I throw another glance at Brigid. But Brigid will soon marshal us to cobblers’ emporiums where we will purchase delicate shoes and evening bags to match. Thence to jewel-smiths for new earrings for me, a necklace, bracelet, brooch, and rings for Aoife, and whatever else she wants I imagine. My grandmother has none of my qualms about spending money as if it’s air.
But for now: this.
The apprentice scampers back. The three of them are identical and I cannot tell one from the other as their outfits match. Perhaps with time and study I might be able to distinguish that the eyes of one tilt more than those of the other two, that there’s a star-shaped freckle on one’s cheek, and the third is just that bit plumper than her sisters, but that’s not to be. Besides, I’m mesmerised by the gown.
It’s red and black, lace and silk with pearls and jet sewn into flowers; it’s slender with a mermaid tail of a skirt, long tight sleeves, high back, and a plunging neckline. It’s exquisite and scandalous, and I want it and I hate it, but I want it more.
‘Grandmother,’ I say and it’s barely a breath.
‘Try it on.’ Aoife looks at the modiste sternly. ‘We’ll need it delivered for this evening.’
The modiste nods, her hair swaying dangerously like it might collapse at any moment. She clicks her fingers again – I notice her nails this time, painted gold and decorated with tiny pearls and shining stones – and all three apprentices are stripping me out of my old black frock. We’re the only ones in the store, the doors have been latched, the curtains pulled across; a sure sign that someone more important than anyone else on the street has taken over, and that great amounts of coin are being extracted from their purse.
And the dress fits.
It fits so snug that the lace looks like tattoos on my skin. Once, when I was a child, we drove past the port and I saw the women on the street corners, waiting for custom; one of them had artwork all up her arms and across her chest and throat. Colourful and strange, I’d never seen anything like it, so glorious… so defiant. I think I look like her now, but Aoife merely nods as if that’s the desired effect. Brigid’s face is rigid, set in lines of distaste. I’m not sure if she’s thinking what I am or just bitter that she couldn’t fit into a dress like this even if she wanted to: she doesn’t have the height and she doesn’t go in and out in the right places.
‘No…’ I start to say, but Aoife talks over me.
‘That looks well enough, nothing to adjust. We shall take it with us.’ She smiles, and says, ‘Send the bill to Mr Fitzpatrick.’
The modiste nods again as if this is only to be expected. And Brigid glares at my grandmother and I think she’s a fool if she lets the old woman see what’s inside her head and heart.
‘Now, come along. We’ve got more to do, then we must rest before this evening.’
And we’re out in the carriage once again and I remember that Aoife had said five dresses, but we’ve only taken four. I’m about to open my mouth but then I think we’ve spent so much already and won’t Aidan be displeased? I seal my lips.
* * *
Lying on top of an intricately made maiden’s quilt, in the black and red dress, staring at the ceiling and trying not to vomit. Not that I ate much in the restaurant, the gown wouldn’t allow it. My hair is still up in all those carefully constructed curls Brigid’s lady’s maid created, with strands of jet wound through, and I can feel every single copper pin in it. If I fell into a pond I’d sink straight to the bottom from their sheer weight.
I can feel, too, the finger marks made by Aidan on my right wrist, like a bracelet I didn’t ask for yet will never be rid of.
I wonder if all this would have happened if Óisín hadn’t died? Would he have kept me safe or was this something that was always planned? Would he have sat me down and explained it the way he did maritime law? Made sense of it, made me want to help the family? Made me consider this all a duty?
The fire in the hearth flickers and flips, throwing shadows around the room, up the walls and across the curtains that hang on this bed, but I’m not really seeing that, I’m seeing the evening over and over in my head.
6
The Paragon Theatre has a restaurant in its basement, no tables out in the open, but closed “cabinets” set around the walls in a circle, each with its own door for privacy. Just enough room inside for a table and chairs for four, and a thin servitor. Bookings are hard to get, expensive, exclusive, the food is cleverly arranged to please the eye although the taste is somewhat lacking – bland rather than awful, which is why they get away with it I suppose.
Aoife and Brigid accompany us: Aoife in a magnificent purple gown with newly acquired amethysts, Brigid looking like a little girl in a pink silk dress that washes her out. I wish Aoife had been kind enough to guide her in dressing; I wish, briefly, that we were still friends and I could have said something without causing offence. But Aoife is not kind unless it gains her an advantage, and she thinks Brigid has nothing to offer. And I remember too well
