THE TAILOR & THE SEAMSTRESS
VIII. Mandarin Ducks
She led him down streets he had walked before, with other women, whom he now could not remember. He only remembered the silence, and the furtive smiles traded when the social dance of endless polite conversation became superfluous. Such smiles, such looks, always spoke the secret things said between every sentence. But Anna did not smile; and she did not look at him. Her mood was almost taciturn; her silence almost brooding. Only the touch of her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow recalled the softness of all the women who had come before.
It turned out she lived in a brownstone tenement building not far from her workplace; a building that might once have been classed as elegant, but that now most certainly was not. Everything about it was shabby, and a little dilapidated – but if she felt shame in bringing him here, she did not show it.
She slipped the key inside the front door, turned the lock. The door swung open a little and she pressed it open, looked back at him standing silently on the top step. Even at this point, he seemed, as ever, to ask her permission; and, because she had never countenanced otherwise, she gave it freely.
"Well? Will you come up?"
He followed her up to the third floor, down a darkened, musty-smelling corridor, and to the final door in the passageway. She unlocked it and stepped inside the apartment, switching on the electric lights, holding the door open for him to enter. He did so.
It was a small space, infused with the scent of her orange blossom perfume; indeed, every inch of it seemed to be filled with her. Drawings and sketches lined the utilitarian white-washed walls, splashes of colour imbuing every nook and corner. A large drawing desk had been set by the apartment's only window; and beside that, a worktable, with scraps of textile he instinctively knew were discarded cut-offs from Burford's store. A dress-form was set up in a corner, wearing an unfinished evening gown.
He walked up to it. It was a two-piece affair, the kind of ensemble he knew her to be most comfortable in. Delicately draped blonde lace, over a red jacket blouse, with a generous peplum, made up the bodice; a tiered skirt in crimson crepe silk made a striking contrast with the pallid hue of the lace.
"Red," he commented appreciatively.
"You said it suited me," she spoke from the little kitchenette, giving away that his observation had been the impetus behind this particular dress. "Coffee, Mr. LeBeau?"
He turned and saw her with a small coffee pot in her hand.
"No liquor, Miss. Raven?" he noted with a small smile.
"Monsieur, I prefer to have my wits about me when a man is in my home."
His smile widened.
"Very wise." He paused. "Yes. I'll have one."
She turned on the stove.
"Besides," she commented, pointedly neutral, "coffee can better keep one awake at night."
He moved away from the dress form, towards her, surprised at her words. He wasn't quite sure he could trust that she meant the implication behind them that he had read.
"True," he murmured.
Her gaze flicked to his, and her smile was soft, conspiratorial.
"When a dressmaker takes her work home with her, she often works long nights."
"Oh?" He walked up to the bar that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the room, and leaned on it casually. "Are we here to dressmake, Miss. Raven?"
She placed the pot on the flame.
"We will surely make something, Remy," she rejoined quietly, eyes averted, "if either of us is brave enough."
She'd called him by his name, for the first time that evening. The significance wasn't lost on him.
"Will you speak plainly with me, Anna?" he asked her, serious now. She still refused to look at him.
"I am… scared, Remy," she admitted.
He didn't know what to say to that. He was not scared. He never was, in matters such as this. It was here, in a woman's secret space, that he always felt most brave.
"What are you scared of?" he asked her.
She thought a moment.
"Of being someone I used to be." She moved abruptly to a little cupboard and retrieved two coffee cups. He didn't know what she meant, and he didn't know how to respond. She had invited him here, allowed him in here. This was a sanctuary, her safe space. He would encroach on it no more than she allowed him to.
Frowning slightly, he looked about him. This place was so small, so homely. So much the abode of a poor, young seamstress.
"Surely Burford does not pay you so little," he spoke up quietly, affronted on her behalf, "that you find yourself having to live here. You are his creative lead. If he is not compensating you enough..."
"He compensates me enough," she cut in brusquely. "Not as much as you are, I am sure, but well enough."
The coffee had boiled, and he watched her pour it.
"Then...?"
"I send money home, every month, to my folks." She paused as she tapped the pot on the kitchen counter. "To my fiancé."
To say he was shocked was an understatement. He stared at her hand instinctively, and saw no ring there.
"How do you take your coffee, Mr. LeBeau?" she pre-empted any questioning he might have made. As it was, it took him a few seconds to find the words to reply to her.
"No sugar. A dash of milk."
