by Calia Read
I see the familiar path and tighten my grip on the reins. Once I’m close enough to the trees, I stop the horse. My legs are unsteady as I swing my leg over the horse and step onto the ground. Breathing deep, I walk toward the tree. Dry grass crunches beneath my feet, and even though there’s a gentle breeze today, sweat coats my upper lip and palms, causing me to wipe my hands on my thighs.
Please be there. Please be there. Please be there, my mind chants.
When I reach the tree, my eyes close and a shudder wracks my body because the carving is still engraved in the bark. The letters are not as light as before. Time has weathered them, showing they’ve lasted the past two years.
The last time I traced the letters, I time traveled back to Étienne. If I trace them now, will I go back to the present day? My bruised heart wants me to try to see what happens. However, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Slowly, I step away from the tree and walk back to my horse. My time here is not up. There’s still so much I don’t understand and people I need to speak with.
It has nothing to do with Étienne.
Nothing at all.
I wonder how many times I’ll need to say that until I actually believe it.
As I head toward the driveway, I see Livingston waiting for me. A weary smile tugs at my lips.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” I say as I break from the trees and step onto the gravel.
Together, we head toward Belgrave.
“My reason for waitin’ is self-servin’. I want to know why my brother was so bound and determined to speak to you.”
“So you’re being nosy as hell right now, that’s what you’re saying?”
“More or less,” Livingston confirms.
My conversation with Étienne was short but sweet. That still doesn’t mean it wasn’t emotionally exhausting. I feel hungover and want to crawl into bed, put the sheets over my head, and sleep the day away. And seeing my carving on the tree has left me feeling confused on what to do next.
I sigh. “Long story.”
“I’m certain it is; however, that hasn’t stopped you before.”
We inch closer to Belgrave in companionable silence before Livingston looks over at me.
“I have to admit somethin’.”
“Dare I ask?”
He grins. “I was going to say it appears as though I was wrong. Étienne didn’t kill you today.”
“Oh, Livingston. Looks can be deceiving. I seem alive, but I can assure you I’m dying on the inside.”
“I have some good news for you!” Nat says as she strolls into my room as if it’s hers.
I sit up from the chaise lounge where I’m reading and watch as two other ladies come in behind her, carrying armfuls of fabric.
“What’s this?”
“You need a wardrobe.” Nat points at my dress. “I know I’ve given you gowns to wear, but personally, I believe it’s a travesty when a beautiful woman is not comfortable with the clothes on her body.”
“I agree.”
God, do I agree with her. I’ve been switching between two tea dresses of Nat’s that I like and my black slacks and white dress shirt for the past few days. I’m so tired of my present-day clothes I’m tempted to wad them up into a ball and throw them into the nearest fireplace.
“But I’m grateful you loaned me all those dresses,” I say.
“I know you are. However, it’s time you have dresses that fit your own style and personality.” Nat gestures to the woman next to her. “This is the modiste who will make that happen, Madame Bourgeois.”
Madame Bourgeois is dressed to the nines with a waist so small I bet I could pick her up and spin her around like a ballerina. How tight is her corset and does she expect me to wear one? What am I saying? Of course, she will.
She dips her head and gives me a half-smirk. “It’s a pleasure.”
Instead of the thick Charleston accent I’m used to, her words are heavily coated in a lilting French accent.
I smile back. “Nice to meet you. I’m Serene.”
Madame Bourgeois shifts her attention back to Nat and immediately starts speaking French. The words roll off their tongue so rapidly I stare at them as though they’re playing a game of badminton.
“Au regards de sa chevelure rousse, sa couleur préférée doit être le vert.”
“Quel genre de tissu?”
“La meilleure,” Nat replies.
“Sous-vêtement aussi?”
“Ce sera mieud en effet. Et, noubliez pas la nuisette. Elle aura besoin de tout.”
“Mais qu’est-il arrivé à cette jeune femme?”
Nat pauses. “Elle a passé beaucoup de temps loin d’ici. C’est tout ce que vous avez besoin de savoir. Maintenant, je vous en prie, faite travailler vos doigts magiques.”
