Page 9 of Hank and Elsie
Before her mother could change her mind, Elsie hurried across the street, careful to avoid stepping into horse droppings. Bad enough to wear shabby clothes and a sunbonnet without also smelling like manure, and even worse, tracking excrement into the dress shop.
The Gordons’ new building was clad in brown-pinkish stone. Elsie admired the façade, which in her opinion, was far classier than the red brick of the mercantile or Mr. Livingston’s house. In the shop on the corner, a big glass window—which must have been ever so expensive—gave a view inside. Across the top of the glass, painted gold letters spelled out,Miss Constance Taylor, Dressmaker.
Normally, Elsie would have lingered to study the window display but didn’t want to use up any of her precious fifteen minutes standing outside. For the same reason, although she wanted to stop and admire the carved wooden doors leading to the inside of the building, she was too conscious of the time ticking away.
She opened one of the double doors and stepped into a wide hall lined with paneling. The first door on the right stood ajar, and lilting women’s voices drifted to her—a happy sound. Removing her sunbonnet and holding it in one hand behind her, she walked in the direction of the dress shop, her footsteps echoing on the polished wooden floors.
Timidly, Elsie stepped through the door of the shop and was greeted by the perfume of roses in a glass vase set on a satin-smooth, small desk that had narrow, tapered legs. All the ladies were busy with their shopping and didn’t notice her.
Elsie’s breathing hitched, and she didn’t know where to look first. She inhaled a breath of happiness, resolving to make every minute of her fifteen count. Slowly, she walked around the room, savoring all the details.
A pretty blonde, who must be the dressmaker, was engaged in an animated conversation with a stout woman holding a navy-blue skirt and a tall, thin woman with a flowered hat in her hands. Miss Taylor wore an outfit the shade of spring grass, expertly cut to fit her stylish figure, her tiny waist tightly corseted. She looked younger than Elsie expected to be owning her own shop.
Elsie became aware of her own waist, thick in comparison to Miss Taylor’s. Corsets were a luxury the Bailey family couldn’t afford, given how impractical they were for farm work. The ancient one Ma wore today was from before her marriage and only donned for church or special occasions.
Although Elsie knew she looked as neat and clean as possible, she couldn’t help but wish to appear as elegant as Miss Taylor or Delia Norton. She tried to move as quietly as a shadow so as not to draw the dressmaker’s attention.
To distract herself from her flight of vanity, Elsie continued to peruse the room. On the back wall, a cabinet rose floor-to-ceiling. Each narrow shelf held bolts of fabric arranged by color, with plenty of practical, pretty cottons as well as wool, velvet, chiffon, damask, black crepe, and other materials she couldn’t name. A door led to an interior room. She wondered what was back there.
A rack of readymade garments hung on the wall near the entrance. A bench covered in blue, green, red, and silver damask matched the curtains at the windows. Just sitting there would make any woman feel like an elegant lady. Elsie wished she dared sit and breathe in the refined air, taking as much time as she wanted to observeeverything.
A shallow cabinet held trims, each spool of ribbon or rickrack on a peg or in a cubby. Midway along one wall, a display of hats made of straw or felt with ribbons or artificial flowers stood on stands set atop a glass counter. A collection of lace, some thatlooked old and others new and machine-made, lay in ripples of rich vanilla, white, and cream, as well as various colors. Elsie wished she could take each piece out and study the delicate design.
Colorful remnants draped over several bars fastened onto the walls. She particularly liked one with red roses splashed on a white background. She could imagine making a pillow to place on a settee or sofa. Not that the Baileys had a settee or sofa, just rough-hewn benches and the rocking chair that had belonged to Ma’s grandmother.
In the middle of the room, a beautiful evening gown made of shimmering purple silk shot through with silver threads draped over a statue-like, white figure similar to a dress form, which perched on a raised wooden floor. Four rows of lace edged the square bodice. The puffy sleeves, banded in velvet and lace, ended above the elbows. The bottom of the V-shaped basque had a small double ruffle.
The skirt was plain, and at first Elsie wondered why. She snuck a glance at the dressmaker, wondering if she dared ask. Then she realized that the lucky woman who purchased the gown would have the skirt hemmed to her height.Would Miss Taylor then add embellishments and lace? Oh, to be the woman who buys that dress. I’d feel like Cinderella at the ball.
She gazed at Miss Taylor in awe. The dressmaker owned her own business. She was clad as fine as any of the wealthy women in town and possessed the ability to create such beautiful apparel.
Elsie envied her with a fierce ache that even a pointed mental reminder she needed to make the most of her precious fifteen minutes couldn’t banish.I have my imagination. Many people don’t.
With a deep breath, Elsie released her envy and looked around the room some more.
This store is like a treasure chest.She suppressed a giggle at a poetic fancy.Orperhaps nourishment for my starving soul, which will provide fodder for my creative vision for many days and nights to come.
Chores such as weeding the garden were much easier when she could live in her imagination rather than dwell on her boredom. Lost in her daydreams, she could almost ignore the strain on her back and leg muscles, the heat or cold sapping her strength, and how dirty her hands, feet, and skirt became. She turned to study the shelves of fabric, deciding to select one for her pretend dress.
“Can I help you find something?”
The sound of the dressmaker’s voice pulled Elsie from her reverie.
The other ladies had left, and Elsie couldn’t believe her good luck in actually talking with the woman. “Oh, no, Miss Taylor. Everything’s so lovely, though.”
Elsie wondered if she should explain what she was doing. Surely the dressmaker would understand. “I’m trying to look my fill, so I’ll remember all the details when I go home. Who knows when my father will bring us back to town?” She leaned forward, glancing around to make sure no one had entered who could overhear her, and lowered her voice. “We usually work the farm on Sundays, just like any other day of the week.”
Miss Taylor smiled and gestured in a circling motion to indicate the whole shop. “Apparently, so do I.”
“I’m ever so glad.” Elsie bobbed her head, happy to explain her thoughts. “I have a good imagination, and I can create a new dress.” She waved toward the mannequin. “One like that would be wonderful but not realistic. My leg-of-mutton sleeves won’t be that big.” She pointed at the dress and made a curving motion. “I’d make them halfway between fashionable and practical.”
“Sounds sensible. I prefer not to use the termleg of muttonwhen describing sleeves. I fear I sound too much like a butcher.”
Relieved the dressmaker hadn’t dismissed her fanciful thoughts, Elsie agreed. “Full sleeves, then.”
“That will do.” Miss Taylor’s green eyes danced. “Or if you want to sound fancy and Parisian,gigotsleeves.”
Puzzled, Elsie asked, “Geego. What does that mean?”
