1920: a small snippet to cheer me up.
Shopping in a Paris fashion-house was not only a new experience for Cait, but a new experience for Preacher Morrow too; although he at least wasn't terrified by it. He did what he always did: relied on observation or tips to find a solid starting point, then walked in with confidence, money and charm. It was Cait who hung back, despite the fact they both knew she wanted a dress to wear for her first visit to the Cafe Royale.
Various dresses and styles had been paraded before them on young ladies who looked to have taken courses in how to mimic pieces of walking statuary. Morrow singled out one or two since Cait did not, and then she was bustled away by a bevvy of assistants and one earnest looking young man who seemed to scatter sketches and tape measures in his wake.
After half an hour or so, Cait was returned. Her hair had been loosely pinned and tamed beneath a delicate concoction of marcasite and feathers. Eyes and lips had been enhanced in an already pale face. The dress she wore was beaded and the lowest fringe just covered her knees. Her stockings were white, her shoes both buckled and heeled. It was elegant, modern, and quite the picture.
She fidgeted in front of the full-length mirror, uncertain.
Preacher treated her ankles to an appreciative and quietly lascivious look. She caught him at it. “Jus’ checkin’ your stockings ain’t wrinkled, darlin’.”
She laughed at the outrageous falsehood and then returned to looking at herself and her dress critically, twisting her head over her shoulder, trying to decide what she made of the fashion. She couldn’t figure if the young lady in the mirror was an elegant bejeweled nymph, or a girl in a bead-encrusted silk potato sack from which skinny legs emerged at one end and a scowling feather-tufted head at the other.
“I’m a convert,” Morrow opinioned.
“Look like I should be in a carnival,” she muttered.
“You look delectable,” the man countered softly. And then, “I thought you’d approve of this revolutionary vogue o'fashion...”
She frowned at the pale and sequined wisp of a thing she could see in the silvered glass. “I jus’... I always figured when I grew up I’d wear one o’those gowns, with the bustle and those little jet buttons and the stays with the laces t’pull ‘em tight...”
An eyebrow arched as Preacher resisted the temptation to inquire what she was currently wearing beneath her dress. He shook his head, bemused by her complaint. “Cait, you never wore a dress when you had the chance!”
“Damn straight,” she snapped, “you try doin’ anythin’ that’s worth doin’ in corset and skirt.”
“Thank you, I’ll pass,” he drawled.
“See!” She knew he didn’t understand, and she wasn’t certain she could enlighten him. When she had been very young - when her mother was still alive - she’d worn a dress. After that she wore whatever fitted, kept her warm and meant she could do her chores without fear of a cuff round the skull. By the time she’d travelled with Preach she had a preference for boys’ cast-offs. But she had always imagined, much like the Ugly Duckling, that one day when she was grown up she would discard her drabs and britches and become one of those elegant ladies in their taffeta gowns that pooled about them like a waterfall, their hair pinned high and falling in fat ringlets about the graceful curve of their necks...
She didn’t dislike what she saw of herself in the mirror; it was simply very different from anything she had previously envisaged when considering being taken out to dinner and a dance.
Various dresses and styles had been paraded before them on young ladies who looked to have taken courses in how to mimic pieces of walking statuary. Morrow singled out one or two since Cait did not, and then she was bustled away by a bevvy of assistants and one earnest looking young man who seemed to scatter sketches and tape measures in his wake.
After half an hour or so, Cait was returned. Her hair had been loosely pinned and tamed beneath a delicate concoction of marcasite and feathers. Eyes and lips had been enhanced in an already pale face. The dress she wore was beaded and the lowest fringe just covered her knees. Her stockings were white, her shoes both buckled and heeled. It was elegant, modern, and quite the picture.
She fidgeted in front of the full-length mirror, uncertain.
Preacher treated her ankles to an appreciative and quietly lascivious look. She caught him at it. “Jus’ checkin’ your stockings ain’t wrinkled, darlin’.”
She laughed at the outrageous falsehood and then returned to looking at herself and her dress critically, twisting her head over her shoulder, trying to decide what she made of the fashion. She couldn’t figure if the young lady in the mirror was an elegant bejeweled nymph, or a girl in a bead-encrusted silk potato sack from which skinny legs emerged at one end and a scowling feather-tufted head at the other.
“I’m a convert,” Morrow opinioned.
“Look like I should be in a carnival,” she muttered.
“You look delectable,” the man countered softly. And then, “I thought you’d approve of this revolutionary vogue o'fashion...”
She frowned at the pale and sequined wisp of a thing she could see in the silvered glass. “I jus’... I always figured when I grew up I’d wear one o’those gowns, with the bustle and those little jet buttons and the stays with the laces t’pull ‘em tight...”
An eyebrow arched as Preacher resisted the temptation to inquire what she was currently wearing beneath her dress. He shook his head, bemused by her complaint. “Cait, you never wore a dress when you had the chance!”
“Damn straight,” she snapped, “you try doin’ anythin’ that’s worth doin’ in corset and skirt.”
“Thank you, I’ll pass,” he drawled.
“See!” She knew he didn’t understand, and she wasn’t certain she could enlighten him. When she had been very young - when her mother was still alive - she’d worn a dress. After that she wore whatever fitted, kept her warm and meant she could do her chores without fear of a cuff round the skull. By the time she’d travelled with Preach she had a preference for boys’ cast-offs. But she had always imagined, much like the Ugly Duckling, that one day when she was grown up she would discard her drabs and britches and become one of those elegant ladies in their taffeta gowns that pooled about them like a waterfall, their hair pinned high and falling in fat ringlets about the graceful curve of their necks...
She didn’t dislike what she saw of herself in the mirror; it was simply very different from anything she had previously envisaged when considering being taken out to dinner and a dance.