THE TAILOR & THE SEAMSTRESS
VI. The Phoenix Dress
Maison Maillot's head tailor paused in the corridor as Remy LeBeau marched agitatedly past, a bolt of silk mesh under his arm.
"Where are you going, Taylor?" he threw at his appropriately named subordinate. "You are needed in the workroom."
"Sir, it is my lunchbreak," the tailor replied laconically.
Remy halted and glanced at his pocket watch. It had just gone 1pm.
"So it is," he said. "But humour me a moment, please. I want to know what you think."
With an inward sigh, Taylor pivoted on his foot and followed his superior back into the workroom where the so-called Phoenix Dress was housed. The gown had been fully constructed, and was now in the time-consuming process of having all its embellishments added. A ground of blood red silk, embroidered with a motif of golden plumes executed by the finest Japanese needleworkers, made up the delicate whole. Flourishes of orange and yellow erupted like flames from the bodice, curling delicately around the heart of whichever lucky lady would end up wearing it. Glittering sequins were beginning to take fiery shape along the rectangular-shaped train.
LeBeau slapped the bolt of cloth onto the nearby worktable and began to unroll it.
Taylor watched him silently. It hadn't escaped his notice that his superior had been working feverishly at it for several days now, making spontaneous additions here and there, as if possessed. The previous night, he had even slept in his office. He had heard a thing or two about genius before, but he wasn't sure it was a healthy or desirable thing. He much preferred the comforts of regular work hours, meals, and his precious lunchbreak.
LeBeau took a pair of shears and sliced off a section of the gold silk mesh.
"I was thinking," he explained, half to Taylor, half to himself, "that we could layer this in, here."
He walked up to the dress, draping it round the waist, creating a tiered effect over the skirt below. He looked up at Taylor, asked: "Well? What do you think?"
Taylor looked at it.
"I think it very plain, sir."
LeBeau tutted exasperatedly.
"Well, that is because this silk is unfinished, man! I was thinking embroidered lace… a pattern to compliment that of the gown itself…"
He trailed off, rearranging the fabric, seeing how it caught the light. It was clear to Taylor that LeBeau was seeing something in his mind's eye that Taylor had not the creativity himself to perceive.
"If your muse says it must be so," he spoke up diplomatically, "then it must be so."
LeBeau laughed weakly.
"Ah, yes!" he replied almost ruefully. "My muse demands a great many things. She demands my undivided attention, yet she refuses to tell me what it is she truly wants."
Taylor considered the words. He considered the dress. He considered the uncharacteristically quixotic mood of his superior, all silently.
"Perhaps a woman's eye would be advisable, sir," he finally spoke dispassionately. "Shall I fetch the head seamstress? She might have a sensible suggestion or two."
LeBeau went quiet a moment. He seemed to be contemplating something.
"The head seamstress," he murmured, in the same rueful tone. "Yes, if only the head seamstress could tell me what her heart desires."
"Shall I fetch her then?" Taylor inquired.
The suggestion seemed to startle the younger man for a moment or two.
"No," he said at last, seeming deflated. "No – you take your lunch, Taylor. I'm sorry for keeping you."
The tailor obediently left; and Remy flopped down into a nearby chair and stared at his work. It was his best work. His very best. But there was so much it lacked. So much. Since the evening at the dancehall, this dress had consumed him. He'd poured his heart and soul into it, into capturing the thing that so eluded him. He couldn't find it. It seemed impossible.
He half considered calling Belle, but… even if he knew she was no longer angry with him, he couldn't countenance her opinion on something as personal as this. He knew he would not be able to hide the truth of this endeavour from his former fiancée. He could barely admit it to himself.
No—Belle would laugh at him, that was certain. And it was something he would not be able to bear.
He glanced over at the clock on the wall.
He had missed his break today, and he had missed it the day before, and the day before that as well.
