Chapter 9- Absit Omen
"Let an omen be absent."
"You're not eating."
"Hrmm?" Robert blinked as if rousing from a stupor, frowning. "I am."
Rosalind cut delicately into her rhubarb pie slice. "No, you've been watching me eat," she said, the warm piece of pie sliding into her mouth. With a napkin, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth delicately. "Or, perhaps, just watching me."
Looking guiltily at his rarebit, he shuffled a few cut portions around the plate before putting one disinterestedly into his mouth.
"Is your meal underdone?" Her meal was fine—good, actually—but she didn't want him to suffer in silence as she enjoyed hers.
"No, no, it's fine. The cheese is a bit overcooked for my preference, but it's still enjoyable." He twirled some on his fork for good measure, but didn't eat it.
So it was something else then. She finished another bite before continuing, "Is your appetite affected by my behavior towards Whitman?"
His eyes snapped to her. Ah, so it was.
"A bit," he confessed.
She looked down at her food, so he might not see her disappointment now. Of the fifty men in the lecture hall, she believed he would be the one to understand her the most.
"Of course," Rosalind tried not to say too bitterly. She prodded her pie; it was too tarty.
Robert set his utensil down and grasped her hand as it lay on the table. She looked at the contact, considering whether to pull away from it.
"Not in the way you think."
She looked at him then to hear his explanation.
"I…quite liked your handling of it, actually," he admitted, returning his hand to his side of the table and buttoning up his jacket.
She felt the corner of her lips tug upwards slightly. In truth, she felt exhausted from these meetings, and Robert was her nurse to remedy the mental exertions of them.
"I do hope you mean you agree with the necessity of it, and not of seeing a man flayed in front of his peers for saying aloud what they were thinking."
"Oh yes, necessary," he agreed. "It was insolence in the guise of a question, but I think you misjudge most of the men to believe they are all like Whitman."
After taking another bite as he spoke, she dabbed again a bit of filling that had caught on the corner of her mouth. "I know. His ire was aimed more at Mr. Sinclair. It does not escape my notice that they are both close in age and in similar position at the Authority." She smirked. "Were in the same position."
Robert remained solemn.
"But," she sobered at his expression, "I suppose he was only ensuring fair play remained in the system, as you predicted would happen." This didn't seem to alter his mood—it seemed to aggravate him, in fact, as if he thought her sympathy should not be wasted on Whitman.
"He should have come to you in private," he muttered.
"He should have," she said, reaching across to brush her fingers over his hand. He considered the contact now, his expression lightening; hers as well. "But enough of that," she dismissed, pulling away. "We have the whole afternoon, you and I. Did you have a shop in mind for your clothes?"
He shrugged. "Hudson's?"
She smiled into her tea as she drank it. It was the first place she had gone to for clothes for him, and later, when he was in condition to travel outside of their home, the first place she had taken him for proper fitting. He lacked any sort of formal attire fit for the Christmas Ball's white tie dress code. At the time, full evening dress was the least of their concern when they had a whole wardrobe's worth to purchase for him upon his arrival. Together with the amount of clothes he soiled with his hemorrhaging, yes, parties or any sort of public engagement were the farthest from her mind. But now, normalcy was setting in, and the new rhythm of their lives was making itself known. If that included a greater social life because Robert wanted it, so be it.
"Hudson's is good."
She focused on cutting a piece of her pie again which he must have mistaken for her disinterest because he added, "We can go to the shops you like as well."
"I think we'll find everything we need at Hudson's. They have an excellent selection." Quite a few items caught her eye when they visited there last.
Robert nodded, nudging his plate farther from him slightly. Rosalind frowned at the bulk of his meal. "Are you done?"
"With the rarebit, yes."
"You didn't order any dessert. If you're in the mood for something else-"
He waved his hand. "It's fine. They're preparing to close for dinner soon."
Perhaps he had a better angle of the kitchen than she did from their position near the window, but she could see the waitstaff was still attentive to the remaining guests in the restaurant. If she asked, they would not refuse her. Not Madame Lutece. They went out of their way to keep her content, to keep her coming back to their establishment. Really though, she had simple, albeit, strict requests that fell within reason. They were to have the most secluded table that was available, and their preference for the restaurant was not to be advertised. She made no other demands or ridiculous accommodations. A piece of pie or dessert for her brother if they could help it, was not asking too much. She might even throw in a compliment about her own meal to accompany the request.
Rosalind knew Robert would be modest if she asked. Though why should he be? It was already a year. Her fame lost its glimmer to her in about the same span. She made it very clear that the recognition was as much his as it was hers, and he was free to use it as such, especially before it waned in his eyes as well.
