Jane did not know what to say to that.
He laughed, a laugh with dark in it. “Jane, if you could see your face. You are certain I have quite lost all remaining sanity. Well then, never mind me, but array yourself in my finery with all speed, and bring that little terror with you. Make haste, Jane.” And he was gone, even as Dorie still whirled in front of the mirror.
Jane clutched the package to her. “Wait for me,” she told Dorie, and she hastened to her room.
She tore open the butcher paper and the dress spilled out on her bed.
The golden dress from the attic.
Jane held it close, warmth flooding her face. He had picked this one for her. He had thought about the gowns and said, this one. Jane will look well in this one. Their tastes had coincided on the exact same dress.
Jane recalled herself with a sigh, and with a bump came back to reality. No, Martha had seen her mooning over it; she probably picked it herself.
She quickly washed her face, sponged down her arms, and changed into the gold dress. It fit beautifully—but the flowing pre-war styling meant it would fit many girls equally well. More surprising was that the dancing shoes from Helen fit perfectly—she must have gotten Jane’s measurements from the old cobbler, though the man who’d made her work boots had surely never made these beaded beauties.
Just as with the silver dress, Jane felt odd in her new attire, a different person—though in the silver dress she had felt like Jane-as-she-was-supposed-to-be, and in the gold she felt—like a fraud? Like a creature from another time, another place? This dress made her into a not-Jane, not any version of Jane. A lady in a different time, a wealthy girl in an estate like this, one of his houseguests from the city. Getting ready for an exciting night of dances and meaningful looks and stillnesses of wild heartbeats. She would never have been Blanche Ingel, with her perfectly chiseled face; she could not be Nina, with her rapier wit and striking demeanor. A friend of the Misses Davenport, perhaps—those two silly girls with their wide eyes and their fits of giggles. Girls, because they had not yet had a reason to grow up. Here before the Great War, in a world where the fey were estranged and practically forgotten, and there was nothing more pressing for any of the guests than to drink too much and to meet a charming stranger. Some tall mysterious man who stepped in behind her with a sardonic quip about the party, and as soon as she dared turn around, she would look up and see his face, see who it was.…
Jane ruthlessly pinned back a stray lock of hair, shoving down that silly flight of fantasy.
The iron mask was cold around her eye. She readjusted the mask on the bridge of her nose, nudged the dark leather straps higher behind her head, where they blended into her hair. So almost pretty, if only she turned her ironskin away, if she only saw her cheek of normal skin, pale against her dark hair, so almost, almost, almost.…
“Pretty ladies,” Dorie said from the stairs, breaking Jane’s spell. Jane hurried after her, concentrating hard on the almost-girl in the rose-pink dress. She picked the child up and swooped her down the last few stairs, and Dorie giggled, before standing upright and saying solemnly, “No, I am grown-up tonight.”
“I believe you are,” said Jane, and they looked at each other and Jane thought—maybe I have done some good, after all. She curtseyed and motioned Dorie to proceed her into the drawing room, and Dorie did, pink step by pink step, looking perfectly happy, intrepid, normal.
She was surprised to see that Mr. Rochart was not in the drawing room. There was a small knot of guests by the piano where the younger Miss Davenport was still playing and smiling up at one of the men. The elder Miss Davenport had her elbow on the piano, trying to steal attention from her sister.
Dorie trotted confidently to the pretty ladies as Jane found a seat behind a table with a large plant on it. The drawing room had seemed bigger this morning before the guests, before Cook had had extra chairs brought from the attic and moved in. Now the piano was too close, the lipsticked girls in their slinky frocks too near. Edward had told her to come, bolstered her self-assurance with his confidences—but he was not here, and the girls very much were.
Dorie neared the girls, who didn’t notice her immediately. Jane clutched the folds of the golden dress—Dorie wouldn’t act out, would she? Wouldn’t show off, to get noticed?
But then the elder Miss Davenport turned and saw the little girl, and the wheels plainly moved in her head. “Ah, what a pet!” she cried, and she began fussing over Dorie.
“What do you have there?” said one of the gentlemen, and the piano broke off as the younger Miss Davenport turned, pouting, to see.
“What’s your name, sweet child?” cooed the older Miss Davenport.