“Certainly not,” Leda said. “I believe it was a sultan who—ah—precipitated the unfortunate incident of the poultry.” Wringing chickens’ necks was not a subject suitable for mention by a lady. Conscientiously, she made an effort to improve the girl’s mind. “The Orientals are from Japan. Or Nippon, as it is properly called.”
“Where’t that be, then?”
Leda frowned, a little uncertain of her geography. Miss Myrtle had been a strong proponent of female education, but lacking necessary equipment—a globe, for instance—some of her lessons had made only a rather vague impression.
“It’s difficult to describe,” she temporized. “I would have to show you on a map.”
The girl’s needle flashed in and out of the silk. Leda wrinkled her nose at the reflection of the plaid dress in a cracked pier glass. She didn’t care for these strong patterns, and worse, the stiff silk didn’t drape well over the tournure. “See how it protrudes at the back.” She plucked disconsolately at the generous fall of material behind her hips. “I look suspiciously like a Scottish hen.”
“Oh, ’tisn’t so bad, Miss Etoile. The green’s nice enough with your eyes. Brings out the color. There on the table’s the cockade you’re to wear in your hair.”
Leda reached over and swept up the decoration, tucking it into the dark mahogany of her hair at several different angles before she was finally satisfied with the effect. The cockade’s dark green plaid was almost lost against the deep color of her hair, so she arranged the ornament with a rakish tilt. Miss Myrtle would have taken one glance and pronounced the effect rather too coquettish for elegance. She would then have found occasion to mention that she herself had once broken off an engagement with a viscount—a most imprudent action, she would admit—but girls of seventeen could frequently be counted upon to be foolish. (Here there always followed an expressive look at Leda each time the story was told, whether Leda happened to be twelve years old or twenty.) Miss Myrtle herself inclined to a genteel understatement of effect. That this refined inclination accorded conveniently with a very limited wherewithal to purchase vulgarly excessive trimmings and fashionable frivolities was a fact kindly overlooked by Miss Myrtle’s intimate circle: delicately bred ladies of similar circumstances who found themselves in complete agreement on the point.
But Miss Myrtle was passed away, and however much honored in Leda’s memory, such simple tastes were not in vogue for a showroom woman on the premises of Madame Elise, by Special Appointment dressmaker to H.R.H. the Princess of Wales. The tailor-sewn plaid it was to be, and the price of the elegant, tasteful Olivia bonnet Leda had been dreaming about (ready-made, with the chaste addition of a stuffed finch) was undoubtedly half gone in the cost of the golden medallion on the plaid cockade alone.
Mrs. Isaacson, present force behind the pseudonym of the long-vanished Madame Elise, came quickly into the cutting room. She handed Leda a set of cards, wordlessly looked her over, and nodded briefly. “Very nice. I approve of the hair ornament—well-placed. Help Miss Clark to arrange hers as jauntily, if you will. The girl is drooping.” She flicked her finger toward the cards. “There will be some English ladies with the foreigners. I believe that Lady Ashland and her daughter are also dark. Daylight and candlelight, the complete trousseau. Concentrate on the jewel-tones and perhaps pink—not a hint of yellow in anything, mind you—although ivory might do; we shall see. It’s a large party by the time they all arrive—six or seven at once. It’s my understanding that they may all wish to be advised together. You’ll be required to step forward if I need you.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Leda said. She hesitated, and then forced herself to add, “Ma’am—might I speak to you in private, if you have a moment?”
Mrs. Isaacson gave her a shrewd look. “I’ve no time to be private with you just now. Is it about the new showroom dress?”
“I’m living out, ma’am. At this time—it is…” Oh, how awful it was to be forced to speak like this. “I’m in difficult circumstances at present, ma’am.”
“The cost can be subtracted from your wages, naturally. Six shillings a week was the amount agreed upon in your contract.”
Leda kept her eyes lowered. “I cannot live upon the remainder, ma’am.”
Mrs. Isaacson stood silent a moment. “You are obliged to dress yourself appropriately to your position. I can’t permit an alteration in the contract, you understand. The terms were clearly stated to you when you came to us. It would set a precedent I cannot afford to set.”