"We can share mine," she told him matter-of-factly, and before he could object, she offered him her fork with a generous portion of pie. The presentation of the dessert was that she'd feed him the morsel if he leaned forward and opened his mouth. He did so eagerly before hesitating and glanced around at the nearly empty restaurant. She surveyed their audience as well, because people always stared; the reason they took to late lunches and early dinners. As the Great Madame, with interested eyes, the public watched her closely; watched Robert. Their scrutiny was tolerable most times, but eating? Shopping? Her privacy was no longer sacred, it seemed. She thought briefly of the continent and if they had lived there. Would she have used her funds to rebuy her family home or an estate of her own? Might she have picnic in the privacy of her garden? Just the two of them, laughing, conversing as they shared sandwiches over elderflower cordial. Perhaps in one universe, they had.
She raised an eyebrow at him. They were going to stare whether they sat idly or ate a meal with the worst of table manners. He made his decision, placing his hand over hers to guide the fork into his mouth. He chewed it for a few seconds, giving her a muffled sound of approval at the taste. Cheeks puffed, red filling caught at the end of his smirk, he looked like a schoolboy again. The sight could have made her laugh, and she almost did. She smirked, and he, with a dangerously crooked smile, snorted despite himself.
"Shh," she warned. What had overcome them, suddenly, she did not know. Reaching across the table again, she bunched a napkin to clear the offending jelly from his mouth. If someone thought the action inappropriate, she could care less. She was within her bounds to make certain her kin, as it were, remained presentable in public. Despite her harsh tone, there was still a quirk about his mouth, one that threatened to put her back into a state that was sure to turn a head or two, and she made an effort now to concentrate anywhere but his face.
Robert used his own spoon, and they sobered over the remaining pie, finishing it in silence, the fit of near-laughter gone. Rosalind wondered perhaps, if this was what true siblings experienced. Pantomime when their governess' back was turned, silly expressions in church when Father wasn't looking, or stuffing tarts cooling on the counter into their mouth before Mother told them they were for after supper. Was this all they had missed? What else? Playing doctor, playing house?
Well, she supposed, keeping her attention carefully on the dessert, they had had a similar experience—as one could expect upon meeting and caring for the opposing gender of oneself. But that had been necessary and hardly puerile in nature. They had not sat and matched their physical similarities shoulder to shoulder, or their differences chest to chest. The knowledge of it was apparent. She did not need to see the appendage between his legs or lift her skirts to know she lacked one, but that also did not mean she thought the biological distinctions were any less significant or interesting. Even now, as his tongue rolled over his lips, staining them scarlet with pie filling, she thought of the length of it. Was it longer than hers? Or how his jaw ticked to the slow rhythm of his chewing, and she thought of the wonderful development of the other muscles on his body that were more prominent than hers-
"Is something the matter?"
Rosalind snapped her head up to find him mildly concerned. "Pardon?"
"You've had an odd expression for some time."
She made her face as impassive as she could, despite that she could feel her ears burning. Hopefully, her position on the dimmer side of the table made it difficult to discern. She brought her cup to her lips. "Have I?" she murmured over her tea before sipping. How long had she been seized by her thoughts?
He shrugged lightly, inclining his head to show it was just his opinion.
"I was thinking of…what I might wear," she lied, feigning interest in the concentric stains of her tea on the saucer. It's been some time since I've attended a ball for my own pleasure." Partially a truth. She did not like to keep anything from him, but the topic of their physical properties was best not discussed over lunch in a public restaurant.
"I'm sure whatever you decide to wear will be lovely. I liked what you wore for our portraits." He ended his compliment with an easy smile.
"Yes," she agreed with a slight smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. but that was decidedly academic," she dismissed and peered out the window thoughtfully. "I'm not sure many people will approve of that for the Christmas season. They want festive, extravagant-"
"-They will not get to choose your dress," he interrupted, drawing her attention again. "You will." His smile grew.
Swift as they were correcting people—and they were quick about it—they found difficulty in improving their opinion of someone once the error was made. And if someone corrected her? The offense was two-fold. Often it was a man, a man who thought he knew what she should know, but Robert was not just a man. He was her equal, and anything that put them out of balance, he made sure to correct. No one else could correct her except him.
He shifted under her gaze, breaking it with a sip of his tea. "Are you finished with lunch?"
Rosalind blinked and smiled. "Yes," she answered, letting him come around the table and help her with her chair, of which only he had the honor.
