“Thanks,” I whispered to Andy.
“Just remember me when you’re famous.”
Into a welcome silence, Liza said smoothly, “Christa, dear, I went shopping before we left London yesterday, and I bought this darling sweater. I have to show you.”
Puh-leaze, I thought. Liza cared for my fashion advice as much as I cared for staples in my eyes. I slipped out of my robe and waited in my bra and panties for the dresser to start on my hose.
She spread the salmon-hued sweater on the make-up counter. “You know, this doesn’t seem right anymore.” She held it against herself. “I didn’t have a chance to try it on, but I loved the color so much.” She made a great show of checking the label for the size.
The lead dresser slipped the first of my shirts over my head, expertly avoiding any contact with my hair.
“Oh no,” Liza moaned loudly. “It’s way too big. I’ll never get the chance to return it. I’m in New York to stay, no matter what. What a silly thing for me to do—I bought a ten!”
The other models burst into laughter. All of them were single digit sizes, with Liza at the smallest—a two most of the time. Liza looked at the sweater sadly, and then turned to me. “Christa, darling. I know! Maybe it’s big enough for you.”
A couple of the other girls stopped laughing, but most of them were smirking at Liza’s deftly delivered insult. And the color would clash badly with my hair.
I could feel Andy’s silent urging for me to flatten her verbally. Somewhere deep inside myself I wanted to do it. But what was the point? Liza was a creature of the same fog and darkness as Leonard. There was no proving anything to her, and no need to, not really. Long after Liza was dust, my image would live on, if only in a magazine archive.
“That’s so sweet of you, Liza,” I said clearly. “But I wear a twelve. Squeezing into that sweater might get me arrested for indecency.”
“Or a part in a Hollywood movie,” Andy added.
Liza’s triumphant smirk became just a little forced. That my figure was making me famous offended her mightily. All her petty games couldn’t change that the fashion industry had decided that heroin chic was bad for business. And I wasn’t devastated by her remark, either. I was just no fun that way.
Just for emphasis, I gave her a full shot of it—shifting my shoulders as I inhaled, changing my weight to the other hip. To my surprise, she caught her breath and looked vulnerable. Then her face hardened to its usual diamond edges. The daggers in her gaze made me lean back until the dresser protested.
Liza’s dresser started in on her first outfit, and the tension between us dissolved as the business of the night took over. I don’t like being dressed by someone else, but my manicure and the clothes demanded it.
One by one, we filed to the wings of the staging area. Leonard’s light tone with Priscilla Stone was a blind; he was extremely nervous. Many of the potential backers were there. They’d received the prospectus from Dina and knew all about the income projections and potential pitfalls of the fashion industry. What they wanted to see now was the merchandise—not just the clothes, but the driving force of the enterprise: Leonard Goranson’s talent. At this level of couture, the real merchandise was personality.
He was taking a big risk, one I could almost admire. There was no usual narrow runway and blaring music. Several models who couldn’t unlearn the runway strut had been left behind. The music was just nondescript saxophone jazz. The triple-wide runway was more like a minimalist stage set. The first setting was an office evidenced by an ornate oak desk and black leather executive chair.
The light was dim where we waited, but the sound of Leonard’s voice carried. I hated it, but as usual I was caught in his spell.
“What I want all of you to hear today is a word you know, a word you can sing, a word that echoes not only in your past, but the past of this country. Revolution. It is used so often to mean extraordinary, but it really means changing old for new. Sometimes history revolves violently, and sometimes the new comes in much more gently. But when the new is radically different from the old, even the gentlest revolution can change everything.”
The lights had dimmed in the audience, and the stage lights came up. I felt a thrill run through me, through all of us waiting.
“What is radically different about what you’re about to see? Other designers provide elegance. Others even manage elegance that isn’t painful to wear.”
The music had slowly faded to nothing. Leonard was warmed up. “My gentle revolution is about women, what women want, women with real bodies, women who want clothing that emphasizes their self-reliance, their confidence, their personal power. I propose to give women what men have enjoyed for centuries—couture that makes them feel strong, makes them feel like the women they long to be, and not the women I, or any other designer, want them to be.”
I was so caught up in the irony of what Leonard was saying—since he devoted his life to changing people to suit himself—that I missed my cue. Liza prodded me viciously, and I stumbled.
By the time I passed the curtain, I was steady again. I strolled confidently to the desk, leaned over it as if to review a paper, then pivoted to stand at an imaginary window, lost in my thoughts. The other models, seven in all, did exactly the same thing until we were arranged in a semicircle.
“Skirts cut with a natural waistline.” With a little frown, I shifted my weight and swept open my jacket to put my hands on my hips, revealing the fitted waist. “And shaped around the hips instead of straitjacketed.” Liza took two steps forward, and then pivoted sharply back to the desk. She leaned against it casually and I knew without looking that her skirt hadn’t crept up a quarter-inch in spite of its trim and form-fitting tailoring. “A woman’s jacket with rib pockets so she needn’t bog herself down with a purse for a short meeting.” One of the other models took a small notebook out of the inside pocket, while another removed a cell phone and flipped it open. She paced while engaging in a silent conversation.