I give up trying to understand what they’re saying and watch the girl behind Bourgeois. She organizes the yards of fabrics—silk, lace, wool, tulle—and lines them up against my bed, creating a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors.
Then she takes Madame Bourgeois’s sewing supplies and places it on the dresser that is only decorated with fresh flowers every morning.
Nat and Madame Bourgeois’s conversation comes to a grinding halt. I look over at them and find them intensely staring at me. I want to shrink away from their stare. You’d think they’re trying to find the cure for cancer instead of measuring me for new dresses.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
In unison, they shake their heads. “No. No problem. We’re simply tryin’ to figure out what colors and material will work best for you.”
Nervously, I laugh. “It’s just clothes.”
Madame Bourgeois dramatically gasps and steps forward. “It’s more than clothes. Everything you wear reflects your personality.” She picks up a strand of my strawberry blond hair and lightly smirks. “Everything you wear needs to complement your natural beauty. Everything you wear needs to make you feel exquisite.”
“And you think you can do that?”
She drops the piece of hair and snorts as if I asked a ridiculous question. “Oh, I’m certain. I do it every day.”
“You are in skillful hands,” Nat chimes in.
I want to tell her this is all ridiculous, but Madame Bourgeois’s speech held so much appeal, I can’t help but want everything she described. Even if I’m only here for a short amount of time.
I give Nat a small smile to show I’m in, and she claps her hands with glee.
Before I can do anything else, someone starts unbuttoning my gown. Immediately, I turn and slap at the mysterious hands and see it’s the girl who came with Bourgeois. “What the hell are you doing?”
She stares at me with impatience and then glances at Nat and Madame Bourgeois, her expression saying, “Can you believe the nerve of this lady?”
“Serene, you need to disrobe for Madame Bourgeois so she can get your proper measurements,” Nat explains.
“Does everyone have to be in the room staring at me?” I grumble as the handsy girl gets back to work on the buttons of my dress. This time, I don’t whack at her.
Nat smirks. “I never expected you to be shy.”
My head snaps in her direction the same time handsy girl finishes unbuttoning my dress. The sleeves sag around my arms. “I’m not modest.”
“Good. Because now is not the day to be reserved. While you’re here, you need everything: undergarments, sleepwear, skirts, tea dresses, gowns, shawls, shoes, stockings, hats.”
I groan. “Oh, not the hats.”
At that, Nat laughs. “I’m afraid you cannot avoid hats. They are still all the rage.”
Madame Bourgeois looks between Nat and me, resembling me when they were speaking French. Bourgeois is probably wondering where the hell I came from and why I have nothing. Oh, if she only knew...
“Also, you need to be fitted for your bridesmaid gown.”
Nat asking me to be one of her bridesmaids lifted my spirits tremendously. It also distracted me f
rom the lack of information not coming my way about Emmeline and the discord between Étienne and I.
“You haven’t told me what you want your bridesmaid to wear.”
Nat’s eyes light up. “It’s highly unusual, but I’m havin’ Madame Bourgeois fashion one of my mama’s gowns inspired from a House of Worth dress. She had so many beautiful dresses, but this one was truly spectacular. It was black velvet with detailed ivory lilies across the bodice and train. Scarlett was fitted for her gown, and it’s a carbon copy of my mama’s!”
The mention of Scarlett immediately puts a bad taste in my mouth. I imagine my face looks as if I’m sucking on something sour, but I don’t say a word. Rather than think about her, I fixate on Nat’s description and her happiness. “The gown sounds stunning. I can’t wait to try it on.”
“You will look superb. I’m positive. Now change so Madame Bourgeois can get your measurements.”
I take off the gown. My shoes are next. The bra and underwear that I time traveled in are being washed right now, so I, unfortunately, had to wear cotton drawers and a chemise and a dreaded corset that left indentations on my skin at the end of the day.
I gesture to my body. “Do you have undergarments available for me to wear now?”
“Yes, but it’s more...risqué compared to what you’re wearin’.”