He had missed it for an entire week. People-watching had no longer pleased him, and neither had the sight of her at her window. She would never stay long anyhow. It was as if his presence unsettled her as much as hers unsettled him, when neither could reach out and touch the other.
Remy sighed and rubbed at his tired face with both hands. What did any of this matter? Maillot was pleased with the dress; he was pleased with the entire collection Remy had designed, with the breakneck speed of one whose muse was as animated as she was exacting. As far as Maillot was concerned, the Selfridge prize was already in his greedy hands.
But he had not seen Burford's offering.
He had not seen the Peacock Dress.
The Phoenix Dress was quite the rival, but would it be enough?
Again, he sighed.
Trading in beauty was a thankless task, for beauty was the most thankless of taskmasters.
Still – perhaps Taylor was right. He needed another eye. A trustworthy one. A talented one.
The only eye worth having on this dress.
The one he didn't know how to get.
He stood.
It would be summer soon. All the most prestigious ateliers would be unveiling their collections, and their designers vying for Selfridge's prize money and prestige. This dress could win it – if only he could unravel the final few secrets it held.
If only.
-oOo-
Kitty was rushing back from her lunch break.
As usual, the time had run away from her, and she was very close to running late.
She slipped into the little backstreet that led up to the House of Burford's worker's entrance; and she had just reached the top of the steps when she heard a voice call to her.
"Mam'selle Kitty."
She started, stopped and turned; and was exceedingly surprised to see Mr. LeBeau standing there, by the doorway, a newspaper in his hands.
"You gave me a fright, sir!" she exclaimed in an accusatory tone.
"My apologies," he replied softly. He folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "I didn't mean to startle you."
His demeanour was calm, purposely inoffensive. Curious, she descended to the bottom step and looked at him with a suspicion she couldn't quite conquer.
"Why are you here, sir? Is it to see Miss. Raven?"
He gave a careworn little smile and shook his head.
"Non. I don't think she wants to speak to me."
"And why might that be?" Kitty asked pointedly, quite ready to defend her friend if needed. Again, Mr. LeBeau gave that careworn smile. He knew there was no point in responding to her question. Instead, he slipped a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a small square of paper.
"If you'd pass this message on to her, Miss. Kitty," he said, "I'd be very much obliged."
He held out the note to her. Kitty hesitated.
"And what if she doesn't want to hear from you either?"
"Then she can throw the note away. I won't bother her again."
That was true at least. Kitty doubtfully reached out and took the proffered slip of paper.
"All right," she said.
He tipped his hat to her.
"I am very grateful, Miss," he thanked her; and without another word, he left.
For a few moments Kitty stood on the steps and stared after him. Then, realising the time, she turned and quickly hustled back inside.
Anna, of course, was with the Peacock Dress, sewing the final few sequins onto its magnificent train.
"Beg pardon," Kitty spoke, approaching her. "There is a note for you, Miss."
Anna finished sewing on the sequin at hand, before standing and taking the note that Kitty was holding out to her. A quick scan of its contents, and she was folding it up again abruptly. Kitty was almost surprised when she took her by the arm and pulled her into the corridor.
"When did he give you this?" she asked in a whisper.
"Just now, Miss," Kitty responded. "Out the back. He was waiting for me to come back from lunch."
Anna was silent a moment, her teeth tugging at her lower lip. The past fortnight she had gone to her window every day at midday, and he had never been there. She had assumed he no longer wanted anything to do with her, that he had moved on to some other, more promising conquest.
"Miss," Kitty was asking her, "what is on the note?"
"He wants to meet me," she replied in a low voice.
"Of course he does!" Kitty scoffed, offended on her friend's behalf. Anna smiled fondly at her, thankful that she had at least one defender in this sad and lonely world.
"You disapprove of him now, Kitty?" she queried, to which her friend's eyes went wide.
"Miss! He propositioned you!"
Again, Anna smiled faintly.
"I may have made him think he would not have been denied. I may even have wanted to say yes."
