Sarah’s hands and everybody’s patience. The smell of hot hair and pomade followed her through the upper rooms and corridors. It was, to Sarah, the smell of resentment: her hands were already blistered from the flat-irons, her feet throbbed in her boots, her back ached; if provoked at all at this stage of preparations, she might even start deliberately burning hair.
Elizabeth’s hair curled naturally, though; it seemed a manifestation ofher lively and obliging temperament. She had already pinned it up herself, and affixed a spray of artificial roses to it; she now waited, in shift and stays and petticoat, to be dressed. She raised her arms, exposing the dark musky fluff underneath; Sarah lifted the sheaf of muslin, and dropped it down over the young lady’s head. Between them, they shuffled Elizabeth into the gown, then Sarah plucked the little silky buttons, on the inner side of the arm, through their buttonholes. Elizabeth winced.
“Did that pinch?”
“A little.”
“Sorry.”
Sarah continued working in silence. She bobbed down on her haunches, straightening the hem, then was up again to fit the bodice, tugging the high waist neat beneath the bosom.
“Good?” Elizabeth asked.
Sarah nodded.
Elizabeth shuffled cautiously around, so that Sarah could settle her bodice there, and fasten the row of tiny covered buttons that ran up between the shoulder blades.
“Are we done?”
Skirts rustling, Elizabeth moved towards the dressing table, to see herself in the mirror. Sarah followed her, smoothed the dress’s yoke onto china collarbones, using only her left hand, so as not to risk staining the muslin. On her right, a blister had burst and was weeping.
“You look very lovely, Miss Elizabeth.”
“All your hard work, Sarah, dear.”
Sarah smiled and shook her head. Even to her long-accustomed gaze, Elizabeth was genuinely compelling: if she was in the room, you knew you were wasting your time if you looked anywhere else but at her.
“Though it is a shame for you, Sarah, dressing us up and not going anywhere yourself. And you are always so uncomplaining.”
Sarah shrugged; it did not do to talk about it. She could not go to their ball, no more than she could attend a mermaids’ tea-party; but still she felt herself get blinky, her nose tickling. She turned away.
“Do you ever get to go to a dance, Sarah, dear?”
It was Jane who had spoken, revealing the gentle stirrings of her mind.
“Once in a while, miss.”
“And what do you wear when you go?” Elizabeth asked.
“Whatever I have that’s best.”
Which was never very good, but then who was to notice, at those dances on the village green? The farmhands lumbering in their Sunday jackets, the church players sawing on fiddles and puffing their fifes and battering at their tambours. And Polly going feral, haring around with a pack of village children in games that Sarah was now too old to play, and Mr. Hill getting quietly drunk and having to be half carried home. And on the way home, the dairymaids giggling in the hedgerows with the lads, and Mrs. Hill barking, Eyes dead ahead, miss, eyes dead ahead , in case Sarah saw something that she shouldn’t see, though she had seen the bull at it with the heifers, and the boar with the sow, and so had a fair idea of what they were about.
“She shall have a new dress for the next one, I think, don’t you, Elizabeth?” Jane was moving towards the closet. “Shall we see—”
“Miss, that would be …” Such a delight that she couldn’t even finish her sentence. Maybe the footman would come from Netherfield to the next village dance; maybe he would ask her to dance with him. Mr. Smith might even be obliged to notice her then, dancing with a handsome man, in a new dress, on the village green.
“By some miracle of my mother’s devising,” Elizabeth now said, “we each have a new gown at the same time, so no one is clamouring for hand-me-downs, and you may have your pick.”
Jane lifted out
Elizabeth’s hair curled naturally, though; it seemed a manifestation ofher lively and obliging temperament. She had already pinned it up herself, and affixed a spray of artificial roses to it; she now waited, in shift and stays and petticoat, to be dressed. She raised her arms, exposing the dark musky fluff underneath; Sarah lifted the sheaf of muslin, and dropped it down over the young lady’s head. Between them, they shuffled Elizabeth into the gown, then Sarah plucked the little silky buttons, on the inner side of the arm, through their buttonholes. Elizabeth winced.
“Did that pinch?”
“A little.”
“Sorry.”
Sarah continued working in silence. She bobbed down on her haunches, straightening the hem, then was up again to fit the bodice, tugging the high waist neat beneath the bosom.
“Good?” Elizabeth asked.
Sarah nodded.
Elizabeth shuffled cautiously around, so that Sarah could settle her bodice there, and fasten the row of tiny covered buttons that ran up between the shoulder blades.
“Are we done?”
Skirts rustling, Elizabeth moved towards the dressing table, to see herself in the mirror. Sarah followed her, smoothed the dress’s yoke onto china collarbones, using only her left hand, so as not to risk staining the muslin. On her right, a blister had burst and was weeping.
“You look very lovely, Miss Elizabeth.”
“All your hard work, Sarah, dear.”
Sarah smiled and shook her head. Even to her long-accustomed gaze, Elizabeth was genuinely compelling: if she was in the room, you knew you were wasting your time if you looked anywhere else but at her.
“Though it is a shame for you, Sarah, dressing us up and not going anywhere yourself. And you are always so uncomplaining.”
Sarah shrugged; it did not do to talk about it. She could not go to their ball, no more than she could attend a mermaids’ tea-party; but still she felt herself get blinky, her nose tickling. She turned away.
“Do you ever get to go to a dance, Sarah, dear?”
It was Jane who had spoken, revealing the gentle stirrings of her mind.
“Once in a while, miss.”
“And what do you wear when you go?” Elizabeth asked.
“Whatever I have that’s best.”
Which was never very good, but then who was to notice, at those dances on the village green? The farmhands lumbering in their Sunday jackets, the church players sawing on fiddles and puffing their fifes and battering at their tambours. And Polly going feral, haring around with a pack of village children in games that Sarah was now too old to play, and Mr. Hill getting quietly drunk and having to be half carried home. And on the way home, the dairymaids giggling in the hedgerows with the lads, and Mrs. Hill barking, Eyes dead ahead, miss, eyes dead ahead , in case Sarah saw something that she shouldn’t see, though she had seen the bull at it with the heifers, and the boar with the sow, and so had a fair idea of what they were about.
“She shall have a new dress for the next one, I think, don’t you, Elizabeth?” Jane was moving towards the closet. “Shall we see—”
“Miss, that would be …” Such a delight that she couldn’t even finish her sentence. Maybe the footman would come from Netherfield to the next village dance; maybe he would ask her to dance with him. Mr. Smith might even be obliged to notice her then, dancing with a handsome man, in a new dress, on the village green.
“By some miracle of my mother’s devising,” Elizabeth now said, “we each have a new gown at the same time, so no one is clamouring for hand-me-downs, and you may have your pick.”
Jane lifted out
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