I think of my pushup-bra and thongs at home and smirk. “I think I can handle it.”
I sigh when the corset is untied. Nat politely turns away while Bourgeois purses her lips and stares at my figure. “I may have something for you.”
“Great.”
The girl reaches for my drawers, and I shoot her a look. “I think I got it from here.”
She backs away, and I take off my stockings and shimmy out of the heavy drawers, and I’m only left in my cotton chemise.
Nat makes herself busy by staring at the dresses and bolts of fabric Madame Bourgeois brought with her. She seems fidgety and nervous.
“What’s wrong?”
She lifts a shoulder as she brushes her fingertips across the peach silk overlaying an evening dress. “Oliver’s parents arrive today. You will meet them tomorrow.”
“That should be nice.”
A loud snort comes from Nat. “Not quite.”
“They don’t like you?”
Nat doesn’t face me, but that’s okay. Body language can tell you more than words. Her shoulders are tense, nearly touching her ears, and if she’s not touching the dresses in front of her, she’s messing with her own. Smoothing out the already wrinkle-free fabric as if her life depends on it.
“I wouldn’t say that. Oliver’s daddy, Robert, is kind to me. However, his mama, Matilda...she appears distrustful of me.”
Nat turns and meets my gaze, hurt swimming in her hazel eyes.
I’ve yet to meet Matilda and Robert and I certainly never had in-laws, but I imagine there’s a period of adjustment. “Maybe she’s taking her time getting to know you,” I say, playing devil’s advocate. “Didn’t Oliver say he was the only child?”
Nat nods, her eyes wide.
“Okay, so maybe she’s just very protective because Oliver’s her baby.”
Nat chews on her bottom lip. “No, I’m afraid that isn’t the point of contention.”
“Then what is?”
Furtively, Nat gives the Bourgeois and her assistant a quick glance. “Remember when you asked me at the pond two years ago if I wanted somethin’ more for my life?”
“Yeah.”
“I told his mama, and she said my ideas were unconventional.” Her eyes widen. “Me, Serene! She said my ideas were unconventional.”
I snort. “If she thinks your thoughts are unconventional, she’d pass out over mine.”
A weary smile tugs at the corner of Nat’s lips. “Yes, I do believe she would.”
Nat is trying to put on a brave face, but I can see how much this bothers her. The desire to be liked in this world is never wrong. It’s losing ourselves in the process that’s so tragic. Nat has already lost so much in her life, and all she wants is to earn the love of her future mother-in-law. It just might cost her a piece of herself to achieve that.
“Give it time. I can’t think of a single person who doesn’t love you.”
“Yes, yes. Perhaps,” Nat replies before she gives me a bright smile. “Thank you, Serene.”
I do my best curtsy. “You’re welcome.”
Madame Bourgeois finally comes back with her hands full of ivory lace. Nat promptly turns around. Bourgeois hands the items to the girl and starts speaking French. Nat doesn’t look our way, but she leans our way, and I know she’s listening.
After a few seconds, Bourgeois holds up an ivory lace bodice with pale pink ribbon straps and sheer lace all the way to my upper thigh. It looks more like lingerie than undergarments, but I’ll take it.
I nod and take off my chemise. Nat quietly slips out of the room while I change into the new one. I look at myself in the mirror. The chemise leaves nothing to the imagination. My breasts are on full display, and in the cold air, my nipples pucker.
“These are the drawers to match.” Bourgeois holds up a pair of sheer ivory underwear with lace detailing, and pale pink ribbons looped through the detailing. One thing I hate about this era is, of course, the corsets, but the underwear is a close runner-up. It’s so heavy and uncomfortable.
“Can we hold off on that? I need to let my vagina breathe.”
The girl behind me coughs and turns red.
Madame Bourgeois merely dips her head in acknowledgment and holds up a sheer corset in ivory and more silk in pale pink. The material is minimal, and as the girl and Bourgeois put it on me and tighten the laces, it’s obvious its intentions are to slim the waist but more importantly, lift the bust. My push-up bra doesn’t hold a candle to this corset.
