“It’s handsome, Madam,” she kept saying, leaning back on her heels to look at me. “It’s a dress fit for the Queen of England.”
“What about under the left shoulder there,” I said, anxiously. “That strap of mine, is it going to show?”
“No, Madam, nothing shows.”
“How is it? How do I look?” I did not wait for her answer, I twisted and turned in front of the mirror, I frowned, I smiled. I felt different already, no longer hampered by my appearance. My own dull personality was submerged at last. “Give me the wig,” I said excitedly, “careful, don’t crush it, the curls mustn’t be flat. They are supposed to stand out from the face.” Clarice stood behind my shoulder, I saw her round face beyond mine in the reflection of the looking glass, her eyes shining, her mouth a little open. I brushed my own hair sleek behind my ears. I took hold of the soft gleaming curls with trembling fingers, laughing under my breath, looking up at Clarice.
“Oh, Clarice,” I said, “what will Mr. de Winter say?”
I covered my own mousy hair with the curled wig, trying to hide my triumph, trying to hide my smile. Somebody came and hammered on the door.
“Who’s there?” I called in panic. “You can’t come in.”
“It’s me, my dear, don’t alarm yourself,” said Beatrice, “how far have you got? I want to look at you.”
“No, no,” I said, “you can’t come in, I’m not ready.”
The flustered Clarice stood beside me, her hand full of hairpins, while I took them from her one by one, controlling the curls that had become fluffed in the box.
“I’ll come down when I am ready,” I called. “Go on down, all of you. Don’t wait for me. Tell Maxim he can’t come in.”
“Maxim’s down,” she said. “He came along to us. He said he hammered on your bathroom door and you never answered. Don’t be too long, my dear, we are all so intrigued. Are you sure you don’t want any help?”
“No,” I shouted impatiently, losing my head, “go away, go on down.”
Why did she have to come and bother just at this moment? It fussed me, I did not know what I was doing. I jabbed with a hairpin, flattening it against a curl. I heard no more from Beatrice, she must have gone along the passage. I wondered if she was happy in her Eastern robes and if Giles had succeeded in painting his face. How absurd it was, the whole thing. Why did we do it, I wonder, why were we such children?
I did not recognize the face that stared at me in the glass. The eyes were larger surely, the mouth narrower, the skin white and clear? The curls stood away from the head in a little cloud. I watched this self that was not me at all and then smiled; a new, slow smile.
“Oh, Clarice!” I said. “Oh, Clarice!” I took the skirt of my dress in my hands and curtseyed to her, the flounces sweeping the ground. She giggled excitedly, rather embarrassed, flushed though, very pleased. I paraded up and down in front of my glass watching my reflection.
“Unlock the door,” I said. “I’m going down. Run ahead and see if they are there.” She obeyed me, still giggling, and I lifted my skirts off the ground and followed her along the corridor.
She looked back at me and beckoned. “They’ve gone down,” she whispered, “Mr. de Winter, and Major and Mrs. Lacy. Mr. Crawley has just come. They are all standing in the hall.” I peered through the archway at the head of the big staircase, and looked down on the hall below.
Yes, there they were. Giles, in his white Arab dress, laughing loudly, showing the knife at his side; Beatrice swathed in an extraordinary green garment and hung about the neck with trailing beads; poor Frank self-conscious and slightly foolish in his striped jersey and sea-boots; Maxim, the only normal one of the party, in his evening clothes.
“I don’t know what she’s doing,” he said, “she’s been up in her bedroom for hours. What’s the time, Frank? The dinner crowd will be upon us before we know where we are.”
The band were changed, and in the gallery already. One of the men was tuning his fiddle. He played a scale softly, and then plucked at a string. The light shone on the picture of Caroline de Winter.
Yes, the dress had been copied exactly from my sketch of the portrait. The puffed sleeve, the sash and the ribbon, the wide floppy hat I held in my hand. And my curls were her curls, they stood out from my face as hers did in the picture. I don’t think I have ever felt so excited before, so happy and so proud. I waved my hand at the man with the fiddle, and then put my finger to my lips for silence. He smiled and bowed. He came across the gallery to the archway where I stood.