11"Tumbles"
If Ettie had her way, nightgowns would have been considered glamorous. If she were the queen of haute couture, then one would be able to attend social gatherings barefooted. And if she had the power and means to do it, she would have each and every corset upon the surface of the Earth be burned and sent back to the pits of Hell where they belonged.
"Aaah," hissed Ettie as the laces were tugged tighter. Her breaths were shallow and rapid as she was squeezed half to death. To be quite honest, she had avoided wearing the boned-death-mechanism as much as she possibly could in her lifetime and the feeling of near asphyxiation was a sensation she had still not grown accustomed to.
"Hold still," tutted her elderly maid, Gwyn, slapping Ettie's hands away from their perches on her impossibly narrow waist. Ettie drew a hand to her chest and closed her eyes as the corset continued to constrict around her.
"Is this really healthy?" Ettie wheezed as the laces were finally secured, and she was locked into the heinous garment. Gwyn stepped back, and looked over her work. In the reflection of the vanity, Ettie witnessed the familiar, calculated gaze of her lifelong companion. Gwyn's eyes raised from Ettie's waist and instead met her eyes in the mirror, offering a nod of approval.
"Perhaps not healthy," the elderly woman chirped, busying herself with the retrieval of Ettie's evening wear. "But I think it in our best interests to avoid the wrath of Her Ladyship."
Ettie let out a terse chuckle and placed her hands on her waist again. She watched from the corner of her eye as Gwyn shuffled over to her with a mountain of silk and chiffon clutched to her chest. Grappling the fabric from what Ettie assumed to be the shoulders, Gwyn released the rest of the material and unraveled a stunning, peach gown.
Ettie's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped as she stepped forward and admired the dress. She had seen plenty of dresses in her lifetime, but she had yet to come across one that was so...her. The soft, perfectly peach hue of the silk was accompanied by an over layer of colour matching chiffon. Silver beading ran along the waistline, creating ornate, vine like patterns at the top of the skirt. It was a floor length number, as was custom, but more narrow than many of her other gowns. The dress was topped off with a deep V-neckline and a series of tassels dropping off at the shoulders. Ettie was in awe.
"This is for...me?" She questioned, tearing her eyes away from the lovely gown and peering at Gwyn. Her hands began to shake, and she held them behind her back in shame. It took her a moment to realise that her tremors weren't symptoms of a panic attack; the butterflies in her stomach weren't the result of her anxiety. She was excited. She was giddy, and vain, and girlishly hopeful. She was happy.
"No dear, you shall wear the table cloth tonight," Gwyn deadpanned, pinching the fabric between her fingers. Even the weakest of Gwyn's sarcasm couldn't bring Ettie out of her giddy high. With an almost crazed smile, Ettie rolled her eyes and stepped into the pool of fabric. The silk was cool as it slid up her legs and torso before halting at her chest. Ettie slipped her arms through the capped sleeves, embellished with dangling tassels and marveled at the feeling of the strings ghosting across her forearms. The skirt felt airy and light atop her legs, and she couldn't resist the urge to twirl. Ettie giggled and smiled like an idiot as the feather light fabric fanned out, the beads glinting in the candlelight of her bedroom. Even Gwyn sported an unmistakable smile.
"Well, aren't we a sight," announced a familiar voice from the opposite end of Ettie's chambers. Startled, she felt the cool wood underneath her toes turn to silk as she slipped on the edge of her skirt. The world tilted as she pitched backwards and landed with a thump on her rear.
"Ettie!" Sylvie shrieked, rushing to her sister's side. The disability to knock on doors was clearly an inherited trait. As Ettie was pulled to her feet, she rubbed her bottom and winced. The effect her gracelessness had on her body was nearly abuse.
"Are you okay?" Sylvie demanded, grabbing for Ettie's head from her remarkable height. Ettie pushed her older sister's hands away and answered, "I'm fine."
Sylvie crossed her arms and sucked on her lip in thought as she looked over Ettie's figure. "You look pretty."
"Um, thanks," Ettie replied hesitantly. It was something of an astonishing occurrence to receive a compliment from Mrs. Sylvie Durmack. Not that she held back kind words, in fact often times Ettie would look on as her sister, always the suckup, would overwhelm their guests with flattery. No, it was merely a strange feeling to be called pretty from such a beautiful person. Didn't they become immune to such visions after seeing it in the mirror every day?
"You look very nice as well," Ettie returned the compliment, shooting back Sylvie's polite smile too. Sylvie looked beyond nice, with her golden, ringlet curls pinned back elegantly, and clad in a deep blue gown that complimented her fair skin. Ettie suddenly didn't feel quite so confident anymore.
"Well," Sylvie started, casting a quick gaze about the room, finally settling on Ettie's shoes sitting on the bed. "Mum just wanted me to see how far you were along. She expects you downstairs quite soon."
"I'll be there in a moment."
"Excellent, I shall see you down there." Sylvie spun back to the door, and with a measure of grace that Ettie could only dream of, disappeared into the corridor. The door shut softly behind her.
Ettie sighed and kicked out at her skirt, a measure of apprehension sinking in her stomach. If she could barely manage to twirl in the safety of her own room, how was she to make it through a night of dancing and maneuvering the crowd. Someone was bound to be hospitalized.
"Well, little Lady," Gwyn huffed, fetching the shoes and dropping them at Ettie's feet, "we best be getting you downstairs now."
Slipping into the tiny heels, Ettie took one last look at herself in the glass. She wasn't one for makeup, so there was no mistaking the dark circles under her eyes. Yet, she looked undeniably fresh faced, the thinnest sheen of powder blotted along her nose and forehead. Her unruly, chocolate tresses had been just barely tamed, Gwyn having wrestled them into a loose, yet somehow elegant twist that rested at the nape of her neck. The peach hues of the gown made her eyes look brighter than ever; the deep blue ring surrounding the paler hues towards her pupils were almost startling.
