Queen of Babble

It was an American woman named Amelia Bloomer who first spoke out against the dangers of the crinoline (and also the unhygienic practice of wearing skirts that swept the earth and floor). She encouraged women to adopt the “bloomer,” a baggy-legged pant worn beneath a knee-length skirt that would not in any way be considered immodest today. The Victorians, however, objected strongly to women wearing the pants in the family, and “bloomers” went the way of Members Only jackets and Hall amp; Oates.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

16

A lover without indiscretion is no lover at all. Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in terms.

– Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), British author and poet

Jean-Luc?”

Wait. Who said that?

“Jean-Luc?”

My eyes fly open. Luke is already on his feet and rushing for the attic door.

“I’m up here,” he calls down the narrow staircase to the third floor. “In the attic!”

Okay. What just happened? One minute he was about to kiss me-I’m almost sure of it-and the next-

“Well, you had better come down now.” Dominique’s voice sounds prim. “Your mother’s just arrived.”

“Shit,” Luke says. But not to Dominique. To Dominique, he calls, “Right. I’ll be down in a second.”

He turns around to look at me. I’m sitting there, the Givenchy evening gown still spilling off my lap, feeling as if something was just ripped from me. My heart, maybe?

But that’s ridiculous. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I didn’t. Even if he was going to.

Which he wasn’t.

“We should go,” Luke says. “Unless you want to stay up here. You’re welcome to anything you want to take-”

Except the one thing I’m starting to realize I want most.

“Oh,” I say, standing up. I’m mildly surprised to find that my knees can still support me. “No. I couldn’t.”

But I haven’t let go of the evening dress, a fact Luke notices, and which causes one corner of his mouth to go up in a knowing way.

“I mean,” I say, looking down guiltily at the armful of silk I’m holding, “if I could just take this and maybe try to restore it-”

“By all means,” Luke says, still trying to hide his smile.

He’s laughing at me. But I don’t care, because now we have another secret together. Soon I’ll have more secrets with Luke de Villiers than I do with anyone else.

Although, thanks to the Lizzie Broadcasting System, I don’t have secrets with anyone else. This is definitely something I need to work on.

I follow Luke down the stairs. Dominique is waiting at the bottom. She’s changed from her bathing suit into a cream-colored, very contemporary linen dress that leaves her shoulders bare and makes her waist look tiny. On her feet, I’m quick to note, are a pair of slides with wickedly pointy toes.

“Well,” she says when she sees me trailing behind Luke, “you certainly got the full tour, didn’t you, Lizzie?”

“Luke and his father were very thorough,” I say, trying to hide my guilt. Why should I feel guilty, though? Nothing happened. And nothing was going to happen.

Probably.

“I’m sure they were,” Dominique says in a bored voice. Then she casts a critical eye over Luke. “Look at you. You’re all dusty. You ca

If Luke doesn’t like being bossed around like this, he doesn’t show it. Instead he heads off down the hall, calling, “Tell Mom I’ll be there in a minute,” over his shoulder.

I start for my own room, where I intend to stash the evening gown until I can find some lemons or, even better, cream of tartar to soak it in. I’ve had luck in the past getting rust stains out of silk with both.

But Dominique stops me before I can take a single step.

“What is it that you have there?” Dominique asks.

“Oh,” I say. I unfold the dress and hold it up for her to see. “It’s just an old dress I found up there. It’s such a shame, it’s covered in rust stains now. I’m going to see if I can get them out.”

Dominique casts a critical eye up and down the garment. If she recognizes its significance as a piece of fashion history, she doesn’t let on.

“It is very old, I think,” she says.

“Not that old,” I say. “Sixties. Maybe early seventies.”

She wrinkles her nose. “It smells.”

“Well,” I say, “it’s been sitting in a moldy attic. I’m going to soak it for a while to see if I can get the stains out. That will help with the smell as well.”

Dominique reaches out to finger the smooth silk. A second later she’s reaching for the label.

Uh-oh. She’s seen it.

She doesn’t squeal, though, the way I did. That’s because Dominique can actually control herself.

“You are good at sewing?” she asks very calmly. “I thought I heard your friend Shari say so…”

“Oh, I’m just okay,” I say modestly.

“If you cut off the skirt here,” Dominique says, indicating a place where, if I were to cut off the skirt, the hem would hit her just above the knee, “it would be a cute cocktail dress. I would have to dye it black, of course. Otherwise it looks too much like an evening gown, I think.”

Whoa. Wait a minute.

“Because it is an evening gown,” I say. “And I’m sure it belongs to someone. I’m just going to try to restore it. I’m sure whoever it belongs to would love to have it back.”

“But that could be anyone,” Dominique says. “And if whoever it belongs to really cared for it, she would not have left it here. If it is a matter of cost, I will gladly pay you-”

I snatch the dress from her fingers. I can’t help it. It’s like she’s turned into Cruella De Vil, and the gown is a dalmatian puppy. I can’t believe anyone would be so vicious as to suggest cutting-not to mention dyeing-a Givenchy original.

“Why don’t we see if I can get the stains out first,” I say as calmly as I’m able to, seeing as how I am practically hyperventilating in shock.

Dominique shrugs in her French Canadian way. At least, I suppose it’s French Canadian, since I’ve never met one before.

“Fine,” she says. “I suppose we can just let Jean-Luc decide what to do with it since it’s his house…”

She doesn’t add, …and I’m his girlfriend, and therefore all couture spoils in his house should rightfully go to me.

Because she doesn’t have to.

“I’ll just go put it away,” I say, “and then come down to meet Mrs. de Villiers.”

Mention of the name seems to remind Dominique that she’s wanted elsewhere.

“Yes, of course,” she says, and hurries to the stairs.

Hideously relieved, I dart into my room and close the door behind me, then lean against it as if I have to catch my breath. Cut a Givenchy! Dye a Givenchy! What kind of sick, twisted…

But I don’t have time to worry about that now. I want to go see what Luke’s mother is like. I gently hang the evening gown from a peg in the wall (my room not having a closet), then strip off the swimsuit and dress I’ve been wearing all day. Then I throw on my robe and zip into the bathroom for a quick wash, makeup reapplication, and hair combing before coming back into my room to throw on my Suzy Perette party dress (I finally got the paint out).

Then, following the sounds of conversation drifting up from downstairs, I hurry to meet Bibi de Villiers.

Who turns out to be nothing like what I expected. Having met Luke’s father, I had built up a picture in my head of the kind of woman he would marry-diminutive, dark, and soft-spoken, to go with his dreamy absentmindedness.

But none of the women I see from the second-floor landing when I reach it fit this description. There are three women standing in the foyer-not including Shari, Dominique, and Agnes-and none of them is dark or diminutive.