“Maybe.” I mimicked her overly sweet tone. “I’m not too worried. I think training in the country gives me fresh perspective.”
Training was a ridiculous stretch of the truth. My training, if one could even use such a word, was entirely self-directed and had occurred at the dining room table in our pub and over the threadbare quilt on my bed, where I’d spend hours sketching, studying the fashion pages, and sewing my own creations.
Sophie’s eyes widened in a moment of surprise, and then she smiled. It was a small smile and the last thing I expected. I glanced down at the patterned paper lining the bottom of my vanity drawer, unable to hold her gaze.
“Well.” That small, secretive smile still hung around her lips. “We shall see, Emmaline Watkins.”
My name sounded strange in her low voice, as though I was hearing it for the first time. I didn’t know how to respond tosuch a comment, so I pretended to be occupied with the corset I held. Yet while my eyes were fixed on it, my mind raced. I didn’t want to be a private seamstress to an aristocrat, even if everyone assumed that was the highest I could climb. I wanted tocreate, to actualize the visions living in my head, even if my dreams were preposterous for a girl from the country with no family name or wealth to speak of.
“Oh, usually the maid unpacks for us, but I don’t think she did for you.” Sophie suddenly changed the subject, motioning to my carpetbag. It sat near my bed, a blight on the beautiful room, still full of my things.
I put the corset back into the drawer and walked over to the bag. Leaning over, I intended to shove it beneath the bed’s dust ruffle and unpack it later, when I was alone. But as soon as my fingers touched the soft, familiar fabric, I couldn’t shove it away. No, it wasn’t very nice. But it was one of the few things I had, and it was part of me, as much as my work-callused hands.
I pulled my pencils and a ream of paper out of it and carried them to my vanity. I wanted the rhythmic comfort of my pencil tip against a blank page. Sophie observed, still turned in her chair.
“Can I see your designs?”
“Um...”
“What’s wrong? I’m sure they’re very good.” She arched an eyebrow as she spoke, as though she’d already decided my sketches were terrible and was challenging me to prove otherwise.
“Fine.” I pointed to my carpetbag, where several loosesketches rested atop my other sketchbook. This girl wasn’t my friend, that was for sure. But I didn’t want everyone thinking I was a talentless pity hire. Sophie got up, her black silky robe sliding even farther down her elbows. As she brushed past me, the scent of violet–witch hazel perfume filled my nose.
She laid my sketches out evenly on the floor, one next to the other. My pencil stilled on the paper as she knelt to examine them.
“Detailed, aren’t they?” she asked.
“I suppose so.”
She held a sketch of a midday organza gown with a wide belt of round crystals accenting the waist. I’d titled itMy Mother Going to the City. As I’d drawn it, I’d told myself a story about my mother deciding to return to the city and walking through Shy in the gown before leaving. Our neighbors, especially the ones who judged and pitied us, stared at her in awe. Out of all the sketches, Sophie had found the one that I thought about the most.
The sketch was a little silly—my mother would die before she’d wear a dress like that, yet I’d designed it to fit her bony form and sallow skin, deliberating over each decision until it was perfect.
The sight of it stung in the sharp, instantaneous way saltwater stings an open cut. I didn’t want to think about my mother alone in the pub. I needed to write her. In fact, I would write her tonight and tell her I was sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Then she would write me back and I’d know everything was right between us.
“They aren’t too bad.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” she said. “I have to admit—I thought you a token contestant and nothing more. But you are... capable.”
She considered me, a new look in her eyes. It wasn’t quite admiration, and it wasn’t quite respect. But it was something close to those. I self-consciously ducked my head, quickly trying to change the subject.
“Can I see your sketches?”
“Not now,” Sophie said. “Maybe later, once I’ve finished some new ones.”
The pleasant feelings vanished. I’d just shown her mine and she wouldn’t show me hers? I wanted to snatch my sketch away from her. I should have never let her see my work. Now she knew things about me, about what I could do, and I didn’t know anything about her in return.
“As I said, you are capable, Emmaline.” Sophie’s tone was brisk, professional. “I’ll give you a bit of advice. The other girls will try to trip you up. Be wary.”
“Advice? Just earlier, you were embarrassing me in front of everyone.”
“Oh, come now. I was feeling out Madame Jolène. That exchange had very little to do with you.”
“Certainly didn’t seem like it.”
