say, Miss Vance picked it out for me personally."
"She did not!"
"Did, too!'
"Did not!"
"That's never gonna end, is it, Sybil?"
"Probably not." She turned to the tuxedo-clad soprano, "Shall we see what the teachers say?"
"Let's!"
_._
Friday, the 27th of February, 2020
4:14 p.m.
Matthew Crawley had been one of the unlucky few that hadn't found the right outfit on the spot. In fact, even though almost every member of his octet had already discovered what they needed, he had to revisit the costume supply in his spare time.
"Matthew, glad you could make it. Please, don't mind the teachers. Let's just see if we can find you something." He smiled at Mrs. Hughes' offer, not needing the reassurance but appreciating it, nevertheless.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes." The Scot nodded, leading him back toward where the costumes now remained. As she'd mentioned, there were faculty from the other schools already swarming the racks, skimming the attire for anything suitable. It might've been intimidating, except for the fact that the atmosphere was lively –– one filled with curiosity and wonderment.
Really, with the way the adults were treating one another, Matthew didn't understand the rumours about this group. He'd heard that there was a never-ending sense of tension among the teachers and directors with endless backhanded remarks and dry retorts that bordered on the insulting.
Those rumours were not what he saw today.
In fact, it was all so very reassuring he felt he could continue with task in peace. Sifting through the clothes, quietly searching through the racks for a third time that week in vain, Matthew nearly lost himself to the process.
That is, until she arrived.
"Good to see we've all gotten started!"
A bubbly voice, unfamiliar to the tenor, sounded from the top of the stairs leading to the dressing rooms. The air immediately shifted, stifled and withdrawn, at the noise. He turned out of intrigue, looking up and finding himself instantaneously entranced.
She wore a stunning pearl white gown, one that looked to come out of a period drama and not the costume rack. A cotton piece that shaped her figure wonderfully, layers blending together to create a regal image, the woman looked as though she were floating off to her own wedding, not a show. And with a magnificent hat that matched the glamour of her outfit, the stranger held the eye of everyone in the room.
"Alice," Dickie Merton began to greet the woman –– and was that a hint of disappointment in his voice?" "Glad you were able to find your way."
"But, of course," She brightly responded, something in the words setting off an alarm bell for the still-captivated teen. She looked very pretty, there was no mistaking that. However, there was something about her attitude….
"I see you've already tried your dress on," Mrs. Patmore pointed out, the woman more than just "disappointed".
"Yes, and I'm so sorry yours isn't as…" She looked to be searching for the right word, eventually settling on: "Nice."
As it stood, Matthew thought the band director looked brilliant in her attire. But he remained quiet on the matter, having the feeling that it wouldn't bode well if he were to try to interrupt this conversation.
"Oh, and Elsie, your costume looks so–– so charming." The tenor hid a scowl at the thinly veiled sarcasm, bristling at the not-so-subtle derisive tone. "And who is this handsome young man?"
"This is Matthew Crawley," Mr. Carson coolly introduced, "Matthew Crawley, Alice Neal."
So, this was Alice Neal. The woman he'd been hearing so many whispers about ever since this faculty group got started. Quite possibly the reason why Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes always looked a little more defeated every Friday. As well as the reason that Penelope and Mary had been previously convinced the octet would be no more, the girls citing that Miss Neal never cared for others stealing the show.
Yes, well, now he was beginning to understand why.
"Charmed, I'm sure." Miss Neal coolly remarked, turning, "Now, Charlie," Was she really laying a hand on his choir director as though no one would notice? "Where's this closet of yours? I want to make sure my dress will be safe and, with this school, no one really knows, do they?"
Right. Quite honestly, if she kept up with this act of hers, he would feel very pressed to do something about it.
_._
Author's Note: Because Matthew may be a genuinely nice person, but that doesn't mean he'll let bullies have their way.