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With no real excuse, I pulled the dress from the box to hang it on the small hook. When I bent to retrieve the shoes, I discovered there was more to be found, folded neatly beneath another layer of tissue: a silk bandeau brassiere with a delicate lace front panel and a matching step-in pantie, short enough to be invisible under the hem of the dress. There was also a pair of lace garters, trimmed with gold, and a set of silk stockings.
I didn’t let myself consider the professor had supplied them. Ms. Dillard had been in charge of acquiring the gown, and it was sensible to include these elements as well. They were logical accompaniments to the outfit. The woman’s attention to detail and sense of duty wouldn’t have allowed her to order items unfit for the Hughes family, even if she wasn’t particularly fond of the person she was ordering for.
I dressed in the luxurious items, taking care not to rip the stockings, drawing them over my knees to fasten with the garter. The underthings were something to be admired, but the dress was a show of its own, and I gazed at myself in the white floor mirror. I traced the beads at the neckline, then touched the ends of my unstyled hair. Even dressed in such beautiful things, I didn’t see a woman of the modern age. Above my shoulders I was every matron at every girl’s school in the country. I searched my own face, looking for a spunky, vivacious woman that I wished existed. I considered the high bridge of my nose and the rounded slope of my cheeks. These features were reminiscent of my mother, who had been beautiful and cruel. My current outfit would have caused her a tantrum. I sighed at my reflection, then had a devilish urge.
I emerged feeling both a queen and a fraud. Though Felicity wasn’t the exuberant type, the awe in her eyes was enough to make me flush. She complimented the beads and the dress’s flattering fit, and I loved her for it.
“Will you cut my hair?” I asked, imagining my mother rolling in her grave.
“Cut it?”
“Yes, short, like they wear it in the city.” It crossed my mind that Felicity had been sequestered here in the middle of nowhere for who knows how long. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Like in the Sears catalog?” she asked, taking a lock of my hair and examining it.
“Yes, exactly,” I said, surprised Ms. Dillard allowed a Sears magazine in the house.
She considered for a moment, a smile spreading across her pretty mouth. She disappeared for several minutes then returned with scissors and immediately guided me to the bathroom, draping a towel over my shoulders. She repeatedly warned me she’d never cut hair and asked me if I was sure before we finally began. The process was full of small gasps and bits of laughter, and I held my breath as my hair fell to the tile in snaky, coiled heaps.
When Felicity was done, I found someone new peering back at me in the vanity glass. A woman who wasn’t afraid of old houses, wasn’t teased by men but did the teasing, who didn’t care what old housekeepers thought about her, and who slept well at night sure her worth was more than any could afford. The edge of the straight bob hung a touch below my cheekbones. The ends still wanted to curl, and Felicity tamed them with a comb and an exotic-smelling ointment in a crème tin. While she was working to straighten the flyaways, I ventured for some insight.
“Are you familiar with any of the people who were invited tonight?” I asked.
“Yes, all of them,” she replied. “They all came frequently until Professor Hughes shut up the house and stopped letting visitors in.”
“Can you tell me anything? I’m dreadfully nervous.”
We went down the list, a short one of only six people.
“Well, I know Mr. and Mrs. Terrance own stock in the perfumery, and Mr. Terrance is a board member. He spends a lot of time at the factories. Mrs. Terrance helps design some of the labels. They’re both very nice. Mr. Terrance does tend to be blunt.”
This didn’t seem too frightening.
“You know Dr. Hannigan already. He always comes to these. His niece will be coming tonight too, and she’s a friendly sort.”
“And Horace,” I finished. “Jack Horace and his wife.”
Felicity fumbled the comb, and it caught, pulling. We locked eyes in the mirror.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m surprised is all. Mr. Horace is a wonderful man. He’s Professor Hughes and Mr. Terrance’s old school friend. He teaches literature at a boys’ institute somewhere east of here. He’s always got the best stories. His wife…” She paused. “She’s odd, and Professor Hughes doesn’t get along with her. She caused trouble in the house some years ago.”
An ominous sensation unfolded beneath my sternum.
“What sort of trouble?”
“She lied about something significant, and it devastated Mrs. Hughes. I’m sorry, miss, that’s all I can say. It’s not my place.”
The frightened look I’d often seen returned to her eyes, and she shrank in on herself.
“It’s all right. Thank you for warning me. Also, I beg you, don’t call me miss. Just Millie.”
A tentative smile chased the apprehension off her face.
“Well, what do you think of your new style, Millie?” she asked.
“I believe I’m ready to face whatever this party throws at me,” I replied.