She turned away to fetch the milk.
"You are... engaged?" he asked the only question he could.
Her back was to him as she poured.
"I am not sure," was the strained reply. "He cannot tell me whether we are or not. He will never be able to. And that being the case, I can only assume that the engagement is off."
He didn't understand. She turned and came out from behind the kitchenette, handed him his drink.
"He is... very ill, Mr. LeBeau," she explained in a flat tone. "He has been for many years now. I pay for his care. And so you see, I cannot pay for any better lodgings than these. But it doesn't matter to me. I have everything I need here. I am quite content." Her smile was pained. "Will you sit, Mr. LeBeau?"
She gestured to a shabby couch, set against a wall covered with water-coloured sketches of rolling landscapes and peacocks, and unsuspecting people captured going about their daily lives.
He took a seat; and she joined him on there, sitting neither near nor yet far.
"I think," she began softly, "you can apprehend now why I resisted you."
She took a sip of her drink, not daring to meet his gaze.
"You think he would begrudge you happiness?" he asked, not quite understanding why she, a young single woman, should take on the burden of caring for her invalid fiancé. "A woman such as you should not have to support a man like this."
She shook her head stubbornly.
"It is not as simple as that."
"Isn't it? When an engagement is dissolved, why should one of the party remain financially tied to the other? Do you think he would think that is fair to you?"
She looked aside, chewing on her bottom lip.
"No," she replied pensively. "He was a good man. He would have wanted me to be happy. Now he is merely a shadow of his former self. I no longer know what would make him happy. When I see him, he doesn't see me. When I speak to him, he doesn't speak back."
She seemed so sad, so forlorn, that he was moved to comfort her.
"You are a good woman, Anna Raven."
"Am I?" She looked uncertain. "Remy… When I was younger, I was a wild girl. A rogue, and a fool. I did things I… …" She trailed off, passing him a sidelong glance, trying to impart something to him he could only guess at. She took in a deep breath and set down her cup on the coffee table. "But that doesn't matter," she concluded despondently. "What matters is that it didn't matter to him. He only saw the goodness in me. And I knew what he wanted. He wanted to care for me, above all else. He wanted to prove them all wrong. He wanted to make an honest woman of me."
She sighed and cast her eyes to the ceiling.
"But I never appreciated that. I loved him, and dearly. But I was still wild. I wanted him to embrace that in me. I… made him do things he wasn't comfortable with. One day," and she gave a bitter little laugh, "I stole a motorcar. He'd always wanted one. And I… I wanted to show off. I wanted to give him something no one else could ever give him. Excitement. I wanted to make him feel alive."
She swallowed. She wasn't sure how much she could say without losing her composure. Absently she picked at her fingernails, and he saw that her hands shook.
"We both survived the crash," she said quietly. "Me, with barely a scratch. Him, with barely a life."
She suddenly dropped her head into her hand in a spasm of self-loathing.
"I was so stupid!" she spoke in a broken voice. "Such a fool! So careless and irreverent and reckless! For once I had a wonderful thing in my life and I ruined it all in a moment of hubris! All because I wanted him to see me!"
She raised her head again, but she could not look at him. There were no tears. Just bitterness. He saw her wrestling with herself; and he understood a little better why she had hidden what he had sensed so strongly in her – her fire.
"Guilt isn't a good enough reason to tie yourself to something that is dead," he spoke with conviction.
"Ha!" Her voice was full of self-directed resentment. "Only someone who has never encountered such guilt would say such a thing!"
He smiled regretfully.
"You imagine I have no guilt, no regrets? Anna, this man who you say loved you would surely not wish for you to strangle your own life like this. If this is some sort of penance for some sin you believe you have committed, it is time to lay it aside."
She shook her head obstinately – but not with the force she had done so before. Now she seemed a little uncertain.
"I have too many sins," she muttered.
"As do I," he replied. "Too many to tell."
She looked at him then.
"What do you regret?" she asked softly.
He thought a moment.
"I regret how things ended with Belladonna," he said at last. "I was engaged to her, Anna. I was not a faithful fiancé. I loved her genuinely. But evidently not enough." The remorseful smile touched his lips again. "I too spoiled a good thing I had. And it is more than I deserve that she is still my friend. I feel guilt, that she does not despise me."
"And there was no one after her?" she asked him.
He set his coffee down and shook his head.
"No. And you?"
She stared at him a moment, then looked aside.
"No. I could never trust myself."