"Miss!" Kitty exclaimed, scandalised.
"Oh Kitty," she sighed. "Please don't think ill of me. The heart wants what it wants. And when I was younger, I was very used to giving my heart everything it desired."
Nevertheless, she took the note and ripped it up into little pieces.
"There – it is over and done with, Kitty!" she said. "I hope he won't bother you to pass on messages again!"
She went back into the workroom and dropped the pieces into the wastepaper basket by the door. With nothing more to say on the matter, she quietly went back to her work.
-oOo-
Later that day, at eight o'clock, Remy came out of the back entrance of the Maison Maillot and stood on the back steps, lighting up a cigarette.
It was a beautiful night – cloudless, and balmy. The days had lengthened, and sunset still hadn't yet fallen – but it would, and soon.
"Remy."
He started to hear his name, in her voice; and when he turned, it was to find her stepping out from a doorway and into view.
"Miss. Raven!" he said, surprised.
"Yes." She walked up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. "You asked me to meet you here. Did you think I wouldn't come?"
He looked at her – still refreshingly lovely in her simple work clothes and her kerchief. He knew one thing. He knew that he was very glad to see her.
"I wasn't sure," he admitted. "If you had wanted to approach me of your own volition before this moment, I thought you might've done so by now."
"Oh?" She looked confused. "I thought you had given up on me. I haven't seen you out the front these past two weeks…"
"And you never stayed at the window long. I thought perhaps the sight of me offended you."
She gave a wry smile.
"Oh – no. I just felt that… to be so close… and yet so far…"
"It became intolerable?"
She stared at him.
"A little, yes," she confessed. She looked a bit embarrassed about it.
"I understand," he assured her. "Truth be told, I'm not used to watching women from afar. And," he added, in a lower tone, "I'm truly sorry for the things I said to you that night. I want to be honest with you, Miss. Raven, if you will let me, and if honesty pleases you."
She had tried to harden her heart against him in the intervening weeks, suspecting that her rejection had pushed him away from her. But now her heart was softened, even though she could not quite admit to it.
"You said you wanted my help," she prompted him instead. "Well – here I am."
It was a sign that his apology had been accepted. He grinned at her and stubbed out his cigarette on the side railing.
"Miss. Raven, your help is not all I want."
"Mr. LeBeau," she replied archly. "You forget. I have a very good idea of what your wants are. And yet here I am, at your request. I know what it is I'm risking."
"And you have nothing to fear," he answered sincerely. "I won't ask you for what I asked you last time."
He turned and opened the back door, held out his hand to her.
And for better or for worse, she took it.
.
He led her up through the labyrinthine corridors of Maison Maillot, past grand and ostentatiously furnished salons, and darkened, quiet workrooms. Curiosity alone kept her enthralled throughout this unexpected journey. Here she espied a gilt-framed Georgian mirror; there a portrait of a distinguished client, a Victorian duchess in all her aristocratic splendour; and, in a corner, an old Ming vase that must've been three hundred years old at least. Gilded panelling guided their way down every corridor.
If she had had any doubt that Maillot had dressed queens and empresses, she did not doubt it now.
At last, they came to a door; and Remy stopped and turned to her, his hand on the doorknob, saying:
"Promise me something, Miss Raven. That you will not speak of what you see here in this room." He raised his eyes to hers. "I promise you I haven't told anyone about anything I've seen at Burford's. If you would extend the same courtesy to me…"
She was breathless, longing, as she had done for a while now, to know what secrets Maison Maillot held, as much as she imagined he had Burford's.
"I promise," she told him.
His expression told her that he was plainly reassured – although she sensed that he would have let her see anything she desired here anyway, even if she had not given her word. He swivelled the knob, and the door swung open. With the flick of a switch, he turned on the light.
The first thing she saw was the dress.
It was standing right there before her, in front of a now darkened window, a magnificent conflagration of fiery red and orange and gold, glittering under the lamplight, all the more striking for the inky black sky that was now its backdrop.