Putting her gloves back on, she expected the weight of her coat to be placed upon her shoulders but it never came. She looked at him in slight confusion. "Where is my coat?"
He was a reflection of her confusion. "You declined it before we left for the meeting."
"Did I?" She didn't recall that in the slightest. Gloves on, she examined each leather wrapped finger. Just as well. She dressed warmly this afternoon, and the weather was slightly tolerable than past days, if a bit chilly in the shade. As long as they returned home before nightfall, she was fine. Taking Robert's arm, they left Cafe New Eden.
Hudson's had many stores throughout the city, but they preferred the one at the end of the street in Market District, just before it turned into the Financial Quarter. The greatest convenience was its proximity, but that Mr. Hudson knew their measurements from memory also encouraged their return. A slight man, whose thin frame was exaggerated by his exactingly fit attire, Mr. Hudson was in the back of the shop attending to two women, discussing what Rosalind could only assume was about the material of the dresses they were dramatically comparing. Her lips pursed. Hopefully, they'd be out of here by the time she would be doing the same. She did not think she could tolerate their mindless chatter or dull interest in her fame. Mr. Hudson's nephew, William Able, greeted them instead.
"Mr. and Madame Lutece!" he said, abandoning his redressing of the mannequins in the right shop window. "How may I help you today? Something for you, Sir? Or the Lady?"
"For the both of us. Something for the Christmas Ball," she answered.
The mention of their name was enough to draw everyone's attention, and Mr. Hudson called to his nephew. "William, would you please assist these ladies? They're finalizing their fabrics as we speak." He turned back to the women. "Not to worry, William's expertise is as good as mine, if not better."
William gave a bob of leave to excuse himself, and Mr. Hudson took his place.
"Sir, Madame," he smiled. "What did you have in mind?"
Robert looked to her, as he did the first time they were here, and she gestured for him to go first. "I should say that fitting you for a suit would take less time than I would choosing a dress."
Mr. Hudson nodded. "She is right, Mr. Lutece. In my experience, a Lady appreciates her time when preparing for a ball."
"Well," he started. "If you recall, last time we decided to forego proper formal attire in lieu of more necessary outfits."
"Yes, indeed. Dreadful business. I've just remember your predicament last year. Losing all your wardrobe." He shuddered. "If you'll follow me this way." Mr. Hudson directed them to the men's fitting area.
Rosalind followed the men in silent amusement. Although the tailor thought Robert's false predicament of losing his entire wardrobe last year in an accident unfortunate—and that was they story they had fabricated—the man was absolutely ecstatic that Robert's replacement was entirely under the Hudson Brand. He seemed positively joyous this afternoon that they had returned for his attire for the Ball, something she was quickly learning was the premiere event of the year. He offered her a chair and she watched him work.
He was quick, his skill more precise as he recognized his own handiwork in the seams and cuts of Robert's suit. He circled him, eyes measuring.
"Have you noticed any areas that are tighter or shorter? Around the waist, at the shoulders, wrists, ankles?"
Robert shook his head. "No, it all fits perfectly."
"Good," Mr. Hudson said. He began with physical measurements to make certain; around the deepest part of his chest, the widest of his waist, the hollow of his back. "Let me know if it has become shorter. I had a nice young gentleman, twenty or so, who had not finished his boyhood growth spurts. Not wholly uncommon, but it was a surprise when he returned a week later. Normally I can make adjustments if I'm aware of age and growth habits. Hold out your arms for me, please. Thank-you."
Robert caught her reflection in the trio of mirrors and grinned at his ridiculous posture. She found herself sporting a small grin as well, despite how positively mundane it was. From a shelf of material in various states of development, Mr. Hudson gathered garments and had him wear them. Robert emerged from the dressing room, and he continued his measuring, pinning the excess to fit him better.
"Quarter of an inch off the sleeves," he and Robert agreed. "Madame, I'd hate for you to be waiting," he started, pausing to look up at her. "I shouldn't like to bore you with the mundane. You are most welcome to peruse the dresses if you wish." He craned his neck to see around the corner to the women's side. "William will be able to assist you should you need it."
She made to say that she was perfectly content observing Robert, but it occurred to her that doing so would appear odd. Wives did not watch their husbands get fitted, neither did sisters for their brothers, especially when given the option to shop for themselves. And wasn't she for efficiency? She was not bound to the clock as Fink was, but if their shopping could be accomplished quicker, she was not against it.
"I shall."
