6. Guest of Dishonor
After that, the years seemed to pass all too quickly. Herbert divided his time, as usual, between Archibald and Marjorie, though the latter was getting more and more of his attention, and it seemed that Herbert and Marjorie were indeed truly falling in love as Archibald watched from the sidelines. They did complement each other well. Rarely did an unkind word pass between them.
So be it, then.
Archibald could live without Herbert. He had other things to think about. Once he'd reached adulthood, he was thrust into the responsibility of having to earn his own living. So far, he'd been doing exactly that at Snatcher's Stitches, taking up the needle of the family business. And well he had, for Amelia and Gabriel were showing their age; Archibald noticed on most days, when his mother held a sewing needle, her fingers trembled, and it was only with great difficulty that she could get the stitch exactly where she wanted it to go. Lucky she was, Archibald thought, that her son was more dexterous and a bit more creative.
Herbert, on the other side of the coin, had attempted to perfect a few of his inventions to sell, but ended up working as a repairman instead, using his gift of mechanical skill to stop pipes from leaking and lamps from malfunctioning. Marjorie had volunteered for the same line of work, but was turned down for her gender. There were some things in Cheesebridge one could only get by being a man.
But quite others one could get by being a woman, as Archibald was to find out.
He had been keeping a secret project in his bedroom. For a while, he had told himself it was only to practice his skill as a tailor, but once he'd reached a certain age, he realized he couldn't play such childish games of denial with himself. He was sewing himself a dress to his exact measurements, and while he knew far better than to tell everyone else, he stopped caring about his own stigma toward the project. It was quite a lovely dress, anyhow, royal blue.
And all the while, Archibald still believed that someone in his family was destined for the all-important White Hat. As Gabriel was getting on in years, it only made sense now that the one to be awarded the honor was Archibald himself. All it would take was one great turnaround event to make the current White Hats see that the Snatchers were perhaps the most pivotal family to all of Cheesebridge. Any day now, opportunity would come knocking on the door.
And one day, as Archibald was thinking this as he hemmed a pair of pants for the latest order, there actually did sound a knock on the door, and he thought it must be serendipity. It turned out to be Herbert.
"Hello," Herbert greeted. Somehow, fourteen whole years had passed, and he and Archibald were both thirty years old. Herbert's smile was still the same as that he'd borne as a thirteen-year-old: youthful, sincere, welcoming.
"Hello," Archibald replied. Seeing Herbert still made his heart beat a little faster, but at the same time, it made his stomach turn ever so slightly. Elation. Disgust. "What brings you here, Trubshaw?"
"Well, I've…I've come with very great news," Herbert announced. "At least, I think it's great news. The greatest news I've ever heard in my life."
Archibald grew suspicious. "You…can't possibly have earned a White Hat."
Herbert shook his head. "It's something much better. Marjorie and I are to be married!"
Like a blow to the face. When, Archibald wondered, will I stop caring? It was truly pathetic how much he could be jostled by Herbert's words, in his mind. Perhaps it was time to force himself to stop. "…Congratulations," he managed, and Herbert could tell he didn't really mean it.
"Archibald, I…I know you and Marjorie haven't ever gotten on well," Herbert sighed. "But all the same, you're still quite important to me. The second most important person in my life, after her. And I was quite hoping you would be my best man. If you don't, that's quite all right, but – "
"All right, all right, Trubshaw, you don't have to twist my arm." Archibald gave him a smile. "I'll do it."
"Oh, thank you, THANK you!" Herbert flung his arms around his friend in gratitude. This made it exponentially more difficult for Archibald to stop caring. "You've no idea what it means to me that you'll be there!"
Not half as much as what it means to you that you're marrying her, Archibald thought. But once again, he reminded himself, he had more important things to worry about, such as hats.
"It's just going to be a small affair," Herbert was explaining. "Just our families and close friends at the small church at the edge of town." And he said more, including the date of the wedding – October 30th, as Herbert had fancied being wed on All Hallow's Eve but his family had balked - but Archibald was tuning him out, thinking about how much this wedding was absolutely not the opportunity he'd so craved.
And when Herbert left, Archibald didn't know whether or not he was glad he'd agreed to attend it. His take on the subject slowly settled into apathy. After all, what mattered far more to him as of that moment was prestige, and that was something he hadn't yet got.
...