She held in a breath as Remy softly shut the door and came to stand beside her.
"You are working on this dress?" she asked him.
"Oui."
"And I suppose it will be judged by Mr. Selfridge, in the competition?"
"Yes." He glanced at her, almost tentative. "Do you… like it?"
She let out another breath and took a step forward.
"It's… beautiful." She could think of no other suitable word to describe it. She moved forward, hesitated, and looked back at him. "Can I… May I take a closer look?"
He gestured that she do so, and so she did.
There was nothing subtle about this dress. It was a glorious thing, all energy and vibrance and wild exuberance. Beads and sequins and metallic threads lit it up like the sun, giving it a radiance that would be put to full effect when its wearer would step out into a chandelier-lit ballroom. Even here, in this small room, every angle she glanced at it from, it seemed to glow. It seemed to burn.
"Such a design," she murmured to herself, almost forgetting he was there. She was only reminded of his presence when he stepped in beside her once more.
"What is it missing?" he asked her unexpectedly.
She was shocked that he would invite her to answer such a question.
"I… I don't know."
She turned, seeing a panel of gold silk mesh laid out on the table. It had been worked a little – hand-embroidered lace, done with a skilled yet perfunctory hand. Feeling emboldened by his trust in her thus far, she picked it up and went over to the dress, draping it effortlessly from the waistline.
"This would look very well here," she said thoughtfully. "But this pattern, in the lace… it isn't quite right."
"You have a pattern in mind?"
She glanced at him. A question was suddenly forming inside her, one she didn't think she could voice.
"This fabric," she said, indicating to the dress itself, "it has a motif of feathers." She paused, considering it a moment. "The designer has a phoenix in mind with this gown," she murmured what she intuited to be true. "The pattern should reflect the theme. I see a bird…"
"Can you draw it?"
Again, she was astonished at the tenor of his questions.
"I… Yes. I can."
He went to a desk drawer and pulled out a scrap of paper, pen and ink, laying them down in front of her.
"I ought not to do this…" she told him, uncertainly, but he waved a hand.
"Indulge me, Miss. Raven. You have an idea. I'd like to see it."
She was almost certain now that her hunch was true – but she said nothing, pursed her lips, and picked up the pen. In a few short seconds, she had sketched out the pattern, a bird with voluminous, scroll-like wings outstretched. Finished, she shifted it over a little so he could see.
He studied it a moment, a small smile on his face.
"You have a very good hand, Miss. Raven."
She said nothing. Her mind was whirling.
"Is that all the help you required, sir?" she asked quietly.
He seemed taken aback by the sudden turn of her mood.
"Not quite." He looked over at the dress, then back at her. "Would you wear it for me?"
She was shocked at the impropriety of the question.
"Mr. LeBeau, that dress is not mine to wear! Nor is it yours to give to me to wear!"
"There is no one here to see you wear it," he reassured her. "None but me, anyhow. I'd like to see it on you. If I saw it on you, I'd know what it was missing."
So far, everything here had felt like a test… of what, she wasn't entirely sure. For a long while she stared at him, and he stared at her. A well of emotions was burgeoning inside her, too complex and messy to tell.
"All right," she finally agreed.
She watched on as he removed the gown from the dress form, before handing it to her, and moving to open the door to a small storeroom.
"You can change in there," he said. "I'll be in the fabric store in the meantime, fetching something for the dress. I'll knock before I enter."
So saying, he turned and left.
Anna stood in the little storeroom and stared at the dress in her hands. Her heart was thudding painfully, her eyes smarting. Whatever this meant… … But she knew what this meant.
Slowly, she undressed, and put the unfinished gown on.
Almost as soon as she had finished, she heard him knock, and she called through the gap in the storeroom door, "Come in!"
He did so, holding a bolt of black velvet under his arm.