“No, ma’am,” Leda said faintly.
Another little silence passed, barely endurable. “I shall see what can be arranged,” Mrs. Isaacson said at last.
Relief flowed through Leda.
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.” She sketched a curtsy while Mrs. Isaacson lifted her skirt and turned away.
Leda looked down at the cards. As was becoming standard practice in this year of exotic visitors, someone from the Foreign Office had sent along helpful etiquette tickets. Below the date were the scheduled appointments.
Japan party—8.00 A.M.
H.R.H. the Imperial Princess Terute-No-Miya of Japan. To be addressed Your Serene Highness. No English.
Imperial Consort Okubo Otsu of Japan. To be addressed Your Serene Highness. No English.
Lady Inouye of Japan. As daughter and representative of Count Inouye, Japan Minister of Foreign Affairs, to be addressed per diplomatic usage Your Excellency. Fluent English, educated in England, will interpret with no difficulty.
Hawaiian (Sandwich Islands) party—10.00 A.M.
H.M. Queen Kapiolani of the Hawaiian Islands. To be addressed Your Majesty. A very little English, will need interpreter.
H.R.H. Princess Liliyewokalani, Crown Princess of the Hawaiian Islands. To be addressed Your Highness. Fluent English, will interpret with no difficulty.
Lady Ashland, Marchioness of Ashland and her daughter Lady Catherine. Presently resident in the Hawaiian Islands. Intimates of the Hawaiian queen and princess.
Leda flipped back and forth through the tickets, memorizing the titles while the apprentice finished her hem. This was Leda’s element. Miss Myrtle Balfour had been zealous in her mission to bring up Leda in the proper etiquette to be observed by those received in good society. And truly, Leda had been received very cordially by the widows and spinsters of South Street. The aura of pleasant scandal that Miss Myrtle still retained from the days of that unspeakable man, in spite of some forty-odd years of living quietly retired in her parents’ house, was a passport to any number of odd fits and starts. A Balfour was to be allowed, even encouraged, to have her eccentricities—it gave a sweet tinge of adventure and daring to the demure little society in South Street. So the South Street ladies had bridled up and given a pretty direct snub to anyone who might question Miss Myrtle’s sense when she’d taken the notion to shelter the little daughter of a Frenchwoman in her home, and clasped Leda quite to their well-bred bosoms, so she had grown to womanhood among the faded flowers of Mayfair aristocracy, counting the elderly daughters of earls and vintage sisters of baronets as her close acquaintance.
All these Majesties and Highnesses were a bit grander than what she was accustomed to, however, and very kind and attentive of the Foreign Office it was to clarify the various relationships in advance, so as to avoid any threat of uncomfortable lapses. It would all pass off perfectly well, as it had when the Maharani and the Siamese ladies and the female mandarin had come last week.
With her hem finished, she went to select fabrics, carrying bolt after heavy bolt of brocades and velvets and silks to pile behind the counters in the showroom, where the tall, mirrored panels reflected back the rich pattern of the violet and amber carpet in the huge room. Other showroom women were doing the same, preparing for the press of regular clients, most all of them appointed for much later and more civilized hours of the day. She’d just laid the last bolt of striped silk atop the pile when the footman ushered Their Serene Highnesses of Japan into the showroom.
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Madame Elise cum Isaacson hurried to curtsy and scrape before the four delicate Oriental ladies who stood like frightened fawns just inside the door. They all stared at the toes of their Western-style shoes, keeping their hands flat against their skirts. The partings in their jet-black hair stood out in straight lines, as white as their porcelain faces. Madame Elise bade them a formal welcome in her best French accent, and asked if they would please to follow her.
She backed away. After three steps, it was clear that none of the Japanese ladies were going to follow. They stood there silently, staring at the floor.
Madame Elise glanced at the footman, and mouthed, Lady Inouye? with her eyebrows raised. The footman shrugged almost imperceptibly. Madame was put to the extreme expedient of saying aloud, in plain unaccented English, “Lady Inouye—may I presume to have the very great honor, Your Excellency?”
