Love the One You Hate

Even still, all these tasks don’t amount to much, and they definitely can’t be considered work in the least. I feel niggling guilt eating away at me, especially on Saturday, one week since my arrival, when Cornelia brings a fashion designer to the house and insists on having me sit in for the appointment.

I assume, at first, that Vivien is there for Cornelia. We sit at a small oak table in the yellow drawing room, flipping through fabric swatches. I pick out colors and patterns I think would look nice on Cornelia, only to find out once they have a handful of swatches set aside that they’ve been choosing colors they think I should wear. It’s an honest mistake. Vivien only speaks French and Cornelia’s fluent as well, so I can’t understand a single word they’re saying to each other. It isn’t until Vivien stands me up and starts to take my measurements that I realize something is off.

“What does it matter what my measurements are?” I ask as Cornelia sits back in her chair, completely unbothered as she watches Vivien turn me this way and that like I’m nothing more than a marionette.

“Because you need new clothes. I can’t stand to see you wear those jeans with the ripped holes yet another time. I’ll throw them into an open flame, I swear it.”

I open my mouth to protest—I have clothes! Rita has been bringing new outfits for me to wear every morning—but Cornelia holds up her hand to shush me. “Don’t bother to refute me. This is one battle I have no plans on losing. I assure you, you will be getting new clothes whether you like them or not. I’m the one who has to look at you. These clothes are for me, really. Besides, you don’t understand how wonderful it is that Vivien could come see us on such short notice. She’s very in demand. She had a modest atelier in the 2nd arrondissement, where I used to visit her when I went to Paris in spring, and she’d design my entire wardrobe for the season. Everyone knew of her, but I was the one who succeeded in luring her to our little island. Now, she spends half her time in Paris and half her time in Newport, dressing anyone who’s anyone.”

So then why the hell is she dressing me, I say in my head, biting back the urge to continue arguing.

“Restez tranquille!” Vivien says, poking me with a pin.

That delights Cornelia. “She says to hold still, and I’d do it if I were you. She can get rather testy.”

I scrunch my nose at her in a silent tease and then she rings for Patricia to bring in tea for us. I’m allowed a five-minute break before Vivien starts layering fabric all over me, checking colors against my complexion and pinning designs in place.

It feels like we’ve been at it for hours when Rita strolls in carrying a delicate white dress outstretched in front of her.

Cornelia sits up straight and beckons for her to bring it closer.

“Oh good, Rita. Thank you so much. Would you mind laying it on that chair until Vivien is ready for it?”

“What’s that?”

“A gown for you to wear next Saturday.”

My brows arch. I’ve seen gowns—Rita has stuffed me in a new one every evening since my arrival—and that is not a gown. It’s a piece of art. Delicate white lace drapes to the floor below a corseted off-the-shoulder top.

“What’s next Saturday?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the dress. I sound a little awestruck even to my own ears.

“My annual White Ball. It’s one of my favorite traditions, and it kicks off the entire social season here in Newport. My mother started it in 1904 and I’ve continued it in her stead. It’s meant to be a recreation of a night in Louis XIV’s court. The men are all expected to come in masks. Women wear white.” She tosses her hands up. “Oh, sure, it reeks of the puritanical bonds holding women back, as if a woman’s value lies only in her ability to be demure. She’s meant to be a delicate flower with all her petals intact—nonsense! But still, tradition is tradition, and I do think you’ll look lovely in white. We don’t have time for Vivien to create something custom, so she’ll alter this. I have a feeling you’ll wear it as beautifully as its original owner did.”

The look in her eye makes me think this is one of her old gowns, and something like pride blossoms in my chest.

I don’t bother telling her how much I’d love to wear it. The stars in my eyes are visible to anyone standing in that room.7MarenI dial my friend Ariana’s number, hoping she’ll answer. I’ve tried her three times since my arrival at Rosethorn, but she hasn’t picked up once. This time, when the call doesn’t connect, I leave a message.