The Gates of Sleep

tailored, gray wool suit and matching hat, modestly ornamented with a ribbon cockade. She had swatches of fabric piled up beside her on one side of the couch, and pattern books on the other. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Marina; perhaps she had expected another martinet like Madam, or someone so countrified as to be impossible to outfit, with freckles, gap-teeth, and enormous feet that had never seen anything other than boots. In the midst of this florid room, the modiste looked like a little pile of ashes.

For that matter, I probably look like an unburned bit of coal.

“I will leave you with Miss Eldergast,” said Mary Anne loftily, and turned to the modiste. “Miss Eldergast, you have your instructions upon what is suitable for the young lady from Madam, so I will return for you in one hour.”

Both of them looked reflexively at the clock upon the mantelpiece, which was just showing half past ten. Then, as Mary Anne sailed out of the room with a self-important air, Marina smiled at the modiste.

“Why don’t you show me what is suitable for the young lady, Miss Eldergast,” Marina said, with some humor, “And we’ll pick something or other out.”

“Well, you’re in deep mourning, of course,” the dressmaker said hesitantly, “So these are the samples I brought—”

“Black, black, and black, of course.” Marina sighed, picked up the stack of swatches, and sat down next to Miss Eldergast, putting them in her lap. She added bitterly, “And it matters not at all that I never knew my parents; the sensibilities of society must not be outraged.”

Of course, I could be in mourning for the happy life I had in Killatree.

Miss Eldergast hesitated, somewhat taken aback. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said hastily, clearly trying and failing to find some polite response to Marina’s bald statement. “Now, if you could choose from among these for a riding habit and walking skirts—”

It didn’t take very long to make her selections; although the choice of fabric was wider and the number of patterns Miss Eldergast was able to execute much larger than the dressmaker in Holsworthy was able to offer, there were only a limited number of ways in which to dress in “black, black, and black.” What was suitable for the young lady, at least according to Madam Arachne, was the strictest possible interpretation of mourning, without even the touch of mauve, lavender or violet that as a young unmarried woman she should have been able to don without offending anyone.

I shall look like Queen Victoria before this is over. Or one of those melancholy women who are would-be Gothic poetesses.

Still, there was no doubt that Madam was equipping Marina generously, and in the height of fashion, the only exception being that everything suitable had high necks and high collars. Not that this would be too onerous in the winter, but when summer came, black and high collars were going to be difficult to bear.

Time enough to worry about that when the time comes, she told herself. For now, heavy silk blouses and shirtwaists, unlike the very plain things that she’d been dressed in so far, were going to be made exactly to her measure and ornamented lavishly with lace, ribbon, and flounces. Beautifully soft skirts and jackets were getting braid, tucking, ruffles, beading—

It would have taken a harder heart than Marina had not to be enchanted by the clothing that the dressmaker had planned for her. Madam Arachne had only given orders as to the color and general design, not to the specifics, nor to the amount to be spent. So the modiste was going to create garments similar to the kind that Madam Arachne herself wore—lavish, and stylish.

And I hope that Madam doesn’t contradict that plan.

“Have you any preferences as to what I deliver first, miss?” the modiste asked at last, packing up their selections with care.

“Unless Madam says differently, the riding habit, please,” Marina begged. “I’m dying for some exercise.”

The dressmaker smiled wanly. “Indeed, miss?” she responded, just as Mary Anne returned. The maid gathered the poor little woman in without a single word, polite or otherwise, to Marina, and took her off, leaving Marina alone.

This was her chance; she walked across the room to a door she had noticed behind a swag of ornamental drapery, and tried the knob. The door swung open easily.

The room revealed was, indeed, another bedroom, this one with all the furnishings under sheets. But the sheets didn’t hide the carpet, walls, or the curtains on the bed, which were even more flamboyantly scarlet than in Marina’s sitting room. Not a feminine decorating scheme, either; this was a distinctly masculine room. And now that she thought about it, the sitting room and her own room had been given ruffles and flourishes that, taken away, also left a distinctly masculine appearance in the room.

This single glance told her what she had wanted to know. If ever there was a room utterly suited to a young male Fire Master, this was it. So these rooms must have once been the home of her uncles Sebastian and Thomas!

She closed the door, and let the swag of drapery fall back to hide it with a feeling of satisfaction. And if the surroundings she found herself in were at odds with her own preferences and her Element—now she no longer felt so stifled and overheated by them. How could she? Here, more than anywhere else (unless she discovered her Aunt Margherita’s room) she was closer to the people she’d known than she had been since she’d been taken away from them.

Until, that is, I see if Sally can manage to smuggle letters out for me. With friends among the lower servants, what had seemed impossible yesterday was no longer. There was still the matter of obtaining postage, but if she got her hands on some money…

Well, meanwhile, she needed to make concerted efforts to please Madam Arachne; the sooner it appeared to her new guardian that Marina was settling in and being obedient, the sooner opportunities to act on her own would appear.

After some hunting, she found her instruments, her music, her needlework, and her books tucked away in a cupboard in the sitting room, no longer in the boxes or baskets that they had been packed into. While she waited for the odious Mary Anne to come fetch her for another luncheon ordeal, she began shelving her books among the ones she had purloined from the library.

As she did so, she couldn’t help but notice that some books she would have expected to have with her were not there.

The missing books were an odd assortment; Greek and Latin philosophers, essays by some of the Suffragrists that Elizabeth admired, and some weighty history books. The problem was, since Marina had not seen these books packed, she could not say for certain that she’d actually had them with her—Jenny and Sarah had been overwrought, and there was no telling what they had and had not packed. The books had been in her room and should have been boxed—but those horrid lawyers had been in a great hurry, and they might not have waited for everything.

Still… novels and poetry were there, including the scandalous poetry of Byron and sensational books by other notorious authors, and some rather daring, if frivolous, works in French. What was missing were books that were —well—serious in tone.

She didn’t quite know what to make of that. Why take away serious literature and leave the frivolous, even the demi-scandalous?

On the other hand, it wasn’t as if there was anything among them, except the essays, that she probably couldn’t find in the Oakhurst library.

Still, if someone had gone through her books, discarding some just as her entire wardrobe had been discarded, it was very likely that someone would continue to monitor her reading. Which meant that perhaps she had better hide her etiquette books a little better. Maybe no one would take them—but Mary Anne seemed determined to see her humiliated.

Why? Well, there was a very obvious reason—as long as Marina remained a naive and socially inept bumpkin, Mary Anne was guaranteed a position. Trained as a lady’s maid she might be, but Marina could not imagine any real lady putting up with the woman’s airs for very long. If novels were to be believed, a proper lady’s maid was silent, invisible, and kept any opinions she might have to herself.

If Marina ever got to the point where Madam Arachne was satisfied with her, Mary Anne would probably find herself out of a position.

And she certainly will when I am twenty-one!