No one spoke. One of the two Japanese ladies standing half-hidden behind the others made a faint motion with her hand toward the figure just in front of her. Madame Elise moved a step toward the lady. “Your Excellency?”
The Japanese girl put her fingers to her lips. She smiled behind her hand, and then broke into a shy giggle. In a pretty, girlish voice, barely above a whisper, she said something incomprehensible, sounding rather as if she were trying to sing around a mouthful of water. She bowed slightly, pointed back out the door, and bowed again.
“Oh, dear,” Madame Elise said, “I thought Her Excellency was to speak English.”
The girl repeated her hand motion out the door. Then she put her fingers to her throat, bent over, and gave a theatrical cough. She motioned out the door again.
Everyone stood dubiously silent.
“Madame Elise?” Leda ventured. “Is it possible that Lady Inouye hasn’t come?”
“Not come?” Madame Elise’s voice had a tinge of panic.
Leda stepped forward. “Her…Ex—cellency,” she said, slowly and clearly, and then put her hand to her throat, coughed as the other girl had, and motioned out the door.
All four of the Japanese ladies bowed, their salutes varying in degree from a deep bending at the waist to just a slight bob of the head.
“Oh, dear,” Madame Elise said.
Another moment of silence passed.
“Mademoiselle Etoile,” Madame Elise said suddenly to Leda, “you may see to these clients.” She took Leda by one elbow and pulled her forward, presenting her like an offering, and then curtsied her way backward, out of range.
Leda took a breath. She had no idea which ones were the princess and imperial consort, but her best guess was that they were the two who stood in front, who had just barely nodded instead of bowing. With an opening sweep of her arm, she tried to motion them all toward the seats prepared around the largest counter.
Like an obedient little flock of geese, they walked with tiny steps toward the chairs. Two seated themselves, and the other two sank gracefully to their knees on the floor, eyes downcast.
Well, surely the two in the chairs must be the royalty, and the other some sort of attendants. Leda took a fashion book from the counter. Not certain which lady, between a princess and a consort, took precedence, she offered it to the one who appeared the oldest of the two.
The lady drew back with a negative motion, passing her palm like a fan in front of her face. Leda apologized and curtsied deeply to the other, offering the book there.
That one, too, declined to take the plate-book. As Leda stood with it held between her hands, she looked in desperation at the two on the floor. Surely not…would the lower position be superior in their country? She saw no choice: she offered the book to the nearest of the kneeling ladies.
It was the one who had pantomimed Lady Inouye’s indisposition earlier. Now, she held up her hand, refusing the book. She turned and spoke softly to the younger of the two ladies in the chair, who whispered in return. Leda stood helplessly while they mumbled back and forth. The kneeling girl turned back, bowed her forehead to the floor, and said, “San-weesh.”
Leda bit her lip, and then quickly composed her features. “San-weesh,” she repeated. “Fashion?” she added, holding out the book again.
It was firmly refused. Leda curtsied again and went behind the counter. She lifted two bolts of velvet and brought them out. Perhaps they wished to start with the fabric first.
The attempt was a failure. The Japanese ladies stared at the velvets without attempting to touch them. They began to speak softly among themselves.
“San-weesh,” the kneeling attendant repeated to Leda. “San-weesh aye-ran.”
“I’m so sorry,” Leda said helplessly. “I don’t understand.” She tried a lime-green silk. Perhaps they were looking for lighter-weight fabrics.
“San-weesh aye-ran,” was the soft, insistent response. “San-weesh aye-ran.”
“Oh!” Leda said suddenly. “Do you mean the Sandwich Islands?”
The kneeling girl clapped her hands and bowed. “San-weesh!” she repeated gaily. All of the Japanese ladies giggled. The older woman had blackened teeth that made her mouth seem a vacant space when she opened it—a very strange and somewhat disconcerting effect.
“You wish to wait for Her Majesty of the Sandwich Islands?” Leda asked.
The attendant responded with a stream of Japanese. Leda curtsied and stood uncertainly. The ladies put their small pale hands in their laps and cast down their eyes.