"Me neither." He gave a small laugh. "It is in my nature to fall in-love often. And it is also in my nature to fall out of love just as quickly. I was not born to be constant."
She shifted towards him a little more.
"Most men are not," she said.
"And do you speak from experience?"
"Where else could I speak from?"
"From observation, perhaps."
She laughed softly.
"Remy, in love I was never a good observer."
"Only a doer?"
She hesitated.
"Yes," she said at last.
"Then we are the same," he smiled. He reached between them and took her hand gently. She did not take it back. Her gaze was questing.
"You speak as if you have no heart," she murmured. "But from the words you spoke to me earlier today… from the things you create… You have a boundless capacity to feel, Remy LeBeau. You said you were seeking, without knowing what it was you were searching for. In all that seeking, you felt nothing but emptiness. And now—"
"And now I've found what I was looking for," he interjected, running his thumb along her bare knuckles. "My muse. My rival. Whom I now find myself hopelessly in-love with."
At his admission, so candidly and unabashedly given, she dropped her gaze, the shade of a smile touching her lips.
"Do you always fall in-love so easily?" she asked in a half-whisper.
"Yes," he admitted. "But never so deeply."
It was the truth. She raised her gaze again, and she could see in his eyes that it was so.
"It is dangerous to love one's rival," she murmured.
"It is dangerous to invite him up here."
She considered that.
"Love makes one do dangerous things," she acknowledged thoughtfully.
"A truth I embrace wholeheartedly. Do you?"
Her eyes flickered. She didn't know the answer. But she knew what she wanted in that moment. And if she had been scared before that moment, she wasn't now.
Her fingers curled around his palm; she held his hand tight. She got to her feet and looked down on him, her eyelashes like dark crescents in the lamplight.
"Let me show you the bedroom," she whispered.
-oOo-
The faint blush of the sunrise, peeking through her threadbare curtains, roused Anna from a deep and dreamless sleep the following morning.
She breathed in deep and rolled onto her back, onto the thin sliver of empty space Remy had shared with her the night before. It was still warm with the residual heat of his body, and she sighed with the heady memory of it – the way he had untied her hair, the way he had run his thumb against her parted lips. The way he had kissed her, gentle, unhurried, again and again. Her old single bed had barely been enough to contain their passion.
She sat up slowly, feeling something she hadn't felt in a long time. Giddy. Alive.
Her whole body was suffused with this strange and wonderful thing that she hadn't felt in so very, very long.
With an irrepressible smile, she slid out of bed and slipped on a robe she had left hanging over the back of a chair.
When she went into the main room, she was surprised to find Remy, in nothing but his trousers, standing at the stove, cooking. As she came in, he lifted his eyes to hers and bestowed her with a genuinely happy smile.
"Good morning, chere," he said.
"Good morning," she replied shyly.
Like many men and women caught in similarly delightful circumstances, neither could resist the passing of joyful yet knowing smiles between one another.
"Forgive me," he spoke cheerfully, breaking the silent moment between them first and deftly flipping bread in a skillet. "I took liberties – I hope you don't mind. There's coffee on the bar there."
He nodded towards it; and she obliged, heading to the bar and perching on a stool.
"You cook," she stated what was self-evident, yet surprising to her.
He laughed merrily.
"Merely a hobby of mine. A useful one, at that." He grinned when he saw her eyeing what was in the pan. "French toast, chere. I have made enough for you too, of course, if you're hungry."
"Mr. LeBeau," she observed wryly, "your creativity and industriousness knows no bounds."
He chuckled softly.
"Are you appreciative? I hope you are. I wish to impress you."
"You impress me to no end, sir," she murmured honestly.
"Ah, so we are back to 'sir' and 'Mr. LeBeau' again, are we?" he teased. "Does a night of pleasure not tempt you to intimacy? Even when I impress you, is it propriety that still guides you?"
She perceived that he was teasing her; but she felt his words deserved an honest answer.
"I mean nothing by it, Remy," she spoke with a tentative smile. "I am not as used as I once was to being free and easy with men."
He cocked his head, considering her – both her words and her person. With her hair all down and tousled, and her lips all bruised and reddened from his kisses, she was quite the sight to behold!
"You hide a great deal behind propriety," he observed seriously, yet with a sparkle in his eye. "When the mask is dropped however, there is very little about you that is proper."
She blushed, busying herself by pouring a coffee so that she might better avoid the hunger of his gaze.
