“I do have some gray woolens like that; I ordered them thinking that I might convince some of the ladies to commission me to tailor some little boys’ suits, but nothing came of it,” the seamstress replied, and went to the rear of her establishment.
Of the three choices, there was a woolen in a dove gray that Marina loved the moment she touched it. It was soft and weighty, a little like fine sueded leather. “Oh, that’s merino, that is,” the woman said. “Lovely stuff. Too dear for Holsworthy, though; if a lady of this town is going to spend that sort of money on a suit for her little boy, she’ll go up a bit and have it done in velvet. Not as much difference in price, you see, when you’re only using two yards or so.”
“And how ‘dear’ would that be?” Margherita asked, settling in for a shrewd session of bargaining—Christmas present or no, she had never bought anything without a stiff bargaining session, and she clearly wasn’t about to break that habit.
In the end, by pointing out a couple of odd places where a moth had gotten to the fabric, and making the case that since the lady was getting not only the price of the fabric but the commission to make it up, Margherita got her price. Then it was time to pick the design. Out came the pattern-books and sketches, and now Margherita excused herself. “I am not going to attempt to influence your choice, my dear,” she said with a smile. “I want you to pick what you want, not what you think I think you should have. And I know I’ll try to influence you, so I’ll return in an hour or so.”
And with that, she picked up her gloves and donned her cloak, and left Marina alone with the seamstress.
“And what do you want, miss?” the seamstress asked, with hint both of humor and just a little apprehension.
“Oh,” Marina paused. “Lady Hastings, a friend of ours, had the most Beautiful suit with a trumpet-skirt and a train—”
She saw the apprehension growing, and knew that her aunt had been right; this seamstress in a small town was not at all confident of her ability to replicate something that a person like Lady Hastings could purchase.
“And I thought, something like that, but much simpler,” she finished. She looked through the first few pages of “walking suits” and “resort dresses” and suddenly her eye alighted on a design that was precisely what she wanted, a jacket fastening to the side instead of down the middle. “Like this!” she said, laying her finger on it, “But without the trimming.”
It was labeled as a “walking suit” as well; it had a lappet collar and a double skirt, and in the sketch, was trimmed quite elegantly and elaborately. But the lines were simple and very tailored, the skirt less of a train than Elizabeth’s, and so a little old-fashioned, but to Marina’s eyes it looked a little more graceful.
“Without the trimming…” The apprehension was replaced by relief, as Marina watched the woman mentally removing soutache and lace, pin tucks and ribbon. “Yes, indeed, miss; that’s a very good choice, and if you don’t mind my saying so, it will look very well on you.” She marked the sketch and laid the book aside with the fabric. “Now, let’s get you measured.”
It wasn’t quite that simple. First, Marina had to be laced into the new-style corset that the suit required. And she had gone un-corseted for so long that the only one she’d had up to this point had been bought when she was fourteen and still looked brand new. She hadn’t worn it more than once or twice, and both times she had needed help to get into it.
It was something of an ordeal, although the modiste helpfully taught her how to manage on her own. So at least when she got it home, she’d be able to get into it!
“I hope you aren’t wanting a fifteen-inch waist, miss,” the seamstress said frankly, looking from the corset in her hands to Marina in drawers and camisole and back again. “You’ll never get it.”
“I’m wanting to be able to move and breathe,” Marina replied feeling a certain amount of dread at the sight of the thing, all steel boning and bootlaces. “My aunt doesn’t believe in tight lacing, and neither do I. I just want to look right in this new dress.”
“Oh! Well, then you’ll do all right,” the woman laughed. She unhooked the basque and handed the garment to Marina, who put it on, hooked the front back up again, one little steel hook at a time, and turned her back so that the seamstress could tighten the laces. “You’ll be doing this with the wall-hook I told you about, miss,” the modiste said, deftly pulling the laces tight, but not uncomfortably so. “Just have someone put one into a beam, and you won’t need a lady’s maid.”
When the woman was done, it felt rather like she’d been encased in a hard shell, or was wearing armor. It wasn’t uncomfortable, in fact, it made her back feel quite nicely supported, but she definitely wouldn’t be able to run in a garment like this. But a glance at the mirror showed a gratifyingly slim figure, and if she didn’t have a fifteen-inch waist, she didn’t particularly want to look like a wasp, either.
The seamstress, measuring tape and notebook in hand, went to work.
She was very thorough. She measured everything three times, presumably to make sure she got the measurement right, and it seemed as if she measured every part of Marina’s body. Wrists, the widest part of the forearm, biceps, shoulder-joint, neck. From shoulder to shoulder across the back and across the front. Bust, under the bust, waist, hips, just below the hips. From nape to center of the back. From nape of the neck to the ground. She even measured each calf, each thigh, and each ankle, though Marina couldn’t imagine how she’d use those measurements, and said so.
“It all goes in my book, my dear,” the woman told her. “Some day you might want a cycling costume, for instance, and I’ll have the measurements right here.”
Marina couldn’t think of anything less likely, but held her peace as the seamstress unlaced her corset and helped her out of it. For the first time she realized just how very comfortable her aunt’s gowns were.
But she still wanted that suit. Already in her mind, she was planning the trimming that she and her aunt would put on it. Black, of course—black would look wonderful on the gray wool.
She paid for the brown wool herself, out of the pocket-money her parents had sent before they went to Italy. After a quick survey of the street to make sure that Margherita was not on the way, she hurried across to the inn and hid her purchase under the old rugs they kept in the pony cart in case it became too cold. Then she hurried back to the seamstress, and was looking over sketches of garden-party dresses when her aunt returned.
“Well, how did it go?” Margherita asked.
“I’m finished,” Marina said, with triumph. “Look, this is what I picked—without the trimming. I have some ideas—”
“Hmm! And so do I! That’s a fine choice of design. Well done, poppet!” Marina beamed in Margherita’s approval. “When should we return for the fitting?” she asked, turning to the seamstress.
“Not sooner than a week,” the woman replied promptly. “Now, that suit rightly needs a shirtwaist—did you have anything in mind for that?”
“This, I think,” Margherita told her, turning back to the shirtwaists and pointing out a simple, but elegant design with a high collar and a lace jabot that could be tied in many ways, or left off altogether. “Two in white cambric, and one in dove-gray silk, and we’ll want enough extra fabric to make three jabots for each.”
Marina stared. “But—Aunt—I thought my old shirtwaists—”