"Are you ready?" he asked her, setting the fabric on a worktable and unrolling it, reaching out for his shears.
She made no reply. Instead she pushed open the door and stepped out.
As soon as he caught sight of her, his eyes widened and he dropped the shears back on the table. She knew she could look nothing but beautiful in this dress; and she knew that he perceived that. For a few split seconds she thought that he might say something, might come to her; but just when she thought he would, he averted his gaze, picked up the shears again, and began to cut into the velvet.
"Stand over there, please," he said in a voice that wavered slightly, indicating to where the dress form stood. "In the light."
She did as she was told, not sure what to think, what to want. She wanted to hear him tell her she was beautiful; she wanted for him to come to her, to hold her, to kiss her.
But most of all, she wanted the truth.
He'd finished cutting the velvet. Only then did he turn to her. His eyes were bright… but his expression was one of calm restraint.
He picked up a box of dressmaker's pins from a nearby table and walked over to her.
"I'm going to fit the dress to you," he told her, as if asking her permission.
"All right," she said quietly.
He got to his knees and worked silently, nipping and tucking the excess fabric at her waist, her hips, and under her arms, fitting the gown more closely to her shape. He worked with the practiced precision of every tailor she knew… yet she knew now that he was no mere tailor.
"You designed this dress," she said in a low voice. "Didn't you."
His gaze flicked to hers, then away again. He took a pin out from between his lips and fastened it into the seam at her waist.
"Oui," he replied, popping another couple of pins between his lips.
She let out a long breath. So many things were suddenly falling into place.
He moved to her left side and continued to work.
"I thought of you every moment I worked on it," he spoke up, unprompted. "I made it to express the thing you keep hidden. Fire."
He said it so carelessly, so flippantly, as if it was as natural a compulsion as any other he had had. But to her it was the most intimate thing a man had ever expressed to her, and she felt unexpected tears prick her eyelids, tears that she quickly swallowed away. He had moved behind her, still on his knees, still in this inexplicable attitude of supplication.
"When Maillot's summer collection is unveiled, I want this dress to be yours," he was saying softly. "I'll give it to you, as a gift."
He'd finished.
He stood.
Anna stared ahead of her, unable to speak.
Such a gift! The most extravagant one a man could give to a woman. In mere material terms, it would take her at least a year's wages to even afford it. But for him to have designed it, with her in mind… … It was more than mere extravagance or words could articulate.
He went to the worktable and picked up the cut panel of velvet. When he returned, it was with the cool efficiency of a man who did this often. He wrapped the fabric around her waist and pinned it in quickly, expertly; before taking both ends and fixing them behind her, getting briefly back onto his knees to arrange the resulting streamers to best effect.
When he stepped back to admire his handiwork, she imagined how he had done this hundreds of times before, assessing pretty models with his keen though dispassionate eye.
His gaze was not dispassionate now. It was anything but... Yet whatever his eyes said, he did not say aloud.
He indicated to a mirror which was standing to one side, against a wall.
"Would you like to see?"
She was almost afraid of what she might see if she did; but she was more curious than afraid, and so she walked over to the mirror.
Into the glistening reflected surface stepped a woman she had never seen before – one so elegant, so refined, so radiant, that she didn't recognise her. When he had said that red was her colour, this was what he had meant. It lifted her from something earthly and into something… divine. Powerful. Magnificent. Frightening, almost. Dressed in these flickering flames, she felt as if she could be consumed all to ash, and be reborn into… what? She didn't know.
He stepped up behind her, a smile on his lips. Not the wolfish one he usually wore, but a softer one, warm and genuine. He wanted her to love what she saw as much as he did.
"May I?" he asked, indicating to her hair.
She nodded. She still couldn't speak.
He undid the kerchief. He found the hairpins as if he knew exactly where to find them, and he gently uncurled the coppery locks, locks that shimmered red under the reflected light of the dress, letting them fall about her shoulders.