“Along with elegant utility, I offer women timeless style and with it fabrics that will endure. Natural fibers combined with small percentages of synthetics to create strength and resilience—an echo of woman herself.”
I hoped my expression hadn’t altered. He despised strong women. Rather, what he called a strong woman was one who had the sense to agree with him and manipulate others to his way of thinking. Liza was strong. I was weak.
I went through the motions. I hadn’t realized that it would get to me. Leonard practically sounded like a feminist, but I knew he was just mouthing the words. He didn’t believe them.
No one but me seemed to notice. From the brief glances I stole at the audience, I could see people on the edge of their seats, craning to see every aspect of our outfits, or just watching Leonard expound on his belief in the strength and beauty of women.
“I think women who know their own minds should get the clothing that lets them arrange the world to suit themselves,” Leonard was saying. The other seven models gathered around the desk, which was not as heavy as it looked and was actually on casters, and easily pushed it to backstage. The audience laughed appreciatively.
I slipped out of my jacket and sat down in the executive chair. Then I undid the Eton collar on my thick linen shirt, giving anyone who hadn’t noticed the handworked lace collar a chance to admire it. The lace had been my idea. I faked a yawn.
“And when they need a rest from arranging the world, there’s no reason why even the most elegant of designs can’t let them get comfortable.”
I kicked off my shoes and resettled myself on one hip so I could pull both legs into the chair. Leonard picked up the shoes and pushed the chair with me feigning sleep to backstage. The audience was laughing and applauding with enthusiasm.
The curtain came down, leaving Leonard on the audience side. I scrambled out of the chair for my outfit change. Liza had already changed—she would be first out in a pretend cocktail party.
My head was caught inside the bodice of
my cocktail gown when the light shifted, brightening all around me. And I knew she was there. I had hoped she would be—it made absolute sense that she would attend this event.
When the dress was finally settled on my shoulders I looked at her. She had been waiting for me to look. Her gaze met mine without restraint. I felt as if she was gazing at me from across a great distance, and yet she saw me clearly, with all my faults.
I was consumed with wanting to get lost in her eyes, to experience her laughter, to taste her skin. I could hardly stand up. I’d tried hard to forget, and I hadn’t communicated with her and it was as if no time had passed between this moment and the last time I looked at her.
“I just thought I’d say hello,” she said. “Sorry we missed each other at Harrods.”
“Harrods,” I echoed stupidly. Then I understood. Leonard had told her I would be at Harrods, not the British Museum. That explained that mystery, though I had suspected that was the answer. It did puzzle me; he wanted Dina and me to fall into bed but had kept us from the opportunity in London.
“I’ll see you at the reception.” It was a promise. I gathered up the light in her eyes and held it against my aching emptiness. It was a sensation better than any drug, and I was already addicted to it. I wanted to drown in the warmth of her, swim forever in the tenderness of her mouth.
“Done,” the dresser said.
I couldn’t move. There was no way I was going to walk away from her. I would have stood there like a stone if she hadn’t led the way.
I was barely in time for my cue. I hesitated, breathing her in.
She whispered, “I promise that I’ll see you later.”
As I stepped into the stage light I heard her voice, like bells on the wind. She said my name.
“Christabel.”
And for the first time in my life, it seemed like music, like prayer. Like something of value.
The gimmick of the cocktail party was the way we mingled in ever-changing groups. Dina’s light made it all seem so unreal. I saw the other models clearly. They weren’t just selfish bitches, not even Liza. They were doing their job, doing it well. Liza was looking at me as she hadn’t really done so for a very long time.
It was like a dream, but all dreams turn to nightmares whenever Leo joins the party. We gathered around him and raised our imaginary glasses in a toast.
As the others wandered offstage by ones and twos, Leo linked his arm with mine. The chill of it brought a gasp to my lips.
“Remember,” he whispered, with a laughing smile meant for the audience. “Let me know when she gets you into bed.” He caressed my cheek, looking like the perfect suitor.
Dina had disappeared from backstage, which was just as well. I had only enough time to rush to the bathroom and throw up before I had to change into my evening gown. The makeup people were very upset when they saw my smeared face, but it was Liza’s unexpected sympathy in the form of a glass of water that made me feel even more out of step with reality.
Chapter 10
Christabel sat in her misery, aware of many pairs of eyes on her while she longed for privacy. She wanted to be anywhere but listening to Reverend Gorony talk about her father.
She held her mother’s hand, understanding that the comfort she received was greater than she gave. Her mother was inconsolable and terrified of the future. Their house and funds were left to her father’s nearest male relative, a brother still in England, with instructions that he either provide a place for Ma to live or the funds for her support elsewhere. For Christabel there was a promise of support until she married and a hundred pounds in dowry, which made her quite eligible.
The men were already sniffing like dogs, and her father wasn’t even buried yet. She knew her mother wanted her to pick out a husband so their futures would not rely on the generosity of Pa’s brother. He was much older and not in good health. If he died, so could their support. To compound their uncertainty, Lord Berkeley and the majority of his household had sailed for England, unbeknownst to them, the day before her father died. He was not expected to return until well into the fall. So any support he might have provided for Ma was unknown and his aides were unwilling to speculate.