In the fleeting glance she dared to toss at the mirror before she turned her back, she caught Robert's expression, a very plain, wanting face, that conveyed his desire for her to remain, but lacked any rational reason for her to do so. Or perhaps, that was what she wanted to believe. Pushing the thought aside, she looked to the opposite side of the shop at the lively selections of outfits that stood in stark contrast to the suits.
Rosalind did not ignore the fact that she actually was, for lack of a more encompassing word, excited. Girls got excited. Young women on dates with suitors got excited. She was neither, that much was apparent, but the self-awareness that she had not let herself remain either one for too long made her consider if it was a factor to what she felt now.
Her past was filled with parties—each was the same for a young woman, and each she did not look forward to more than the previous. The true purpose of a party for a member of her sex was to find a suitor. Meeting friends, celebrating the holiday, it was all pretense. When she had broken herself out of that pretense, she had to dredge though another. Congressmen and Cabinet members became her new suitors. Her dresses had been plain, then, as plain and severe as their suits. In Columbia, there was no one she had to impress; no one she had to convince. She could wear whatever she pleased. Opinions and money no longer limited her, and that was the source of her excitement.
She approached a dress that caught her attention. The cut was simple enough, it was sleeveless—how she hated the gigot cut that was immensely popular—which meant she would have to wear her thickest coat when outdoors. Train length was moderate, she did not have to fret being underfoot guests, and she did enjoy the color; a subtle arrangement of peach and baby's breath, accented by olive velvet and floral patterning. Overall, it was very traditional, in the sense that it was neither too contemporary or reflective of fashions past. Perhaps that was what held her from really appreciating the dress. If she blended in too much amongst the crowd, well then, was she really worthy of her title as the greatest Columbian mind? Her lips pursed in annoyance.
She moved on to search for another. This was a tricky business, dress shopping. Too traditional, and she appeared unprogressive; too modern and she frightened them with the idea of change. Ridiculous. Mr. Able was not in sight. She glanced, begrudgingly, at the two ladies near her for a clue of the right fashion. They had left her to her business, too preoccupied with their own, or they might have not noticed she was even there.
It seems she could ignore them for only so long—the amount of information they revealed about their personal lives in normal conversation was nauseating, not that there was much she found interesting. What she learned about 'Martha, and Ingrid, dear,' fit many of the young ladies she encountered in Emporia. They were young, older than her by a few years, and married perhaps around the time she decided to move to America. Martha was the kind of woman her mother would call "stout," but Rosalind thought she might fall under the word "voluptuous." Stout was more fitting for short bank managers and maiden aunts. Ingrid, with her high cheekbones and slender waist, would have been a "wanton thing," driven to her unfavorable state by the inability to handle her children—the conclusion many might draw as they heard the conversation that filled this corner of the shop.
"-Ingrid, dear," Martha said, playing at the chiffon hem of a yellow silk dress, "all he needs is some time in the Earnest Eagles. Thomas finally convinced me to put Billy in it at the start of summer. Why! He can hardly stop talking about how fine this city is."
The dress she was considering was not a design that Rosalind liked. The large taffeta bow at the breast was something she pictured Aunt Freddie might wear on holiday.
"—I suppose so," Ingrid replied. She went on to feel at the stitching of a chiffon bodice, contemplating her thoughts more than the material itself, because she spoke in a softer tone, "I do think this is just a phase. He sulks about, comparing his life back on the Mainland. He's resorted to telling lies about the supernatural now. Ripples of light? Ghostly apparitions?"
Rosalind froze, listening carefully to her uncomfortable confession.
"Columbia in flames? There's only so much I can take of his behavior, Martha."
"Precisely the reason you should put him in the Eagles. They instill a strict curriculum of Founder values and love for the city-"
"I beg your pardon, ladies, but I couldn't help and overhear your, er, troubles. You say your son, experienced something?"
"Oh, Madame!" Martha exclaimed once she turned suddenly to see who had addressed them.
"Oh, it's nothing that should concern you. Especially the silly imaginings of my son," Ingrid dismissed, waving her hand about in a flourish.
"Humor me."
She seemed taken aback by her brusqueness, but started, after a furtive glance at Martha. "Um, he mentioned he was playing at the park, Washington Park, near the large oak tree and he voices coming from behind it."
"Just voices?"
Ingrid looked hesitant to answer. "No. He also saw the city on fire."
"Was he the only one to witness it or were there other children about?" Rosalind pressed.
"There might have been? I did not question him about it. I assumed he was lying. This is not the first time he's done so." A flicker of guilt passed briefly on her thin face, as did skepticism on Martha's. "Do you think he actually was witness to something? An apparition perhaps?"
