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Chapter 7
Aunt Margaret took Marta shopping two days before her party. The older woman was a bustling creature of mania throughout these last days before, asserting her dominance over the various cooks and maids and other staff members—all of whom hustled to ensure that this first party, just before the season began, was the very best of the best. “I want this to set the tone for the rest of the season,” she’d said several times. Sweat dripped down the sides of her forehead. It seemed clear: she would settle for nothing less, and would blame anyone else if it failed.
“You must engage with the latest fashions, darling Marta,” Aunt Margaret said. The carriage clopped into the centre of the nearest town and halted just next to a dressmaker.
Marta glanced down at her gown. Admittedly, the colour was a bit off for England, and the neck had been stitched a bit too high. Women seemed to like to show much more of themselves here.
This suited her flirtatious sensibilities.
And if this was the way of the English courting game, she felt ready to play it.
“Whatever you pick for me, Auntie. I trust your judgement,” Marta said.
The stablehand assisted them out of the carriage. Laura arrived last on the cobblestones. She flashed a smile towards Marta and Aunt Margaret and said, in stuttered English, “What a beautiful town.”
It was, in a sense. It was entirely English: old-world and cutesy churches and little stumped-over buildings. Carriages clopped across the cobblestones, women walked arm-in-arm, and men drank pints towards the sides of the road, hovering outside of brasseries.
“Is it really so different from Austria?” Aunt Margaret asked. She furrowed her brow, as though she couldn’t envision anything else.
“Quite,” Marta returned. “But it doesn’t matter.”
Aunt Margaret led the girls into the dressmaker’s. Once inside, they grew lost in a haze of gorgeous and brightly-coloured fabrics, beautiful skirts, and low-cut necklines. The chatter was vibrant. The dressmaker asked Marta several times if she already had her eye on someone for the season. To this, Aunt Margaret insisted that she’d plotted out Marta’s entire season for her.
“How wonderful! You don’t have to do any of the work yourself,” the dressmaker chirped, without a hint of irony.
Marta arched her brow, laughing inwardly. “It’s really quite pleasant, isn't it?”
“Englishmen are the most handsome in all the world,” the dressmaker insisted. “I imagine Austrian men aren’t terribly rough to look at, but…”
Now, Marta felt stabbed with a memory of her lost Austrian love. Where was he now? Wrapped around the beautiful girl he’d chosen instead of her? Had he learned yet that she’d gone to England, abandoning everything she’d ever known due to his decision?
Did he know what a rift he’d crafted in her life?
It didn’t matter.
Laura and Aunt Margaret helped Marta decide upon a light pink gown. It hugged her curves perfectly, thrusting her breasts upward and her waist inward. The fabric whirled around her feet as she turned this way, then that. Aunt Margaret clapped her hands, her eyes shining with tears.
“What a beautiful sight,” she whispered. “Not since my daughter have I felt this way.”
“You no longer look entirely Austrian,” Laura said in German. “You very much are dressed in the style of the English lady.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Marta asked.
Laura shook her head swiftly. “Absolutely not. If you’re to attend this party, I think it best that you fit in. As much as you, Marta Schnitzler, possibly can fit in. I know it’s something of a difficult thing for you.”
This was a fair assessment.
Once back in the carriage, Aunt Margaret chirped on and on about the upcoming party. “Every man will have his eyes upon you. You’re someone they’re unaccustomed to seeing. Already, your appearance at my estate has raised questions and conversations across the county. You’re a mystery, Marta Schnitzler. Use that to your advantage.”
“I know this game rather well,” Marta returned. There was a slight twinge of sadness to her voice.
For in truth, this wretched courting game was something she’d mastered back in Austria. But after finding love—and having that love refute her—she wasn’t entirely sure she had enough energy to throw back into it. She would shadow it, pretend as much as she could; she felt sure only the best of those who knew her, only Laura, would perceive the false nature of her act.
**
The following days were a flurry of preparation. The ballroom and gardens were decorated with gorgeous lights and flowers; smells of delightful food swirled out from the kitchen at seemingly every moment. Buckets and buckets of berry wine arrived, all for the benefit of their guests. At one point, Marta discovered Laura in the furthest garden, half-drunk and sipping berry wine swiftly, so as not to get caught.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, looking dispassionate about her own apology. “It’s just already too much English.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get it in no time,” Marta returned, chuckling.
Back in Austria, she’d thought of Laura as a servant; yet here, she was her closest confidant, the only friend who recognised her as something more than “the Austrian girl on a visit.” She understood the backstory, understood the sadness that lurked behind Marta’s eyes.
“You can do this, you know,” Laura told her. She spoke clearly, despite the obvious wine stains across her teeth. “This game your aunt wishes to push you through. And all you have to do is be your charming self. Nothing more. Everyone will be captivated with you. They always are.”
“Except for the one who mattered the most,” Marta said.
Laura grabbed Marta’s wrist and squeezed. “He was an imbecile. Everyone knows that.”
