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“Back then, in Norway, all the girls knew of the legend of Ingrid,” Mother said. “There were some in my circle who wanted very badly to compete. They’d ski jumped right along with their brothers and wanted the chance to show what they could do. In 1892, some organized their own competition.”
“Yes, yes. I haven’t thought of that in years,” Father said. “Not recognized, of course. But compete they did.”
Mother’s eyes shone at the memory. “Then, in 1904, Miss Strang jumped fourteen and half meters. We were very proud. I’ll never forget it.”
My parents rarely talked of their time before coming to America. I longed for more of these gems. “What else do you remember?”
“Not long after, we left Norway,” Father said. “We don’t know what happened to her after that. Or any of the girls we grew up with.”
“If Cymbeline wants to jump, we’ll make her a costume,” Mother said. “Right, Anders?”
“Do Quinn and Alexander know?” Father asked.
I shook my head. “Only Jo and Fiona.”
“They might be angry at us for helping,” Mother said.
“No, they’ll see once it all unfolds that this was a good thing for Cymbeline. She needs this…to feel at peace.”
“Do you think this will do it?” Mother asked. “Give her the contentment she’s craved?”
“I hope so,” I said. “And then she’ll be willing to settle down finally.”
“Yes, I can see why you think this is a good plan,” Mother said. “But what if it does the opposite? What if she tastes the glory of winning and never stops? Back home, the girls were in shows for carnivals.” She shuddered. “We can’t have Cymbeline running off to the carnival.”
“She won’t run off. Not from her family. Or from here.” I looked back at my father. “What do you think? Will you help us?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. I could see him weighing the decision. To be involved in the ruse or not? What culpability would he have in it all if Lord Barnes were displeased? Finally, though, his sense of adventure won. “I would do anything for any of the Barnes family. But this—well, this is a job worthy of the finest tailor. And Miss Cymbeline is a fine woman. Brave and talented. A woman who deserves to compete in whatever sport she desires.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I have her measurements from the last time she was in for a dress. I have just the right kind of wool to make her pants. She’ll need a wool sweater. Made from the lightest yarn we can find.”
“Yes, but yarn that makes her look bulkier than she is,” I said.
Mother nodded. “I’ll have Mrs. Johnson order something for me. In gray so she doesn’t stand out.”
“What about her face?” I asked. “Mother, would you be able to knit a cap that covered everything but her eyes?”
“Yes, yes. With a hole for the mouth. She must breathe,” Mother said.
“Almost like a mask,” Father said. “In a dull color. Quite the opposite of what I would make her if she were going as herself. Cymbeline is the type of girl who can wear any color. The brighter the better.” He picked up one last piece of bread and slathered it with butter. “I shall take it as a challenge to make a disguise. What about her hair?” He gestured in the air to indicate her thick curls. “The hair will need to be stuck up into the hat or she’ll be uncovered. From what I’ve seen, that hair seems to go every which way.”
“Whatever gave you the idea?” Mother asked me.
“Shakespeare.” I’d read out loud to them on many a winter’s night. We’d completed the entire works of Shakespeare over time.
“Ah, yes. Rosalind,” Mother said.
That evening,seated at the club, I stole glances at Cymbeline as she perused the menu. She wore a dark blue dress made of silk and taffeta. Her curls were covered with a stylish cloche hat of the same color with a sassy feather sticking up from one side.
She looked up, catching me staring at her.
“I forgot to tell you how beautiful you look. I’m clumsy at all this.”
“Don’t be silly. I can see in your eyes that you think I look nice.”
The club was quiet tonight, with only locals dining. Come ski season, the restaurant would be packed with tourists. I preferred it quiet.
The server brought a basket of bread made by my brother. As of last year, he provided all of the baked goods to the club.
Cymbeline took a piece of thick crusted bread and handed me the basket. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” I said. “You?”
“Yes, very hungry. Poppy and I had a busy day today. Lunch seems forever ago already.” She buttered her bread with quick, efficient strokes.
“Have you thought any more about my idea?”
“I have. I’ve thought about it all day.” Her upper arms and shoulders were bare. I wanted to stroke her soft skin.
I lowered my voice to make sure no one else could hear us. “I talked to my parents, and they’ve agreed to help us.”
“Really? That’s great news.” She broke off as the server reappeared to take our orders.
We both asked for the trout, caught in our very own creeks and river, served with buttery potatoes and squash. My mouth watered just thinking of the meal to come. “Do you know I’ve never been here,” I said after the server left.
“You haven’t? I had no idea. What do you think?”
I looked around at the opulent room with the glass chandeliers and tall ceilings held up by wide beams. Tables with white cloths and shiny silverware and multiple sets of glasses waited for guests.
She glanced out the window. Night had fallen. All that we could see in the glass was our own reflection. I liked what I saw—the two of us dining together as if we were a couple. She turned back to me.
“Do you think I should shave my head?” Cymbeline asked without a hint of humor.
“What? No.” Shave her head. Good Lord, the lengths she would go to. “Why would you do such a thing?”