Rosalind might have shared the same look with the other woman if she was not worried about the possibility of a tear spontaneously opening in plain view of the public. She smiled, barely, to placate the mother.
"No, I do not. If he is not imagining, it might very well be a side effect of the altitude. Young children and the elderly are the most susceptible to a lack of oxygen that might generate hallucinations."
"Hallucinations?"
"Temporary," she clarified. Of course, no person liked to think their child was mentally ill. There was no established asylum in Columbia, after all. "Continued exposure to the outdoors should help to clear it."
Ingrid visibly relaxed. "Good."
"The Eagles, dear," Martha rounded. "They spend a healthy amount of time outdoors helping our sons grow into robust and respectful men. It's exactly the sort of thing Charles needs."
"Yes. I do believe so. I'll talk to Edward about it."
While the ladies were preoccupied with themselves once more, Rosalind retreated to her thoughts, placing some distance between herself and them, lest they decide they wanted to engage her with idle chatter. And it would be idle. There was no more information to be gleaned; there was none she could convey, either, because if they did not question that the symptoms of altitude sickness appeared immediately after arrival to the city, not nearly two years later, then she was very certain there was nothing else they had in common other than occupying a shop with the same intent. She needed space to think.
A spontaneous tear? And hardly innocuous if the boy's description is to be believed. Why would this one open unless it was intentional? The state of this other Columbia souded dire. Would another pair of themselves use the Contraption to escape it? There were so many variables, so many unknowns. She needed Robert. She glanced back at him. He seemed to be nearly done with his fitting, which meant they would concentrate on her soon, and how would that be when she still had not chosen anything? Perhaps she could come back another day next week. It would be unwise, but this possibility was pertinent.
She looked now, disinterested, at the nearest mannequin, and was quite surprised at her selection. The color was absolutely lovely, a nice off-white silk-satin. The sleeves, while the largest of gigot she had seen so far, were olive velvet like her first selection. She touched at the chrysanthemum pattern on the main fabric and the lace on the cuffs and collar. Very fine needlework. The magnificent detail might be able to make her look past the horrendous sleeves. Up here at this altitude, she feared she might be blown away if the wind caught her just right.
"It's a beautiful dress, isn't it?" Martha and Ingrid were suddenly next to her, smiling.
"Yes it is," Rosalind agreed, out of courtesy and her own opinion. They must have taken her brief interaction as an invitation to talk. Just her luck. Or perhaps she could use their advice? She had completely forgotten that was why she had moved nearer to them in the first place.
"I've heard Lady Comstock herself has a dress very similar that she plans to wear for the occasion," Martha said.
"Oh," Rosalind exclaimed, removing her hand from the dress quickly. It occurred to her from their scandalized faces, just as quickly, that they might have actually thought to emulate the first lady's style of dress. "I, ah, shouldn't like to give her cause to think I was in the mind to outdo her," she added, realizing that that, also, might have been offensive.
Martha either brushed off the comment, or believed Rosalind was being modest. "I'm sure our Lady would be quite flattered," she said.
It was Rosalind's strong belief that Lady Comstock would not be so pleased if she chose to dress as her, especially if it was her first appearance in a public event.
"From other women perhaps, but this will be my first time attending the Ball, this year," she revealed. More than anything, she wanted to steer the conversation away from Lady Comstock. The woman, though she had been polite in the past, was becoming increasingly taciturn and cold. Whatever the reason for it—and she suspected many things—she did not care to know. Perhaps it was something as silly as a falsely perceived threat to her popularity. Lady Comstock was known for her marriage to Columbia's leader, but Rosalind was a woman known by her own accord. What was it about women seeing each other as a threat? If the poor woman thought truly about it, she would see there was no competition at all.
"Oh how foolish of me! Something quite different for next week would be appropriate for what you were looking for."
"But of course, Madame Lutece, that does not mean you can't wear it for another occasion," Ingrid offered.
"Yes," Martha agreed, nodding quickly, as if to hide her opinion of just a moment before. "It would look lovely at the Spring Luncheon."
"Ah Madame. There you are. I thought you might be in the other room." William had come round the corner, textile samples in hand for Martha and Ingrid. "Mr. Lutece is finished with his fitting and would like for you to see it."
It took every bit of conscious effort not to give a profound sigh of relief. The arrival provided her an opportunity to leave the conversation that was becoming increasing bland.
"Thank-you, Mr. Able. If you'll excuse, ladies," she bowed her exit. Normal etiquette would require she acknowledge both of their names, but they had all not been properly introduced, had they?
