Page 9 of Some Like It Scot
Otherwise, the idea of donning early twentieth-century suits and hats sounded more like a form of torture designed by women who watched too many costume dramas than a voluntary adventure.
“You’d lose money on that one, Cal.” I walked over to Mum and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow to fix the back door. Have to make a new hinge for it tonight.”
She smiled up at me in the way I felt all the way through. The way only a mother who had pride in her children could do, even if life hadn’t always gone the way she’d hoped.
My heart ached a little as grief pierced afresh, and I rubbed at the spot on my chest as I left the room.
Some things could never be fixed.
But the madhouse on the hill wasn’t one of them. At least if the Edwardians didn’t destroy it in the process.
***
Katie
Some dresses are flattering to more voluptuous figures. After trying on four different Edwardian styles, I came to the conclusion that perhaps these weren’t those sorts of dresses.
Okay, not “perhaps.” Without a doubt. As my only high school boyfriend said, “Some girls are more like a guitar, but you are definitely a cello.”
Yeah, I dated one ofthoseguys. Needless to say, we didn’t date for long.
At any rate, the entire “cello” comment was coming back to hauntme as these dainty and elegant gowns found a hard time making it over the bottom of my cello. And since high school, I’d grown more into the top of my cello, so I had serious doubts about buttoning any shirtwaists too.
I rubbed at an aching spot on my temple and transformed my frustration into a chuckle. From the shapes of these gowns, rich Edwardian women were flutes.
And this cello was definitely not playing the right song for Edwardian England.
Emily, the young maid who’d attempted to dress me, alerted Mrs. Lennox of the... unfitting. The matron arrived to find my bed littered with discarded gown options and me wearing a pink day dress that hit too high on my calf and left an embarrassing pucker at my chest. With another lift of those manicured brows of hers, she ran a palm over her now perfectly smooth hair. “Well, you certainly cannot present yourself before guests with any bit of credulity in such a fashion. No high-bred lady would be caught like”—she waved a palm toward me, her frown deepening—“that.”
It took me a full five seconds to comprehend her, but the intention rang as clear as her perfectly articulated diction. The little curl of her lip probably helped too.
“Which means you won’t be able to participate in our activities until you have an appropriate wardrobe.” She nodded, running her palm over her hair again. “It’s a very good thing you arrived early enough for us to solve this little dilemma.”
“You think you can?” I waved toward the bed and cringed a little at the mound of discarded gowns. “I could just watch from the sidelines.”
“No, of course not.” The words whipped out of her. “You cannot fully appreciate the experience without actually participating. We have classes on everything from meal etiquette to dancing, to the language of the fan.” Her hand rose in imitation of a fan opening. “This is afully immersive program that requires complete participation. How can you accurately critique our experience without comprehensive saturation?”
The fire in her eyes took a teensy tip toward crazy. “Sidelines are not an option.”
Super. And fully immersive classes? Why did the idea stick somewhere in my mind between “run away” and “most embarrassing moment of my life”?
I kind of got the sense Mrs. Lennox was bordering on obsession when she gave me a ten-page booklet on the Edwardian Experience, which covered house rules and Edwardian etiquette.
Including how to handle romantic relationships appropriately.
I caught my snicker before it burst out. I didn’t plan to meet my perfect match at some crazy baronial home dressed as aDownton Abbeycharacter in the middle-of-nowhere Scotland. Oh no, no! I didn’t need to compete with crazy in a relationship.
“Of course.”
Her smile returned. “I believe one of my maids does some sewing, so perhaps she can alter these, especially since I hadn’t fully considered needing clothing options for women with more”—her gaze rose from my toes to my erratic attempts at a coiffure—“stature.”
And that was a nice way of saying what didn’t need to be voiced.
It was true. My stature had been the bane of my existence since middle school, except when it came to me playing basketball, the one sport I wasn’t afraid to try. (Note: I didn’t say I wasgoodat it, just notafraidof it... or rather, afraid of what my clumsiness might do to other people.) But as I grew taller... and taller thanallthe boys in my grade, plus the grade above me, the awareness of my size as a young teenager didn’t bode well in the self-confidence arena. Being a tall woman is not for the faint of heart. In all my photos with friends, I’m the one standing beside the petite faerie maids like a lurking Frankenstein without the squarish head and sickly complexion.
Tall and “well-built,” as my gran put it. Exactly the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old girl wanted to hear. Made me feel like a truck.
“Would you fetch Clarice at once so we can ask her about alterations?” Mrs. Lennox looked over at Emily and then back at me, her posture wilting a little. “Or full gowns?”