Mr. Kingston was by far the wealthiest suitor, but he was nearly fifty and half deaf. Minor considerations, her mother insisted, but she’d relented when Christabel had reminded her that she’d married Pa for love, not money.
How could she tell Ma that she wanted to be with her one love, with Rahdonee? She hadn’t found a way to contact Rahdonee yet and had had no chance to slip away herself. She knew that Rahdonee could not bring back her father, but the support of her arms and the strength of her love would soothe her troubled and frightened soul.
“The hand of God is a sure hand. He can cradle us or strike us down. It is not for us to understand His wisdom, only to obey His word.”
Against her will, Christabel looked up. She shuddered when Reverend Gorony’s gaze engulfed her. It was as if he spoke only to her.
“And He will not tolerate the unbeliever, nor the heathen. He will cast out the impious and the wicked. He who turns his back on the Lord turns his back on life itself.”
Her mother was shaking with tears, but Christabel burned with rage. He was saying that Pa deserved to die for leaving this church for Lord Berkeley’s. Lord Berkeley was a Puritan of course, but he was also a nobleman. The purity of his faith was suspect, and salvation in that church uncertain at best. Reverend Gorony had been saying that all along, when he was alone with Ma, urging her to redeem her soul by returning to the true church.
“It is a sad day for our congregation. We must say good-bye to a soldier, whose valor and strength, while perhaps outstripping his wisdom, gave many among us new lives in a new land.”
There was a quiet murmur of agreement and tears stung her eyes anew. Her father had been respected and loved, and she had never appreciated that until it was too late.
“He leaves behind a beloved wife and daughter, whose futures now rest in God’s hands. I pledge my aid to them both, to help them find the way to God’s divine forgiveness again.”
Christabel twisted her handkerchief into a knot, wanting the service to be over so she could escape. She didn’t want his help and was deeply afraid that she would not be able to refuse it. She didn’t want to owe him anything; all that she had that could repay a debt was something she would not give him.
“We must all strive for the path of righteousness. Together we have closed two taverns, and we can do more. The demon alcohol must be defeated. We must keep our lives free from taint, and I warn you most severely. The taint of the heathens endangers us all. We must not reach for the gates of heaven only to have them barred by godless savages!”
Christabel closed her eyes, recalling the last time she had lain with Rahdonee, the sweet tenderness, the delicious pleasure. Rahdonee was not godless. She was like an angel who enfolded Christabel in wings of love. She wanted to fly away.
“They walk among us as if they were human, but they are not. They are demons themselves—and one sits among us even now!”
There was a collective gasp, and everyone began looking around them.
“She is there!” Reverend Goranson pointed to the rear pews, and people shied away from a lone figure, slowly rising to her feet.
She was properly attired in a simple dun-colored gown. Her long, brilliantly black hair was hidden under a demure cap. “I mean no disrespect—”
“You have no right here. You must go!” The preacher pointed at the door, and people nearest Rahdonee moved away to give her room to step out of the pew.
“My name is in the holy book,” Rahdonee said. “I am Geraldine Manhattan. I am here to pay my respects to a generous and kind man.”
Reverend Gorony pulled himself to his full height, towering over the room. Wearing his righteousness like armor, he swept from the pulpit to the thick church Bible. He went directly to the right place—he must have been ready for this moment, Christabel thought—dipped
the quill in ink, then struck it through.
“Geraldine of our church no longer exists,” he pronounced. “You profane the memory of this soldier by your presence.”
Rahdonee’s serenity was like bread to Christabel, who let it nourish her against the fear of the last few days.
“I meant no disrespect.” Rahdonee looked across the room at Ma. “I am sorry for this disturbance. Your husband was a good man.”
Goody Albright hissed, “Pay no attention to her, Edith, I’m sure she was nothing to him.”
“Get out,” several voices insisted. Rahdonee bowed her head in concession, and turned toward the door.
Horrified by Goody Albright’s insinuation, Christabel gasped out, “She saved my life last winter.”
“That’s her?” Goody Albright glared at Rahdonee’s back. “No better than a witch,” she muttered.
“A witch,” someone close by echoed.
Run, Christabel wanted to scream. The preacher was grinning like a wolf. She knew that Rahdonee had no idea of the danger if the congregation decided she was a witch. The congregation’s spiritual mentor, Increase Mather, had said with scientific certainty that the evil omen in the sky was the work of witches. Pa had heard of towns in New England that drove out suspected witches by burning their farms, in the hopes of turning the evil light away.
Rahdonee paused at the threshold. Sunlight gleamed all around her as she looked back over her shoulder.
Run! She sent the warning to Rahdonee from every inch of her body, every corner of her mind.
Rahdonee’s lips moved so slightly that only Christabel could tell she spoke. She breathed, “Christabel,” then pushed the door open and left.
“We must purify ourselves from this evil,” the preacher exulted. “God will show us the way.”
Christabel sat shaking, unable to let go of the horror she had just sensed. Rahdonee, her people—they were no longer safe here, and they had no idea. She would have to warn them, somehow.
Christabel Page 10
