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My lips part, in surprise at the sight. She wasn’t joking about the clothing down here probably being enough to fund a small army. The doors nearest me have the beginnings of the rainbow in their glass fronts, blue dresses, starting at midnight and navy. I peek inside. The rack runs straight from the back of the cabinet to the front, and I count twenty… no... Fifty hangers alone, behind this one small armoire door.
My gaze scans this room, with more armoires in the middle of it, cutting off my view for how deep and far it goes, floor-to-ceiling stand-alone closets. How many are there in here?
How many dresses?
How much money is wrapped up in this one room, hidden beneath the laundry and behind a vault drawer?
“Every gown the family has had made for it, every suit, that hasn’t worn out of course, is down here,” Mrs. Harris says, “starting from over a hundred and fifty years ago—“
My jaw drops.
Over a century of fashion. This place isn’t just a vault; it’s a museum. My heart flutters in my chest as we walk down the aisle.
“The other wall has the dresses,” Mrs. Harris says, and I peek along the rainbow. It’s fading into light blues now, ten armoire doors along, and going into whites.
Glittering dresses, ballgowns even, are all encased in their garment bags, tagged with print photos on the front so we don’t have to open them up fully to see the shape of them. And on my right, we pass by stand-alone armoires that lead to more aisles. One row holds shoes, in cabinets lit from within.
“This room is humidity controlled, of course, and we catalog everything we take out,” Mrs. Harris says, giving me a sharp look. “So don’t think to secret anything along with you.”
“I would never,” I breathe and then swallow. “I’m not much for fashion anyway.”
“Mmmmm,” she says with a shake of her head as she takes a turn down one middle aisle, and I trail after her. “I don’t know how long they’ll be here, so I need to be prepared,” Mrs. Harris says, “and the maids are all busy getting things cleaned now that I’ve discovered the absolute shameful job they’ve done in keeping those quarters up to shape.”
I nod, even though this is all a bit beyond me. We stop in an open dressing space, with a thick rug on the ground, andwe’re surrounded on three sides by double racks of dresses and clothing. These are only in garment bags, not behind glass doors of armoires, and I’m taken in again by how carefully this space has been built. This storage room is huge, high ceiling overhead, and below ground with no windows to prevent any of the clothes from being exposed to sunlight and being ruined by UV rays. I glance up at the racks, swallowing hard. Where would someone start? I don’t know the first thing about fashion.
“What sort of things should I be looking for?” I ask her as she is pulling garment bags down off a double rack with an extendable hook, and putting them on a smaller rack in the middle of this dressing space, flanked by white leather benches, tufted and long, ready for somebody to sit and watch. In the far end of this alcove, is a break in the racks, where two long, white velvet curtains hang. I’m guessing there’s a private dressing space behind there.
“Longer dresses for parties, nothing white, it’s not the right time for it, and stay away from orange or deep green, they make her look like a pumpkin or a watermelon depending on the color,” she says. “Pick at least five, and hang them over there.” She points at another rack by the entrance to the aisle we came through. “We can have them out and steamed in case Lady Ruby chooses to go out tonight after resting from her travels.”
A knot in my throat begins to form. This is the sort of true living that people often imagine the titled and noble lead. Having millions of dollars worth of dresses and clothes at their disposal, and servants to prepare it all for them. But seeing it is different than dreaming it, and as I take a garment hook to go to the racks and pull something I think the mysterious Lady Ruby would like, my heart grows more and more pained and tight.
How could I think for a moment it was okay to even entertain the thought of Benedict’s touch? Or the duke’s? Thewealththey have, not even at their fingertips, but buried below their lands. What other treasures does this estate hide?
And how could I think that the duke was doing anything but toying with me?
When he said I belonged to him, he meant it.
Like this blue tea-dress I’ve pulled down, with fluttery chiffon around the breast, meant to drape across the chest and flatter the wearer. This belongs to him too.
I’m nothing more than a garment. Something to be put on and taken off, as useful and as desired, and as discarded.
“We’ll need shoes, and purses, oh, and—“ Mrs. Harris waves me over to a shelf, where there are shoeboxes waiting, photos of each pair stuck to the outside.
At least it’s organized down here.
I start pawing through them, trying to remember what the recent fashions were on the runways. Is Lady Ruby a fashionista? Mrs. Harris didn’t mention it. Just that she looked like a gourd in the wrong color of clothing.
There’s an unholy shrieking from above, and I sit up, eyes wide, my arms full of boot boxes.
“What on earth,” Mrs. Harris says to me, standing up from where she’s begun steaming the wrinkles out of a long elegant gown. The shrieking is getting louder and forming words, and there’s a clatter on the stairs down to the vault, echoing toward us.
Shoes slap the ground, and we both turn to the mouth of the aisle, where one of the maids appears, her apron nearly falling off her shoulders, her face puffy and red from running.
“They’re here,” she squeaks, all out of air. “They’re here!”
Mrs. Harris nearly drops the dress she’s holding, but the steamer goes clattering across the floor, breaking open and spilling water everywhere.
“How!?” Mrs. Harris looks pained and I put the boot boxes down and go to pick up the steamer. “That’s not possible.”