William returned to helping them, as she made her way back to Robert. She turned the corner, and even from across the room, she could spot him in his impeccable attire. His back was turned and though it made her privy to all the pins and clips cinching the material around him, he looked rather dashing—as he always did—but seeing him in formal wear was entirely pleasing in itself. With the much higher waistcoat and coat, the length of his legs was at its apex, demonstrating truly his height, the trimness of his waist, and the strength of his shoulders; all the makings of a very fine gentleman.
Robert saw her approach in the mirror and pivoted to face her. "How do I look?"
She wondered if it was acceptable to truly answer that question, or to thoroughly enjoy the coy tug at the corner of his mouth. She knew his ruse, his game, because she would be the one to admit aloud to the purest of narcissism.
Rosalind tilted her chin up in mock appraisal. "Dashing. Very dashing," she told him, and though it was said in jest, she meant it. Were they alone, she might walk up to him and level his tie, or smooth his lapels, even if it wasn't the final bespoke.
His grin spread slowly across his face, neither overtly cheerful or soundly smug; something that became a blend of the two and the sudden charm of it transfixed her. He had never smiled like this before. Was it his sleek dress altering her perception? Or her thoughts earlier?
"So is everything to your liking then, sir?"
Mr. Hudson's voice from the corner broke their gaze. Rosalind found sudden interest in the assorted selection of hats to the left of the mirrors, a quiet exhale escaping her lips. Had she been holding her breath?
Through the mirror she saw how he fiddled with his cuffs and tugged on his waistcoat, giving himself a once over. "Very much." He glanced at her quickly through the reflective glass.
"Good," he said, draping his tape measure over his shoulders and coming up behind him to remove the jacket. "Your first fit will be ready on Monday." He led Robert to the dressing room and helped him with the remainder of his attire. When they returned a few minutes later, Mr. Hudson beamed.
"We place our attention on you now, Madame," he said, leading them both into the women's section of the store. "Have any selections caught your eye?"
She was aware of Robert's curious perusal of the dresses on display and of Martha and Ingrid's in the distance. "A few, though nothing final."
"Would you like try them on? We can start from the few you fancy."
"Very well."
"Which ones?"
She pointed out two and he called another of his assistants who appeared from the women's dressing rooms. "Susan, Madame Lutece would like to try on a few dresses."
Though she was young, perhaps nineteen, Susan possessed the kind of presence a nursemaid or scolding kind of woman would much later in years, and she ushered Rosalind into the dressing rooms with polite direction. She held her hands out expectantly to receive her gloves and hat and placed them aside. In the midst of that exchange, the first dress she had pointed out had somehow made its way in the room with them, and Susan was sorting through petticoats that matched the open bust. She selected one and silently began removing Rosalind's dress.
It was all at once odd to have someone help her with the task again, like she was being attended to by some lady in waiting. If she could not dress herself, how could she prove she could accomplish greater things? Silly that she had to establish such a rule for herself, but that was the way things were. After switching petticoats, she put on the dress, and immediately, she became aware of how bare her shoulders were. No amount of coverage from gloves would hide her speckled skin. Maybe Robert would notice and she could shirk this dress like she already wanted to. She stepped out to show him.
The woman's section had a designated sitting area and Robert looked up excitedly from where he sat.
Rosalind arched an eyebrow. "Well?"
He took on a more thoughtful expression. "Well, I like it, but it does seem rather…simple."
By simple she figured he meant the purpose of this cut and lack of full detail in anything else was to draw attention to the prominent bust. His gaze lingered there briefly before he frowned at the poor excuse for a bow at her waist. The corners of his mouth dipped more as he noticed her playing at her elbow.
"And you'll be needing a shawl or gloves?"
"I'm not too fond of the lack of sleeves," she confessed without stating the obvious.
"If you'll be uncomfortable, I shouldn't like you to wear it."
She nodded. So they were in agreement. Turning on her heel, she returned to the dressing room, catching the perplexed expressions of both Susan and Mr. Hudson. They had said nothing of the exchange, surprisingly, perhaps because they were uncertain why Robert's opinion or hers for Robert earlier, were so important.
The next dress she was helped into was much like the first, with silk-satin but cream in color, and very generous in the sleeves where the other was not.
"And this?" The sleeves, though exaggerated, were not in the gigot style.
"Elegant," he agreed, "Only-" he struggled to find the words.
"Only?"
"Only, I shouldn't like to see your face hidden behind so much material."