"Women must hide behind a certain kind of propriety," she remarked a little resentfully, "that nearly always masks their passion."
"C'est vrai," he nodded, the corner of his mouth hitched in a barely-there smile. "But your passion is not of the commonplace sort that most men encounter."
She wasn't sure what to say to that. She raised the coffee to her lips and said:
"You are up early."
He switched off the stove and began to plate up the toast.
"Oui. Maillot's board members arrive first thing today, to give their unwanted blessing to our summer collection. And I want to go in early, so that I may make absolutely certain that nothing is amiss before they arrive."
The information perked her up. There were many things she liked a great deal about this man; but one of the things she liked most was his work, and she would've liked to see and learn more of it.
"I am sure, having witnessed your talent and your meticulousness, that there is nothing amiss at all," she commented.
He laughed as he set a plate before her, and handed her a knife and fork.
"Why, Miss. Raven! Are you tempting me to abandon my plans and join you in bed again?"
"I am merely saying," she replied with a small smile, as he took his plate and sat at the bar beside her, "that you are a very conscientious dressmaker. And that, as I was waiting on Maison Maillot's front steps for longer than I care to admit last night, I can only conclude that you were spending an inordinate amount of time doing then exactly what you are planning to do this morning."
He laughed again, unable to deny it.
"As with you, ma chere," he answered, "I am quite detail orientated."
"And you take pride in your work."
"As do you."
"Yes."
There were two things they now appeared to be equals in – work, and love. The latter was still rather terrifying to her. The former she found to be quite… satisfying. On matters of their craft, of their professional pride, they understood one another completely.
"Remy," she spoke, as he began to eat, "I know that, for the sake of Selfridge's competition, we must be adversaries. I hope you won't hold that against me."
"Why should I?" he asked offhandedly.
"I am not sure. I fear I may lose to you."
He glanced at her.
"What is there to fear? I do not fear losing to you."
She laughed a little ruefully.
"Oh, Remy! You forget already how poor I am, even as you sit here in this place!"
She gave a sigh.
"Anna," he spoke soberly. "Is that what your heart desires above all? To be rich?"
She shook her head. Her heart's desire was so much simpler, and yet paradoxically more complex, than that.
"No. I wish to be free."
"And what does freedom look like to you?"
She eyed him, amazed at this question that no one had ever asked her before; that she had never really asked of herself. And he wanted to know the answer. His body was turned to hers in an attitude of sincere attention.
"It looks like my own little dressmaking studio," she confessed her desire quietly, a little embarrassed at the girlishness of it. "Somewhere where I can make beautiful things without having to account for anyone but myself. Where I hope others will come, and want to buy the beautiful things they see."
He stared at her, understanding.
"I see. You haven't the capital."
She shook her head.
"No. Selfridge's prize would give me that capital – or at least a great portion of it."
"And you believe Burford would not appropriate all the prize money for himself, should you win it? Your identity as his designer is a secret. He would be awarded what is rightfully yours."
"He has promised me half of the prize money, should I win. It is enough."
He said nothing. There was a frown on his face.
"Do you think me silly, Remy?" she asked him earnestly. "To stake so much upon a dress?"
He glanced at her, a slight smile on his lips.
"Not at all. A dress should always reflect what is in a woman's soul. And yours is beautiful, Anna Raven."
She had thought from almost the very first moment that they had met that he used words in ways that were intended to mask, to beguile, to deceive. Yet when he used them to speak truths, she was always struck by them. His honesty never failed to pierce her heart.
"I am afraid we must continue to be rivals, Anna," he was saying quietly. "I cannot pull my dress from the competition. Monsieur Maillot would forbid it."
"Even if that weren't the case," she said what she knew was true, "you wouldn't pull that dress from the running. You have poured too much of your own heart and soul into it, Mr. LeBeau. You must have the world admire it."
"I would have the world admire you in it," he replied sincerely.
It was yet another heart-piercing truth. She averted her gaze, not sure how to contain the pleasure she felt at his heartfelt flattery of her, so frequently and freely given. Instead, she began to eat.
His many talents, it seemed, was manifest in his cooking too. She had rarely tasted French toast this delicious; and she was beginning to wonder what strange luck had brought this rare prize of a man so unceremoniously into her life.
He had already finished, and was pushing away from the table. When he put his plate into the sink, he looked across the bar at her, his expression unsmiling.