The following week, there came a knock on the door of Snatcher's Stitches, and Archibald was once again to answer it. He was surprised to find Cynthia Grey standing on the other side, and he already wasn't looking forward to whatever she had to say.
"Wonderful news!" she gushed. "Oh, it's just the most wonderful news! Charles Portley-Rind has asked me to marry him!"
"Well, good for you," Archibald seethed through gritted teeth.
"I want you and your family to arrange for all of the gowns and suits!" Cynthia went on. "Only the best will do, after all!"
As it turned out, opportunity had knocked.
Archibald opened the door wide, gesturing into the shop. "Please do forgive my rudeness, Miss Grey," he said charmingly. "Or shall I say the future Lady Portley-Rind?"
At that, the woman outright squealed.
"Do enter," Archibald bade her. Once she had stepped over the threshold, he called back, "OH, MOTHER! FATHER! WE HAVE QUITE AN IMPORTANT GUEST!"
...
In the weeks leading up to the Portley-Rind/Grey wedding, Snatcher's Stitches bustled with activity. Cynthia's passel of bridesmaids, all of whom seemed to look almost exactly the same, took their stations about the shop's interior as Amelia and Gabriel rushed back and forth with lace, shoes, and thread. Archibald himself was assigned to hemming Cynthia's wedding gown, which was a lavish affair that had cost a pretty penny. Dinners would be upscale in the Snatcher household for weeks.
"It was simply the most romantic thing!" Cynthia gushed. "I was at the latest soirée hosted by the Portley-Rinds – you know, only the most important families in town are invited at all to that sort of thing – and over to me walks Charles, telling me that he's simply awestruck by how beautiful I am and that he's been in love with me since he first saw me! And to think we'd hardly ever spoken before that day, but now, I'm about to marry the richest and most powerful man in all of Cheesebridge!"
Of course, Archibald thought. All you had to do was be rich and look pretty and you'd catch the eye of those in power. He desperately wanted to take one of the pins he was using to put up the gown's hem and jab it into Cynthia's ankle, but he knew that injuring his richest customer was absolutely bad for business. Working on the wedding of the soon-to-be-newest White Hat and Lord of the town was sure to bring status to the Snatcher family.
And if it didn't, what would?
"You really do an excellent job with hemming," Cynthia told Archibald. "It almost makes one forget your more…disreputable qualities."
Archibald didn't dignify that with an answer.
"Since you've done so much for the occasion," Cynthia went on, "I suppose it would only be proper of me to extend an invitation to your family."
"An invitation?" Archibald repeated. "To your wedding to future Lord Portley-Rind?"
"Yes," Cynthia confirmed, though the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if it was a good idea after all. "After all, it will be good to have tailors about in case of a ripped seam on the big day."
"And what date would the lovely occasion be, again?" Archibald asked.
"October 30th," Cynthia replied. "Beastly date, I know. Far too close to All Hallow's Eve. But it was the only time we could book the larger chapel."
Of course it would be the same date as Herbert and Marjorie's wedding. Archibald had to debate on it for only a short time. One of those events would allow him to rub elbows with the wealthy and powerful, to put in his bid for a White Hat. The other sorely lacked in that department. And as a bonus, one of those events didn't involve Archibald having to watch the subject of his affections give himself away to another.
"I would be most honored to attend," he replied. "You can count on my attendance."
"Oh, wonderful!" Cynthia said insincerely, already regretting her decision…though she didn't know what other option she would have if she encountered a ripped seam.
All that was left was to tell Herbert that he was down a best man. But Archibald didn't worry about that. He could spin his words better when the time came. For the moment, he focused on the careful arrangement of pins.
...
The Trubshaw wedding was indeed a small and intimate affair, without many frills to speak of. Before the ceremony, Marjorie, clad in a simple white dress, peered out from her dressing room. She couldn't help the fact that her stomach was growling madly, and she was hoping to find something to calm its hunger before she had to be focused on such more important things as becoming the wife of the love of her life.
As she crept down the hall, she heard a voice behind her: "You look absolutely stunning."
Smiling, she turned to face Herbert, who was done up in a simple suit. "Don't you know it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?"
"I've never believed in bad luck," Herbert replied. "I think you make your own luck, really."
"Would you walk with me to find some food, then?" Marjorie asked. "I'm dreadfully hungry."
"Then you shall feast!" Herbert proclaimed dramatically, pointing down the hall.