Ettie felt dainty. Confident. Beautiful, even. And she was damn sure that she was going to let everyone see it.
Madame Colt had a passion for parties and it was without a doubt in her mind that the woman was a great dancer. Ettie's mother had always been the most graceful woman she knew, even with her astonishing height which Ettie had once thought was bound to hold her back. She knew better now, though. Ettie's short legs and small torso hadn't given her much of an advantage in terms of balance. Sylvie inherited the gracefulness; Ettie needless to say, didn't.
Ettie maneuvered with the utmost caution as she made her descent down the grand staircase. Her grip on the railing rivaled that of a vice and every tap of her shoes on the marble was one small victory after the other. She had one last step left, when her skirt pulled taut over her knee and she was tumbling forward. A strangled screech just barely escaped her mouth when she felt something fly across her stomach and met resistance. She was pushed back onto her feet, back onto that last step mind you, and looked upon whom she had momentarily thought to be her hero. But then she saw his face.
"You."
"Me." A smug smile played the detective's face as offered his hand to Ettie. Grinding her teeth behind her thin mouth, she took his hand, calloused fingers and all, and once again made the last step of the staircase. Success was her's this time around, and as soon as her foot met the tiled floor, she pulled her hand away. With her head high, she stalked off, fully intending on leaving Sherlock Holmes behind her.
"A 'Thank You', would be nice," He huffed next to her ear. Clearly she was not in the favour of fate tonight. Coming to a halt that had the detective bumping into her for a moment, she turned around and with a blank face replied, "Thank you."
Holmes worried his lip thoughtfully for a moment, before tilting his head to her in acknowledgment and sauntering away to wherever psychotic sleuths went to nurse their egomania.
With an air of victory, Ettie continued on into the ballroom, exchanging empty smiles with people whose names she couldn't remember and nodding to gentlemen she must've met at some point or other. Men in their tails and women in extravagant gowns mingled in the midst of the dancefloor, the orchestra having just started to tune up. Finally, she spotted just the man she was looking for. With a genuine smile, she strode towards the stumpy, grey haired man. His creased face turned towards her, and his smile reached his lined eyes as she came into his view.
"Henriette! How are you my dear?" He chuckled, wrapping her in a one armed embrace as he balanced a glass of wine with the other. As always, he smelled of old books and peppermint; comforting smells that Ettie had long grown familiar with. She stepped back and and grinned, glad to be eye to eye with another person once again.
"I'm good, Papa. When did you get back?" She questioned, genuine curiosity in her voice. Her father, Lord Richard Colt, had spent the past month in New York. Ettie who had never set foot in the Americas was desperate to hear about strange accents and etiquettes.
"A few hours ago," he answered, rubbing circles on Ettie's back, "I'd have found you, but your mother warned me that you weren't in the mood for conversation."
Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she smiled sheepishly as her encounter with her mother had come back to mind. There was something of a tense atmosphere between the two, since the previous night. Madame Colt had insisted on moving up the date of Ettie and Jack's engagement party. Ettie had insisted that her mother was an overbearing control freak.
"Well, now is as good as ever," she chirped, and mirrored her father's smile. Turning back to his company, Lord Colt introduced his daughter to two men he claimed to be from his college rugby team. Clearly it had been ages since they had even touched a rugby ball, Ettie thought, noticing their surplus of girth. Mr. Bennet, a portly man with straw coloured hair, took her hand and offered her a smile, commenting that she looked the "spitting image of your mum". Ettie knew better than to take it to heart, because truth be told, she looked nothing like the tall, graceful Marie Colt. Mr. Bennet's companion, Mr. Herald, was at least a head taller than both her father and his blonde friend. Atop his head was a slicked back cap of flat, black hair, and a thin pencil mustache sat above his lips. His hand was clammy and cold; Ettie was glad when he let her own go.
For a few minutes Ettie listened in politely to the conversation amongst the three, agreeing and nodding halfheartedly when offered her cue. In all honesty, she had no idea what they were speaking of, her knowledge of her father's graduating class extremely limited. When she thought that she had stayed long enough, she excused herself and wandered back the way she came. As she shuffled her around the edge of the waltzing mass of guests, Ettie found herself on her tiptoes, peering over heads and looking through the gaps in the crowd. Jack had made a promise to show tonight, but Ettie had yet to see him.
With a huff, Ettie flagged down a footman and drew a glass of champagne off of the proffered tray. She took a sip of the bubbly drink, and spied an empty table close by. With her target in mind, she made her way over, mindful of not tripping over her skirt once more. It hadn't occurred to her that her dress may not be her only obstacle.
She had only looked up from her path once, hoping to catch a glimpse of her fiancé before committing to sitting alone for the rest of the night, when she was hit. The breath was knocked out of her as she rebounded off the wall of solid flesh, and she flailed her arms in a miserable attempt at balance. Two vice like grips shackled her wrists as her backward momentum came to a hault. She was drawn back, solidly on her feet once more before she realized with the utmost embarrassment that she had spilled champagne all over her victim's suit.
"I am so sorry!" she squeaked, her face burning as she stared at the dark splotch along his lapel. She quickly snatched a napkin off of the table, which she had been so close to arriving at without disaster, and hurriedly blotted at the stain. "Really, I wasn't looking where I was going, and you came out of-" her babbling ceased as she felt calloused fingers gently pull her hands away from his jacket and she looked up nervously.
"It seems as if we've made a habit of running into each other, now haven't we?"
Fantastic.