She raised an eyebrow, though it was in surprise this time. When did he become so testy about her attire? He had never been so before. Mr. Hudson and Susan searched for dresses that were more balanced between bodice and skirt but the next one she tried would have been more suitable for an older woman-too many frills she and Robert had both agreed—and the one after that was very loose. It hung off her like an adder's molted skin; Robert had looked his most dissatisfied with it.
With this next one, the cut was very flattering. There was no grand bustling of material at the shoulders or feet, instead it manifested as an accompanying train, which was not all too displeasing. She could have it altered, replacing the floral design altogether as well. At this point, if she had to settle for this dress, she would have little to complain about it. She was used to making these kind of exceptions.
His easy smile returned when she stepped out again.
"I quite like this one," he said.
"As do I. Though, I'm not particularly fond of this design," she said of the train, and she returned to Mr. Hudson. "Would it be too difficult to alter it?" With only a week until the event, and she wondered if it was too much to ask of him.
"No, Madame, it wouldn't be a problem," he answered, but she was aware that just like the restaurant earlier, a business owner like he would not deny her any sort of request, even if it inconvenienced them. "We can go through materials if you like—" he paused. "Actually, I think I have a dress that is similar to this. If you're willing to try it on, I can bring it around."
"If you please." She was appreciative of another option.
"I'll be right back."
On her return to the dressing room, Rosalind glanced at Robert for no real reason other than to look at his face and share with him a contained expression of anticipation, one that transformed into another bout of arbitrary grins. What was the cause for these moments to grip them so suddenly? They should devote some time to studying why it occurred—more frequently as well.
Susan gathered up the train and began again with the task of removing the dress. Her silence had not gone unnoticed as she tightened laces and looped buttons, though it mistranslated her dexterity as something coarse and unskilled. Laborious skill like hers did not come from piano lessons and afternoon embroidery, nor did a need for a job like this. Rosalind surmised she did not live in Emporia, but probably somewhere in the middle-class areas—Liberty Lane, perhaps, as that was the closet. Still, it was quite a commute every day, and her attire was impeccable. Mr. Hudson looked to pay her decently it seemed, though there was always the possibility that she only dressed as such while in the shop because of the clientele.
"Here is the dress, Madame," the girl said. "Will you be trying it on?"
The dress Mr. Hudson had decided might be something of her liking was absolutely marvelous. Hardly in her life had anyone, a stranger moreso, ever had the luck and intuition to meet her expectations. Although this case was more process of elimination. Where there was little complex embroidery and designs, there was solid cream silk fabric; sleeves were neither gigot or shortened; and gimp detailing was deliberate. Even the long fringe at the hem was pleasing.
"Yes I will."
Her excitement had returned at the prospect of a new dress, and while she had gotten a bit discouraged at the lack of selection that met her taste, finally something she had found interesting had appeared. She hoped Robert would like it. If she found it pleasing, chances are he would too. She held her breath and walked out to show him.
He and Mr. Hudson were chuckling at something, a joke perhaps, and it was the older man who stood up first, absolutely beaming. "You look marvelous, Madame! Though you were marvelous in the other dresses, I can tell you really appreciate this one."
She smiled, though it was of her own amusement. Was the man so skilled he could read the subtle posturing of a person in their clothing? He was once again making adjustments with his eyes, but she felt she needed none. The fit was excellent. The train might have been too long, but she was tempted to keep it as such and have party-goers on their toes around her the whole evening.
Rosalind faced Robert expectantly, as he had remained seated. Mr. Hudson's gaze measured and roved, but Robert simply stared, transfixed on her with the same pensive concentration he reserved for the most complex of their equations. She could only match his gaze with one of her own. It was as earlier when he had smiled so arrestingly.
"The train is not too long?" Mr. Hudson fretted of her complaint about the previous dress.
"It's fine," she tossed over her shoulder, still not having looked away.
"And the waist or under the arms?" he continued.
She turned her attention to the tailor now to placate him. "No. I do believe it's a good fit and style."
"As you say, Madame. Mr. Lutece, what is your opinion?"
Robert stood quickly, as if he remembered his wits about himself and smiled. "She looks lovely."
"As I agree, sir." Turning back to her, Mr. Hudson raised his eyebrows. "So will this be your selection?"
She looked at Robert, the effect of his expression having the greatest impact on her decision. "Yes, a very fine one, Mr. Hudson. You have my utmost gratitude."
"Thank you, Madame. When you are changed, we can finalize everything."
Susan helped her dress one last time. Her obedience was something that Rosalind approved of at the start of her session, but now she found the girl's disposition lacking. If she took initiative to apply her other skills, like her knowledge of styles, the whole decisioning process would be time-effective. But, she supposed, she was hired only for her assistance and not her opinion.