"Perhaps not feast just yet," Marjorie laughed. "But a little something would be appreciated."
They walked the back hallways of the small church, and though Herbert put on all the airs of being perfectly happy, Marjorie knew he was still bothered by something rather weighty. "For what it's worth," she offered him, "I'm sorry they couldn't be here."
"It's all right," Herbert sighed. "At least when it comes to Fish and Shoe, I understand why they're not here. Inviting them would have been a risk to their safety, what with all these people about who think Boxtrolls are cannibals. I hope one day, it won't be that way. But Archibald…he gave me his word. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The Portley-Rind wedding might just be the gateway to that hat he's always dreamed of. Or…at least, I know he thinks that way."
He was surprised when Marjorie leaned over and wrapped her arms about him comfortingly. "I wish he were here too," she muttered.
"But you two never got on."
"But YOU two did."
Herbert stopped in his tracks to return Marjorie's embrace. "I'm with you now," he whispered to her, "and that's the most important thing of all. Thank you for being here today. For being with me as long as you've been."
Marjorie squeezed her fiancé a bit tighter. "I should be the one thanking you. I know you don't believe in luck, but I think it was a stroke of very good luck that you came barging into my basement to save me from a fire that was already out fourteen years ago."
"HERbert!" Herbert's mother came across the mostly-happy couple from the opposite direction. "Don't you know you're not supposed to see the bride before her wedding?" She peeled the groom-to-be off the bride-to-be and hastily shuffled him down the hall.
"I'll see you soon!" Herbert called back to Marjorie.
"I can't wait!" Marjorie replied before continuing her quest for a bit of food.
...
The Portley-Rind wedding, on the other hand, was lavish in every sense of the word. Everyone shone in bright ruffly gowns and pristine tuxedos, all of which had to be kept under the watchful eyes of the three Snatchers to prevent stains, tears, and other forms of ruination. Already they'd had to repair three seams and put two heels back on broken shoes.
But when all was said and done, Archibald thought as he sat in the very back pew of the chapel, he'd snagged a definite victory the moment the rear doors of the nave opened up to reveal the absolutely glowing Cynthia in her five layers of frills. Archibald stole a quick look up at Charles near the altar; the redhead was gobsmacked. How much of it was because of Cynthia, Archibald wondered, and how much of it was because of what she'd been wearing? Or was that giving the Snatchers too much credit?
The ceremony itself was a snore. Archibald caught himself nearly falling asleep twice as scripture after scripture was read. When the priest overseeing the union declared marriage a sacred rite to only be shared between man and woman, Archibald realized, thinking about it for perhaps the first and only time in his life, that he never would be married. Not unless he had to feign interest in some woman or another in order to be viewed as a proper candidate for the White Hats, but then again, he thought, if all women were like Marjorie, he'd sooner die.
It seemed to take forever for the rites to end, and then the wedding party moved on to the literal party at the Portley-Rind manor, with guests in tow. And Archibald found himself in relatively the same position he'd been in at age thirteen when he was present at Charles' birthday celebration. As Charles and Cynthia whirled about on the floor, followed by the rest of the guests, Archibald was sidelined. No one wished to speak with him or dance with him. Nor did he wish to speak or dance with anyone else. He was soberly reminded of how much he hated these social gatherings. Even his parents were out on the floor, waltzing slowly.
Archibald had done his part when he'd fixed the last broken heel. His name was already known among the upper class for putting together the gorgeous confection that Cynthia was wearing. He figured there wasn't much left to do but leave. He gave his parents and no one else the grace of saying goodbye, muttering that he had "work to catch up on" and needed to get a head start. Then he was quickly storming away from the chapel and down the street, glaring angrily at the stones in the road. So they would only pay attention to him for as long as they needed him, and it was back to pretending he didn't exist, was it?
Then a thought began to take shape in his mind, and it was quite a ridiculous thought. The sort of thought that began as a silly daydream, a what-if that had no business being. After all, he didn't really care about silly parties, did he? And the idea that had occurred to him was nothing more than a potential way to actually enjoy the festivities. Simply put, he thought that if he really wanted everyone else to pay attention to him, he could return in another guise.
He expected this idea to get worse the further he went, but with every step he took, it seemed to only get better. He realized he wanted to try it, at least once. Perhaps he did care about those ridiculous parties after all. Perhaps he wanted social recognition in more dimensions than one. Perhaps he wanted to pull off the plan for its own sake, because if now wasn't the time to break it out, where would he ever be able to?
