Memoir of a Trapped Housewife

Chapter Nine {Pure and White}

Chapter Nine

Pure and White

"Oh!" I yelped as a pin pierced my side. The seamstress fitting me mumbled an incoherent apology past the pins she held between her teeth. Her assistant tightened a tape ruler around my waist almost to the point of cutting to the ability breathe.

Gasping, I looked pleadingly at Mrs. Cecilia who watched the punishing process from her perch on a chaise.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, she did not appear pleased.

"Jennie, dear, the bust needs to come in more," she instructed, daintily pressing a hand to her forehead to signal annoyance. "And Berna don't look so flustered, the process cannot be that horrible."

Gritting my teeth, I struggled to find a pinch of pleasantness. "I'm sorry ma'am. This is all new to me."

New dresses, or new clothes for that matter were quite rare in the McMillan home. You kept mending what you had until it became an unrecognizable quilt of patches and rags. After that it became a pillow casing, a blanket to snuggle under during the cold winter months, or the rug to wipe cruddy boots upon. When I did make dresses for myself, I fitted myself. And of course, I was significantly gentler than the two posh seamstresses.

Under the instruction of Mrs. Cecilia, they were constructing a gala gown for me. It was to be crimson with sequins to catch light and slide along my skin until it reached my knees. From there it would fan out into a series of carefully gathered and lavish ruffles.

I peeked at the sketches.

The design was inherently gorgeous and I should have been grateful, but I couldn't find a part of me that was. Mrs. Cecilia was grooming me for something I knew I would not like, and something I was sure I was not aptly prepared for. My feelings were synonymous to that of a meat cow about to be paraded in front of a crowd of butchers.

Stabbed again by a pin, I flinched.

The dress Mrs. Cecilia ordered was too tight, too snug on sections of myself I preferred to hide. Who needed to see them, was my rationale.

When Mrs. Cecilia finally departed from the room and left the seamstresses to finish their work for the day, I began to ask questions I was quite sure my employer wouldn't answer. What was a gala? Who went? What was I going to do?

The gala, the head seamstress answered, was a celebration marking the anniversary of the launch of the Blackstone Transportation Company. This year was the eighth anniversary, and the gala was predicted to be the best event of the social calendar. Unlike most upper class festivities, the Blackstone parties were known for their wild and unrestrained celebration atmosphere. The theme was always masquerade so guests could carouse with abandon and still leave the next day without the repercussions of their actions following them to their respective homes.

I balked at the fact that I was forced into being entertainment for such an occasion. And in such a revealing dress?

"Mrs. Havertown," I whispered, addressing the head seamstress. "I've never worn a dress...like this before. And already my nerves are wrecked about having to perform; I don't think I could manage wearing something...so...loose. Perhaps you could speak to Mrs. Cecilia and-."

Mrs. Havertown languidly held a finger to my lips. "Hush dear, I knew this dress didn't fit you the moment we began it. Do not worry. You shall have a dress appropriate for your nature. Pure and...white. Yes, white."

I blushed, wondering what this woman saw in me to make her think of purity. She dealt with soiled goods, things even an incompetent trader wouldn't wager for. Though, to her credit, I did prefer the color white. It was clean, simple, and truthful.