Unfortunate, but necessary for business. It was the reason she and Robert had hired Gwendolyn. In spite of that, however, it seems she brought her opinions anyway. Though she found it bothersome at times, she realized now, in the contrast of this shop girl, it contributed to many successes recently. Perhaps she might discuss with Robert the possibility of giving Gwendolyn more responsibilities in the future.
In the reflection of the mirror, as she smoothed her hair into place, she glimpsed Susan as she boxed the dress. There was a delicate intimacy she adopted when she laid the outfit expertly into the confines of the box; she layered material and tucked it gently, different from her harsh buttoning of petticoats and cinching of sashes. The tenderness reminded her of a wet nurse who had grown too fond of her patron family's children.
"I'm very glad you were able to select something today," Mr. Hudson said as they exited the dressing room.
"It is thanks to your keen attention and skill, Sir."
He brought them back round the corner to the register and went through an itemized receipt he had drawn up. The ease of payment in Emporia, and more importantly, for someone of her standing in the City, was quite a blessing. She need only sign a check and the business or establishment she purchased from went directly to the bank with it. Hardly any effort on her part. Mr. Hudson peered over his glasses at her for indication of who would be signing. In actuality, it did not matter whether it was her or Robert who did so, it was the same authorization of course, but she extended her hand for the pen and signed 'R. Lutece.' She wondered if anyone else, the bank manager perhaps, noticed the differences in their signature. It was more apparent in longer writing, but in their name, it was almost imperceptible. Robert put emphasis in their initial, but she favored their surname, he pointed out. Indeed, he followed her hand making the strokes and swoops of their name.
Rosalind slid the pen and check across the counter and Robert took the box. "You have a pleasant day, Mr. Hudson," he said.
When they left the shop and were greeted with the cold air, he gave an animated shiver. "Guess I was foolish to believe the chill had finally left us."
He smiled, but she noticed now that he did not have his coat either and the breath that escaped him lingered for a moment long enough to remind her of what she'd heard earlier in the shop. They traveled down the street for a minute or so, enough to convince her they moved far enough and fast enough from people resting on benches and tables.
"Robert," she started, the same time the wind blew, and he leaned closer to hear her."In the shop, I overheard the women discussing their children-"
He recoiled slightly and looked at her oddly. "And?"
"And," she continued, pushing past his expression. What could he possibly be thinking? "One mentioned her son was witness to something peculiar."
"How so?"
"From her descriptions, which I pressed out of her, the conclusion I came to was a tear."
Robert stopped in the middle of the street, rearranging the box from one arm to the other to see her properly. "A tear?" he whispered, leaning in further. His expression bothered her.
"I don't think we should put too much credit. The boy is known for lies and tantrums."
He made an unpleasant noise. "Even so, it garners further study. Where?"
"Washington Park, near the large oak tree."
He considered the information. "I don't believe we've opened any to Washington Park-"
"-There are still times I've used the machine for Comstock when you were recovering."
"Can we assume it's another pair of us using the machine? Would we be so reckless to leave it open longer than necessary?"
That he did not directly say she was reckless but shifted the blame to an alternate pair of themselves, did not escape her.
"If there is credibility, I don't believe this is one we opened for study." Columbia in flames, Ingrid had said. Rosalind hoped it was not a Columbia they lived in; in any universe.
She shivered, though she couldn't say with certainty whether it was from the breeze. They had stopped in the long shade of an apartment building, and the angle of the sun was low in the sky. She remembered she had forgotten her coat. Robert gave her the expression he usually had when she had forgotten to share information. Slipping her arm into the crook of his elbow, she moved closer to him for warmth, urging him to continue their jaunt.
"We'll discuss the details when we return home."
He nodded silently, although from the inattentive gaze he now possessed, she knew he was already deep in thought.
Yes, they would discuss it by the heat of the fire and the audience of their notes. Now that she was not preoccupied as earlier, she fixated on the possibility of such a thing, on the possibility of a tear. Could a child conjur up such a ghastly image?
The top of their house was beginning to peer over the other buildings in the distance, and couldn't stop herself from urging him faster. The chill was beginning to seep through her gloves. Perhaps once she was inside the safety of her home, all the oddities she experienced today would be answered.
A/N: Thanks for being patient. After a bout of stomach flu, my inner ear is all messed up and I have extreme dizziness and vertigo that makes doing anything extremely difficult.
Things to ponder:
- Spontaneous tears. What could they mean? Elizabeth's power is one thing, but as a year-old child, she couldn't possibly be opening all these tears by herself.