He hurried home. Even though he was alone in the shop, he still locked the doors of his chambers tightly, knowing if anyone saw his transformation, he was as good as dead. He quickly but delicately changed from his formals into the royal blue gown.
Archibald realized that whether or not he'd been conscious of it, he'd been putting this plan together for a long time. For he had also acquired a red wig one day, claiming it was for a customer with thinning hair. He had then teased it into a complex updo so as to prevent its crafter from ever recognizing it when it was worn. As he swept his own hair up to hide it beneath this wig, Archibald realized he had far fewer of his natural locks than he once had. When had he lost so much of it? Though it wasn't as if it mattered.
The final step was to steal into his mother's washroom and raid her makeup. She had been wearing it less and less these days in her old age. She certainly wouldn't notice if such a minimal amount was missing.
When Archibald checked himself over in the mirror, he was stunned; upon first glimpse, he couldn't actually believe he was looking at himself. He was convinced that somehow, a beauty of a redheaded woman had gotten between himself and the mirror. Pitching his voice up as high as he could, he said softly, "I'm absolutely unrecognizable." No, the voice was still too much of a giveaway. It took him some experimentation to disguise it with a strong accent; "Is that better? Oh, why, YES, that is MUCH better! Gentlemen, I do hope you're equipped to meet the extraordinary Madame Frou Frou."
And within a short span of time, it was Frou Frou who returned to the Portley-Rind manor. Archibald was quite pleased to notice that the doorman had very obviously thought about asking him if he were one of the guests, but upon beholding the sight of "her" in full, had decided against it, simply holding the door open wide, a giddy smile on his face. Archibald turned to fire a wink at the doorman just to toy with him further. This was already going better than expected.
When he entered the room, there seemed to be a shift in the atmosphere. Eyes were now turned upon him in droves. Perhaps, he thought, he'd just gotten lucky with the doorman, and his disguise was too obvious to everyone else, and he'd just made his own ruination, turning up dressed as a woman in front of every important personage in Cheesebridge –
"Pardon me," one of the men said, his voice dripping with lust. "But could you spare me a dance? After all, you're QUITE a beauty."
"Pardon YOU!" Another man shoved him aside. "My lady, I would appreciate it if I were to be your first dance instead. HE isn't good enough for someone of your caliber."
"As if she'd want to dance with either of you!" A third shoved them both aside. "You haven't even asked her name! What…is your name, my lady?"
"They call me Madame Frou Frou," Archibald replied coyly, extending a hand.
And just like that, everything changed. Suddenly, every man in the room wanted to talk to him, wanted to dance with him, was fixated upon him. A great many of the women avoided this "Madame Frou Frou" deliberately, jealous that "she" had stolen the hearts of all of the men present, but a few did eagerly approach for conversation, wanting to be graced by the beauty and popularity of this uninvited guest whom nobody seemed to care about the origins of.
But the best part of it, Archibald relished, was the way that Charles Portley-Rind – newly married, supposedly infatuated with Cynthia – kept making a point of staring at him in awe. Cynthia finally noticed and pulled his earlobe sharply to make him stop ogling Frou Frou. This only made Charles careful to direct his gaze when he was sure Cynthia wasn't paying attention.
Archibald still remembered when he thought Charles was an immaculate beauty with whom he had no chance. That the shoe was on the other foot filled him with malicious glee. If only you knew, he thought.
But of course, the point was that no one ever would or could know the truth about Frou Frou's identity. That absolutely would be the best way to tarnish Archibald's reputation forever.
Archibald made a point of leaving the party early in order to beat his parents home. They had greeted him politely, having no idea that they were speaking to their son. Gabriel, of all the men in the room, was the only one who had actually acted like a decent human being, merely greeting Frou Frou like an acquaintance rather than a dessert he wished to devour. Snatcher men were sensible like that, it occurred to Archibald. When he did leave, it was with a great sense of happiness. He'd been twirled about the dance floor and asked his opinion on a thousand conversational topics. Within one night of existing to the public, Madame Frou Frou was already closer to obtaining a status than Archibald Snatcher had ever been.
And it certainly wouldn't be her last night out, Archibald thought, hastily inventing her biography on the route homeward.