He stood behind her, placed his hands lightly on her upper arms. Together they looked at her in the mirror. Together. It was as though she were looking at some other couple in some other world.
"You're beautiful," he said softly, sincerely, by her ear, his gaze catching her reflected one. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
It was like he could only say the words to the woman in the mirror, afraid that if he said them to her face, she would not accept or believe them. But she believed him. Here, now, he could make her believe anything, strive for anything, win everything.
She turned her face to his and found his eyes. Her heart was thudding so painfully hard she thought it might shatter. Whatever he wanted, she wanted it too. They each closed the gap, and in the mirror, the couple kissed.
It was no less passionate than their previous kisses; but it was somehow gentler, slower… more reverent. She turned in his arms, and the kiss deepened. She didn't want it to stop. She didn't want to leave this place, and she didn't want to leave him. Yet she knew she surely must.
When they finally drew apart, it was only barely. He rested his forehead against hers, and they breathed one another in.
"You are Maison Maillot's lead designer," she finally murmured the thing that, despite the passion of the moment, was foremost in her mind.
"Oui," he replied.
She backed away a little, only a little – but enough to break the skin-to-skin contact between them. He read it as a withdrawal.
"Forgive me," he continued softly. "When I first met you, I was at Burford's under false pretences. I didn't know how to tell you the truth afterwards… … But I want to be honest with you now. I am not a poor man. Nor am I even a comfortably-off man. I am a rich man who lies freely, who plays with the hearts of women like you. But I don't want to do either of those things with you anymore."
Her eyes widened at the confession. She broke away a little more, but still couldn't quite leave his embrace.
"I know we are not equals," he began again in earnest. "I know I have a power over you that is… improper. I hope you can continue, in some way, to look at me as the man you saw when you thought us equals. I know you cannot. But it is impossible for me to pretend to you any longer."
She swallowed, breaking away from him fully. The world was spinning. He didn't attempt to pull her back. His hands merely dropped to his sides.
"Remy," she spoke breathlessly. "I cannot accept this dress, even as a gift. It is a dress for a lady, for a queen. And I could never pay back its full worth."
The corner of his mouth curled into a forlorn smile.
"You already pay back its full worth, Anna."
She shook her head.
"Monsieur Maillot would never approve."
"As with the Peacock Dress, I'll make a replica. He'll never know."
Silence fell. His honesty had touched her, troubled her, more than he could possibly know.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked quietly. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
He stood there, unmoving, thinking he was losing her.
"If I'd told you," he replied regretfully, "you would never have let me see you again."
Indeed! When she thought of the secrets she had shown him of Burford's inner machinations, this man with so much power within the house of her employer's rival… she would never have countenanced doing such a thing, had she known!
"No," she finally agreed. "I wouldn't have."
She took in a shaky breath. She was not sorry that he had pretended, although she didn't think it advisable to tell him that.
"I should… I should change," she said at last.
He made no reply, merely nodded.
She headed back into the little storeroom, and as she changed back into her clothes – her plain, insignificant clothes – she came to a decision.
When she was ready, she walked back out into the workroom and saw him silently packing away his tools. Whatever passion she had seen in him a few moments before, his professionalism was now fully restored.
She handed back the dress and he laid it aside. With very few words he led her back down to the worker's entrance.
It was fully dark now.
She stood on the top step; he stood in the doorway. Neither was sure how to say goodbye.
"Remy," she finally braved speaking, "come to see me tomorrow, at Burford's. At midday, when you're on your break. I'll have Kitty fetch you from the backdoor."
If it brought renewed hope to him, he didn't show it. He only nodded.
"All right," he said.
Silence fell again, neither knowing how to fill it.
"Well," she began again, awkwardly. "Goodnight, Mr. LeBeau."
"Goodnight, Miss. Raven."
She turned and walked down the steps. The door gently closed shut behind her. For now, at least for a little while, they would both be alone, apart.
-oOo-