“No one would come alone. That’d be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” I twisted to catch her eye; after all, she was the expert.
“You’d be surprised. True escapism is not something people tend to do in groups. Like many addictions, it can be kept hidden.”
My back arched as she pulled and the bodice cinched into place. I did the same for her, and then we walked together to the standing mirror.
It was like stepping into a fairy tale. Better actually. The dress was formfitting, flattering, and the silk caught the light and shimmered. It danced around my hips, and the weight of the embroidery allowed for a good swish at the ankles. I gently twisted to enjoy its movement.
“Let’s do your hair. I’ll play Sonia and ‘arrange’ it for you.” Isabel pulled me into the bathroom and pushed me onto the small stool in front of the vanity. In minutes she had my hair piled high, twisted and secured with bobby pins. She even pulled a ribbon off the neck of another dress to weave through the coils.
I moved my head from side to side. “Whoa . . . Where’d you learn how to do this?”
“YouTube.”
A firm, and loud, knock silenced us.
“Miss Dwyer? Miss Davies?”
I froze.
“Yes?” Isabel managed a normal tone. She caught my eye in the mirror. “Oops . . . I rang the bell. I thought more tea might be nice.” She narrowed her eyes at something she saw in mine. “It’s why it’s there, Mary. It’s no big deal.”
“May I help you?” Sonia called again.
“Never mind. I completely forgot I pulled the cord. We’re fine.”
“Thank you,” I added to Isabel’s call.
I almost wilted with relief. I did not want Sonia to open the door. First, summoning her felt wrong. Second, as much as I loved the feel of this silk and thought I might enjoy dipping a toe into Austen’s world, the appearance of a witness terrified me.
True escapism is hidden.
Sonia called again. “Very well. If you are interested, drinks will be served soon in the front parlor. Or you can meet everyone at dinner this evening.”
“We’ll be right down.” Isabel owned the full reply this time.
“That’s it . . . What if she’d walked in? We look ridiculous.” I stood and yanked at the dress’s neck. “Get me out of this.”
“Slow down. Sit. There’s a knot.” Isabel worked at the ribbon, then used it to pull me back down. “And it’s not silly, Mary. This is a big deal to me.”
I dropped to the stool and watched her in the mirror. She kept her eyes on the knot.
“You’re right,” I acknowledged. “But actually dressing like this is harder than I thought. I feel exposed somehow. Like in costume, I’m not actually covered, I’m naked.”
“Stop squirming or you’ll feel more exposed than that. You’ll feel ‘humiliations galore.’” She cast a sideways smile into the mirror. She knew Austen, but we both knew The Princess Bride.
She paused and watched me. “Or shall I ring for Sonia again and get some help?”
Chapter 9
Within ten minutes, Isabel turned the key in the lock and we headed to the stairs. I hesitated. What if Sonia came to “freshen” our room? Dresses and loose ribbons littered the floor like confetti.
While Isabel led the way down the gallery to the front stairs, fully set on what was ahead, my mind remained fixed behind us—first by my wonder of this experience, then by my reaction. I couldn’t deny that when Sonia knocked on the door, I had felt fear and—Isabel wasn’t wrong—humiliation. Dressing up felt weak and frivolous—like a part of my armor was being stripped away. Rather than the “ultimate escape,” it felt like an augmented reality. And I had two weeks of this to look forward to. Would it get easier? Worse?
Isabel must have felt me stall behind her. She stopped and studied me. Again, I felt exposed.
“I was willing to take the risk. Are you?”
My expression must have conveyed confusion, for she twirled a finger at me, circling me from head to toe.
“I need you here, Mary, but it was a risk to ask you. What you must think of all this . . . And you can’t deny it; it’s all over your face.”
She continued down the stairs. I took a deep breath and ran my hand down the front of my khakis to smooth the wrinkles. Slim beige pants, a deep purple sweater, and ballet flats for me. Twenty-first-century simplicity at its best.
Isabel, on the other hand, was dressed in a bright multicolored blouse and an A-line skirt that swirled about her knees with each step. She skipped down the stairs. The skirt bounced in ripples of black.
I caught up to her on the marbled floor. I stood in a black square, she in a white. “Hey . . . I’m sorry. But you have to cut me some slack. You just said you knew I’d have trouble with this; you can’t get angry now because you were right. Besides, I’m here. I’m all in.”
“Are you?”
I felt myself nod.
Isabel smiled. She believed me. “Okay then . . . Do I look okay?”
“I love the blouse.”
“I found it on sale, then had it tapered further. It’s not too tight?”
“Not at all.” I felt a pinch above my ear and pulled a bobby pin from my hair. “How many of these are in here?”
She batted at my hand. “Stop pulling them out. You look gorgeous.” Her tone lifted, and I recalled her first question.
“You too; you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She gave me a slow smile at odds with the quick repeat her fingers tapped against her thigh.
“You’re going to be fine, Isabel.”
I expected a “parlor” to be small, wood-lined, and intimate. And this room was paneled, but it was huge. First glance revealed four furniture groupings and plenty of carpeted space between. The small band of guests stood gathered around a fireplace so deep and tall, I could have stood within it.
Isabel immediately entered the scene. I heard “Good evening, I’m Isabel Dwyer” in her signature notes as I scanned the room from the doorway.
There was an elderly couple, at least eighty, and I knew they must be the Muellers. Mrs. Mueller sat next to the fireplace and watched, an amused expression on her face, as her husband took one of Isabel’s hands in both his own.
The Swiss family Gertrude had mentioned stood nearby. The wife was tall, only a little shorter than me, blond and delicate. The husband looked two, no, three times her size—six-foot-sixish, muscular and thick. Boxing huge? Soccer huge? Do soccer players get that large?
Presently he was discussing something very serious with his daughter, a tiny girl, blond like her mom. Gertrude had mentioned an eight-year-old, but this girl looked about six. Her obvious concentration and distress led me to believe her father was delivering a serious reprimand. Then she popped something into her mouth and smiled.
“Est-ce délicieux?”
She nodded. “Not bad at all, Papa, but not my favorite.”
Isabel called me over. “Mary, this is Mr. Mueller. He and Mrs. Mueller are here from—”
“Herman and Helene, please,” Mr. Mueller cut in. “We are from Salzburg.” His chest swelled and broadened.
“The Sound of Music,” I blurted.
Helene laughed. “You would be surprised how often we hear that.”