“Just a few pieces,” I persist. “Please. It would be so nice for her to have some of her mother’s things—to remember her by.”
Owen lowers his glass. For a moment, his face seems to soften. “There are still some of Lydia’s things in her dressing room. I suppose you could take a few pieces. But only a few. And nothing too fussy or grown-up. She’s eleven.”
“Yes, of course.” I swallow a smile, unwilling to let him see my triumph.
I’ve won this round at least. But there is truth in what I said to Owen. I do want to express my gratitude and to make myself useful until Anson returns. And I’ll be making clothes again. Not bridal gowns meant to guarantee happy endings, but dresses that might perhaps bring about a new beginning for all of us.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SOLINE
For the novitiate, la magie can be draining. One must be fully rested before beginning The Work and remember to take frequent breaks to replenish one’s energy, lest her power become depleted and ineffective.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
22 October 1943—Newport
Once again, I find myself sewing in secret. Only this time it’s for Thia instead of me. Ma pauvre fille. How can I not be worried for her? She was eight when her mother died, her father is little more than a ghost in her life, and her brother is half an ocean away. That leaves only me, her sister-to-be, to comfort her, and while I’ve come to adore her, I’m a poor substitute for a parent.
Things with Owen are no better. I had hoped our conversation about Thia might help thaw him toward me, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. He no longer takes his meals with us and is rarely home before midnight. I wonder sometimes if there’s a woman somewhere he spends time with, a mistress who helps fill the empty space left by his wife’s death, but it’s hard to imagine any passion in the man or warmth of any kind.
But then this morning, as he was putting on his hat and preparing to leave for the day, he asked if I’d had a letter from Anson since I arrived. The question took me by surprise. He never mentions Anson to me. When I told him I’d written but hadn’t had a letter back, his face darkened, and for a moment I almost felt sorry for him.
I tried to reassure him, explaining that Anson is very dedicated to his work and that I’d seen him go days without sleep when there was a rash of new casualties. I finished by reminding him that the French post is hopeless with overseas letters. He nodded to all of it, but the weight of Anson’s silence hung heavily between us, because I’ve begun to feel it too. I’m also worried that there might be something wrong with me. I feel so tired all the time, weak and sick and unable to sleep, and with no word from Anson, the days drag on, empty and exhausting.
At least I have Thia’s dresses to keep me busy. It was strange to find myself picking through Lydia Purcell’s closet, through her everyday dresses and Sunday suits. They were hand-tailored, even the simple ones, tasteful but clearly expensive. It was from those that I made my selections. But there were evening clothes too. Jewel-toned satins, velvets trimmed with rhinestones, chiffon and lace and shimmering silver lamé. I peered at their labels: Worth, Dior, Lanvin. They were stunning things, the kind I used to dream of designing myself when I was a girl. But compared to Lydia’s daytime clothes, they felt startlingly lavish, as if they belonged to another woman entirely, and I found myself wondering which dresses belonged to the real Lydia Purcell and which had been chosen for the woman Owen Purcell expected his wife to be. I’ve made a mental note to learn more about her when Anson returns home. Until then, I will focus on finishing Thia’s dresses.
I’ve already completed two and should finish the third by day’s end. I smile as I pick up my needle again. Thia is home from school and I can hear her banging around in the kitchen, letting me know she’s there—and that she’s still angry with me. I’ve said nothing about the dresses, letting her think I’ve passed on our daily French lessons to create something for myself. But tonight after dinner, I’ll show her the dresses, and she’ll finally understand why I’ve been so secretive.
Dinner is a plate of beef, potatoes, and carrots, swimming in a sea of oily gravy. Belinda has been making less of an effort since Owen stopped taking his meals at home. The greasy smell turns my stomach, but I push the food around my plate for show. Across from me, Thia pokes sulkily at a bit of carrot, hiding her face behind a sheaf of heavy blonde hair.
I lay down my napkin and turn to her. “Would you like to come to my room after dinner? I have something to show you.”