CHAPTER 37
“Thank goodness I do not have to wear a mask,” Constance said. “Not only would that be so stiff and uncomfortable, but it limits your vision terribly, as well.”
Alice was wrapping the finished veil over the bridge of Constance’s nose, which made her want to scratch it. The pins with which Alice had secured it momentarily at her hairline made her want to scratch there, too. Constance could tell how carefully Alice was trying not to disturb the rolled fluff of her hair, as if a bit more hair hanging loose would matter. At least not now. But it would matter for the ball tomorrow night. For her anonymity, not one hair must show. Like that squashed men’s wig upstairs in the attic, Constance thought. How she had worked to conceal her own hair, thick and unwieldy, under it in order to rush from this house unnoticed that early morning. A slight shudder passed through her.
“Are you chilly?”
“I’m all right. Just anticipation of seeing how well you have managed to hide me, I suppose.”
“Just a bit more, then. Hold very still now.”
Constance felt the tug on her hair as Alice pinned the forehead portion of the veil across and down her hairline. At one point she flinched.
“I’m so sorry. Almost done.” Alice touched her arm. Constance felt her tucking something in at the bridge of her nose. One more tiny adjustment at her hairline. “There now.”
Alice passed Constance the hand mirror. Hardly daring to move her head, Constance took the silver-handled mirror and gasped. The veil was Alice’s surprise for her, and pure surprise it was.
Across her forehead a fitted sheath of silk pongee, bordered above her eyes with a line of small white goose feathers. The effect was that of winged eyebrows. For a second time, Constance reverted to that fatal morning, to the glued pull of those ashy eyebrows. Why must she continue associating this beauty with that tragic moment of her life? Why must everything regenerate her merciless guilt? And the unrelenting uncertainty that she had caused his death.
At the bridge of her nose, a beaded dove spread its wings in a beautiful curve lining her lower lid, an almost exact replica of the dove embellishing the center bodice of her gown. From its beak across the top layer of tulle tiny pearls flowed in curved lines that echoed those on the dress. Alice had doubled the layers of tulle, the bottom layer slightly longer with a finished edge of the tiny pearls. The effect was one of incredible lightness, yet the veil thoroughly concealed her lower face, its weighted drapes falling to her collarbone. Constance’s face had disappeared. Only her eyes remained visible. Those eyes that had given her away.
Alice began to wrap the headpiece over Constance’s hair, a length of silk charmeuse in a simple fashion reminiscent of that on the dance card that lay on Constance’s vanity, the dance card she would hold on her wrist by its cord but never use. Constance turned her head and leaned toward the vanity mirror. Oh, the cleverness of Alice, she thought. No, the headpiece on the dance card simply wrapped around and under the chin, with only a black mask for the eyes and no real concealment of the face. This wrapping mimicked her own Gibson Girl hair, fluffed out around the hairline, pulled back and twisted into a knot in the back, much like a bun. A far cry from that wig now concealed. Constance turned from side to side, holding her looking glass at various angles to see her reflection in the larger mirror. She would not have known herself.
“I can’t believe this, Alice. How on earth . . . ?”
“You are pleased?”
“Pleased? I’m ecstatic!” Constance laid down the glass and put her hands out to Alice, who took them. Constance held those talented hands in hers for a moment. Then stood and enfolded Alice in a grateful hug.
“We are not quite done, you know,” said Alice. “You’ll need to sit back down.”
From the vanity stool, Constance watched and listened.
“The veil will be sewn to the headpiece across the forehead and the temples. There will be tiny buttons from there down and around the sides.”
Constance fingered the smooth, tiny pearls edging her veil.
“Now, do you want a poppy?”
“A poppy? Whatever for?”
“I’ve noticed it on your cards. Is it important?”
“Oh, the poppy. It’s quite a mixed symbol—a symbol of silence, you see. How strange. And yes, it is the symbol for the ball motif. It seems that women have grown tired of the silent, subservient role. So, they have taken that very symbol to flaunt the reversal of roles for this event.”
“Would you like to flaunt it?”
Constance froze for a moment. “I think not, Alice. I am choosing to remain silent, incognito. I don’t wish to call attention to myself.” She waited while Alice seemed to puzzle over her answer.
“Perhaps all the more reason,” Alice said. “Your silence is chosen, not imposed.”
“But it would draw such attention. A bright red poppy?”
“Perhaps not. What if it were not bright red?”
“Not red?”
“There is a white poppy, with an almost black center. I noticed some once in the window of a florist in Chicago. I was mesmerized. I turned around and went in to see them. The florist was a bit outdone with me that I did not buy even one.” Alice laughed. “But it could have all sorts of meanings for you.”
“Yes, and what would those be?”
“You’ve already explained why the ladies chose it for their motif. But the white poppy with the black center would be even more meaningful. All the things you’ve said—I believe I remember this correctly—plus peace.”
“Peace?”
“Yes, I can’t remember now if it was the Egyptians or the Greeks, but someone ancient used the white poppy as a symbol of peace, perhaps because it might put you to sleep.” Alice laughed again. “We can tuck it in right here over the ear.”
“I love the thought of peace. I need it so badly.” Constance pulled at a strand of loose hair. “The black center—a token of widowhood.” And guilt, she thought. “Will it be difficult to make?”
“Not at all. Not if the girls will lend me a bit of watercolor for the black.” Alice laughed again.
Her laughter made Constance happy. Such a while since she had felt this way. “How on earth did you know that about the poppy, Alice?”
“My mother had a book on mythology. I loved to read. We had only a handful of books out there while I was growing up. I must have read that book a hundred times.”
“This outfit is getting more and more complicated. It will take a great deal to get me ready. You and Analee have the strength to lace me into that corset?”
“Of course.”
Constance felt the slightest weight lift as Alice took the swirled headpiece, securely pinned for stitching, from her head and set it on the side of the vanity. It was magical, of course, as it should be. Yet somehow more than that to her, almost miraculous.
“The girls must help us, too.” Alice drew the pins from the veil. “I will find an assignment for them. They must have the last exciting touch. Then you will be quite ready.”
Would she be ready? For an evening of watching as an outsider? An observer of women taking the lead while she herself remained on the edges. She would be there, however. She would be present, one of Les Mysterieuses, a woman known only to herself.