When they’re done, I can’t breathe, but I look like I have no waist and D’s instead of my natural C’s. I could get on board with this.
At the hem of the corset are straps to hold stockings. Madame Bourgeois holds up a pair of fine hand-embroidered silk stockings and smiles. “Yes.”
I hold out one leg, and I place a hand between my legs because I’m not a complete whore while she draws the material up my leg and secures the straps. When she’s done, I look sexy. Better yet, I feel sexy, and I realize that Bourgeois is right. What you wear should make you feel exquisite. Not necessarily all the time. But right at this moment, I feel amazing.
Suddenly, there’s a loud noise from the hallway. Madame Bourgeois and I lift our heads and stare at the door as we hear Nat say, “Étienne, come back here!”
“Shit.” I jump down from the pedestal and grab the nearest pieces of cloth, which happen not to be cloth but a long yard of lace Bourgeois brought with her. Either way, I clutch it in front of my chest.
“Non! Non! Wear this!” Madame Bourgeois hisses and tosses a silk garment my way. I drop the lace just in time to grab it. Quickly, I side my arms through the sleeves and make a loose knot right as someone pounds on the door.
Madame Bourgeois shrieks and shouts something in French.
The door flies open, and Étienne bursts into the room cheeks red, eyes filled with anger. He’s so mad I don’t think he realizes I’m in the room. He’s searching for someone else. “Where is he?”
Nat hurries in after him. “I was jestin’ with you!”
With his hands on his hips, Étienne looks over his shoulder at his sister and glares. He’s breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched. Nat grabs her brother’s arm, but Étienne shrugs her off. His eyes meet mine, and he slowly looks me up and down. I know I’m wearing a robe, but I swear he knows what’s underneath. Unconsciously, I cross my arms over my chest and take a small step back.
“Étienne, take a deep breath. I’m sorry!” Nat says.
Livingston begins to walk in the room but stops short when he sees me standing there. I groan and drag my hands through my hair. His gaze veers away, and he looks at his sibli
ngs as he leans against the doorframe. “What is all the ruckus?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m wondering too,” I say through gritted teeth.
Étienne peels his eyes away from me and flings a hand at Nat. “She told me that you were in here while Serene was gettin’ fitted for clothes.”
“I was kiddin’,” Nat interjects.
The corner of Livingston’s lips fight to stay in a straight line. “Ah.” He glances at me, but his gaze doesn’t have anything close to the fire lingering in Étienne’s eyes. Livingston simply has pure mischief gleaming in his irises. “Unfortunately, I was not in the room.” He gives me a once-over and winks. “Though it’s obvious I should have been.”
“Livingston,” Étienne growls and walks toward him.
Nat stands between her brothers and presses a hand against his chest. “I was jestin’. I promise! I clearly made a mistake.”
“Clearly,” Livingston mutters.
Étienne reaches over Nat’s head and tries to wrap his hands around Livingston’s throat.
Livingston laughs, unfazed by his brother’s anger, while Nat pushes at Étienne’s stomach with all her might. I know firsthand that trying to move him is akin to moving a boulder.
Madame Bourgeois and the girl stare at the spectacle the Lacroix siblings are making. I’m just happy it isn’t me causing the scene for once.
“I do believe we should leave and let Mr. Lacroix speak to this young lady,” Bourgeois interrupts.
Everyone ceases conversation. Nat and I both shake our heads. Livingston’s grin widens.
Étienne dips his head in her direction. “I agree, Madame Bourgeois. And may I say you look beautiful today.”
I hold up a hand. “Oh, easy with the charm Pepé Le Pew. Everyone can stay.”
“Who is Pepé Le Pew?” I hear Livingston ask Nat. Nat shrugs.
Étienne narrows his eyes and steps closer. Forgetting about my lack of clothes, I move forward. “Everyone out,” he barks.
“Stay,” I command.
He may rule the Lacroixs, but I reign over all of them. Including him. It’s a battle of wills, and every person in the room picks up on our energy.