"Anna," he began, "I want you to know something. The capital you desire… if you would accept it, I would give it to you freely. But since I know you would not accept it, I will not insult you by offering it. Nevertheless," he finished softly, "I would like you to know that I would give it to you, just the same."
There was such a look of restrained passion on his face that she would have been surprised at it, if she was not now so used to it. She sensed what he did not say, but what she knew he understood – that to allow herself to be held in the power of a man, to be indebted to him in such a way, would be insupportable to her.
"You're right," she murmured softly. "I could never accept such a gift. But I thank you, and sincerely, for the sentiment. It means… a great deal to me."
He smiled. It was a hopeless little smile, as if he wished to help her, yet knew he would always be rebuffed. He pushed himself away from the counter and went into the bedroom to dress.
She had just finished her breakfast when he emerged again, battling with his cufflinks, an irritable look on his face.
"What is it, Remy?" she asked him.
"Oh – nothing." He went over to a mirror and straightened out his necktie. "I suppose I just don't like going to an important meeting in yesterday's clothes."
She smirked and got to her feet, padding into the bedroom. When she came out, she was holding a piece of bright scarlet silk in her hand.
"Here," she said.
He took it, looked at it.
It was a necktie, with a motif of mandarin ducks, embroidered in an iridescent white, jade green, and cobalt blue.
"You made this?" he asked.
"Yes," she nodded. "With discarded scraps from a wrap we were working on. If you wear it, none will be the wiser that you are otherwise wearing what you wore yesterday. For a man, it is always the necktie that sticks in the mind. Here," she reached out and lifted his collar, loosening the tie he was already wearing. "Let me."
He let her do this favour, realising, as she did so, that no other woman had ever done this for him before. It was an act of familiarity that told them both that they had unwittingly crossed over some unseen frontier and become lovers in the process.
"This is a Chinese fabric," he spoke, to divert from the intimidating tenderness of the moment.
"Yes," she nodded, as her fingers expertly knotted the tie. "Red silk – the symbol of joy. Mandarin ducks – the symbol of fidelity. Once mated, they remain lifelong partners."
She paused, not looking at him, smoothing the front of the tie and turning down his collar.
"There." She smiled. "You wear it very well, as you do everything else."
She did not back away. Instead she raised her face to his, and, because he wanted what she did, he lowered his face to hers, and they kissed.
"I should like to see you again, Anna," he murmured, once they had pulled apart. "Whether it is like this, or in some other manner, I would accept whatever you chose."
"I know," she replied, running her fingers up his lapels. "I… I should like to see you again too, of course. But… …"
"But you are afraid."
She stared at his chest. She nodded.
"You invited me here last night because at least some part of you was not afraid," he said after a moment, taking both her hands in his. "I can only hope the rest of you embraces it."
He made it sound so simple. So uncomplicated. But there was what had happened last night, and then there was something more. And she was not sure if she was ready for something more.
"I am not sure yet, Remy," she whispered, still looking at his chest.
"I know."
His voice was tinged with sadness. It brought her eyes to his once more.
"As creatives we are equals. But in every other thing..."
"Were we not equals last night?"
She said nothing. Her eyes burned.
"We were," she murmured. "But it is that which scares me."
He let go of her hands and raised his palms to her cheeks.
"Whichever man it is who still holds that portion of your heart, Anna, I hope one day you can reclaim it. You say the freedom you seek is in a little atelier of your own. But it is also in doing with your heart as you desire. And someone else still possesses a piece of it. I hope… I pray… that one day you will be brave enough to take it back."
He didn't wait for the words to sink in. He kissed her again, deeply, passionately. When it was over, she was breathless.
"I shall take my leave now, Anna," he said, going for his hat and coat. "Will you contact me again, if you wish to meet?"
She watched as he slipped on his coat. Her heart was in her mouth.
"I will be busy, preparing for Selfridge's competition," she answered quietly. "But maybe, if I have a free moment…"
He stopped and looked at her.
"I see," he said. He put on his hat.
"Remy—"
"Anna. Please. Don't apologise. I understand. Love has never wounded me the way it has you. I am brave enough to give my heart to you. But I am not cruel enough to force you to give me yours." He turned to the door. "Good day, Miss. Raven."
And a moment later, he had left.
Anna stared silently after him, her ears ringing.
It was not the love that she so feared. Love came so easily... and it had come easily with him. What she feared was the thing that had destroyed her so callously before.
It was the pain she knew she would have to endure, when that love was over.
-oOo-