For two hours, until the ten o’clock appointment of the Queen of the Sandwich Islands, they all remained so, with Leda standing escort over the small group as they sat patiently, looking neither right nor left, but occasionally whispering among themselves. The only break in this exquisite torture was when Madame Elise had the presence of mind to send in a tray of tea and Savoy cakes, which the ladies enjoyed with dainty enthusiasm and more giggles. They seemed like smiling dolls, small and shy.
The big showroom was quiet enough that everyone could hear the carriage when it stopped outside at last, and the English voices at the front door. Leda felt so relieved that she forgot her aching back and curtsied deeply. “The Sandwich Islands,” she said hopefully, indicating the windows.
All of the Japanese ladies looked up and smiled and made their various bows.
In a few moments the Hawaiian party was at the door. A stately, slow-moving woman entered the showroom first, dressed in an excellently fitted purple silk morning dress which her ample bosom filled magnificently. Behind her was an equally large and graceful lady, a little younger and prettier, brown and broad-cheeked and regally composed.
Madame Elise moved forward and curtsied deeply. The second of the formidable pair said, “Good morning,” in pleasant, perfectly understandable English. She nodded toward the woman in the purple silk. “This is my sister, Her Majesty Queen Kapiolani.”
With an audible breath of relief, Madame Elise plunged back into her French accent. “Ze humble house of Madame Elise is honored by Your Majesty’s presence,” she purred, ushering the ladies forward.
Behind the Hawaiians, the rest of the party had paused on the threshold. Leda looked up, and for a bare instant forgot her manners in a gaze of open admiration.
Together in the doorway stood the two most beautiful women Leda had ever in her life beheld in one place at the same time. With the same high cheekbones and exquisite skin, the same glossy dark hair and wonderful eyes, mother and daughter made an arresting picture. They dressed simply, Lady Ashland in deep blue modestly draped over an insignificant dress-improver, avoiding the exaggerated poultry-like profile that Leda’s plaid gave her. The daughter—Lady Catherine, the etiquette ticket had named her—wore a debutante’s pale pink, her half-crinoline a little more fashionably expansive.
Madame Elise was still occupied trying to bring about communication between the Queen of the Sandwich Islands and the Japanese ladies, so Leda went forward to welcome Lady Ashland and her daughter.
Lady Ashland smiled in a friendly way, showing sun lines at her eyes that her daughter d
idn’t have. “How busy you must be,” she said comfortably. “We won’t burden you for long—the queen wished to have one morning dress especially from Madame Elise. She has asked us to tell you it needn’t be rushed through.”
Leda immediately desired to put the business of any friend of this pleasant lady’s before all others. “It is an honor and a pleasure to serve Her Majesty, m’lady. And we will be most pleased to help Your Ladyship in any way that you desire. There’s no trouble to us at all.”
Lady Ashland laughed and shrugged. “Well, I am no fashionable fribble, but perhaps—” She looked inquisitively at her daughter. Leda could see scattered strands of silver in her raven’s-wing hair. “Won’t you consider something, Kai?”
“Poor silly Mum,” Lady Catherine said in a lively American accent. “You know I love a corset as dearly as you do.” She tilted her head and smiled confidingly at Leda. “I just can’t tolerate the awful things.”
No corset? Lady Catherine was blessed with the sort of figure that would appear elegant in a flour sack, but no corset? Leda could hear Miss Myrtle turning in her grave. “We have a lovely rose-pastel swiss,” she said. “It would make up into a morning frock. Very comfortable and light, but so smart.”
The younger woman looked up beneath her lashes, a subtle spark of interest that Leda recognized instantly. She smiled and held out her hand toward the counters.
“Lady Tess?” The Hawaiian princess’ sweet, low-pitched voice interrupted their progress. “There seems to be a difficulty with the imperial party.”
All hopes that the Queen of the Sandwich Islands could communicate with the Japanese ladies seemed to have fallen flat. Madame Elise looked harassed as she stood among the alien group, where several of the Japanese had been sketching vague shapes in the air that appeared to mean nothing to the Hawaiian queen or her sister.
“We’ve no interpreter,” Leda explained to Lady Ashland, “but they seem to be very determined on some idea which none of us can manage to fathom.”