over messaline gown. Had she taken it, she was almost, very nearly, certain that no one would have missed it. But it wouldn’t do to have her character placed into question. Not when she was hoping to be taken into Madame’s confidence.
As Madame had said, it was outmoded. Done up in the fussiest of styles. All high-collared propriety, dripping with lace and wrapped up with a ridiculously large-bowed satin sash. It might have turned some heads a few years ago, drawn a few admiring glances. Oh, there was grace and elegance at the core of it, for wasn’t it one of Madame’s own designs? But its lines were stifled. They needed to be liberated.
Just like the Marne needed to be liberated from the Germans.
She’d rip that cage of lace from the neck, narrow the collar, slice the sash by half. Pull out the tucks in the tunic, lift the hem by five inches. No one would ever recognize it.
As she embroidered, she cast a longing glance in the gown’s direction. It was buried beneath gowns made in heavy navy moiré and aubergine wool crepe. All those lovely gowns and the new girl had left them right where Madame had placed them! What was wrong with her? Didn’t she know how it looked to wear the same tired, faded gown, day after day, to the city’s best gown shop? Didn’t she know how it must look to Madame? To see no sign of – no appreciation for – such a generous gift?
Luciana was eyeing that very same pile of gowns, wishing she knew what to do with them. She wasn’t sure, exactly, if she should take them home. If that was what Madame had intended. She could, of course – and with gratitude – but what would she do with them once she got them there? She had no tools and no ability to turn their dated lines into something more pleasing.
Oh, she could see their potential. The pink and white messaline gown with its silk embroidered net, for example. She would feel so much cooler walking through the city in a gown like that. She could picture herself fairly floating. It needed something, of course. It needed to be different. To be simplified. It was too . . . much. At the moment. But how was she supposed to make it something less?
Maybe . . . should she ask? For help? Surely the other girls would know what to do.
Annamaria did gorgeous smocking, but she didn’t seem to see the need for anything fashionable of her own. Julietta was quite the opposite; Julietta was the person she should ask. And she would, if only she didn’t feel such disdain, such judgment, every time the girl looked at her.
Perhaps that evening, after work, she would spend a few moments looking through the pile. She knew how to bead, didn’t she? Sewing couldn’t be that much more difficult, could it?
As Julietta and Annamaria ran down the stairs after work, Luciana lingered in the room, caught between the desire to turn to her advantage Madame’s generous gift, and the knowledge that she was inadequate for the task. Which was better? To take and wear one of the gowns as it was and look like she didn’t know frippery from fashion, or to keep wearing the one gown she owned and look exactly like who she was: a girl, pathetic and pitiable, who had fallen upon hard times.
She passed a hand over those luxurious silks and wools, pausing to admire a dated, though finely worked, lace fichu. Perhaps . . . perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow she would ask for help.
Mama Rossi had determined that tonight be the night. It was the night that she was going to advance her cause. Little by little. Step by step. Papa still had to be persuaded, but Mama had to have her tomatoes.
She set a plate of food before her husband and then took her seat.
He narrowed his eyes. Lowered his head to sniff at it. “What is it?”
“ Parmigiana di melanzane.”
“Parmigiana di melanzane?” He took up a knife and used it to lift the heavy layer of cheese that was draped over his slice of eggplant. “Where’s the gravy?”
Mama pushed from her chair, collected a
As Madame had said, it was outmoded. Done up in the fussiest of styles. All high-collared propriety, dripping with lace and wrapped up with a ridiculously large-bowed satin sash. It might have turned some heads a few years ago, drawn a few admiring glances. Oh, there was grace and elegance at the core of it, for wasn’t it one of Madame’s own designs? But its lines were stifled. They needed to be liberated.
Just like the Marne needed to be liberated from the Germans.
She’d rip that cage of lace from the neck, narrow the collar, slice the sash by half. Pull out the tucks in the tunic, lift the hem by five inches. No one would ever recognize it.
As she embroidered, she cast a longing glance in the gown’s direction. It was buried beneath gowns made in heavy navy moiré and aubergine wool crepe. All those lovely gowns and the new girl had left them right where Madame had placed them! What was wrong with her? Didn’t she know how it looked to wear the same tired, faded gown, day after day, to the city’s best gown shop? Didn’t she know how it must look to Madame? To see no sign of – no appreciation for – such a generous gift?
Luciana was eyeing that very same pile of gowns, wishing she knew what to do with them. She wasn’t sure, exactly, if she should take them home. If that was what Madame had intended. She could, of course – and with gratitude – but what would she do with them once she got them there? She had no tools and no ability to turn their dated lines into something more pleasing.
Oh, she could see their potential. The pink and white messaline gown with its silk embroidered net, for example. She would feel so much cooler walking through the city in a gown like that. She could picture herself fairly floating. It needed something, of course. It needed to be different. To be simplified. It was too . . . much. At the moment. But how was she supposed to make it something less?
Maybe . . . should she ask? For help? Surely the other girls would know what to do.
Annamaria did gorgeous smocking, but she didn’t seem to see the need for anything fashionable of her own. Julietta was quite the opposite; Julietta was the person she should ask. And she would, if only she didn’t feel such disdain, such judgment, every time the girl looked at her.
Perhaps that evening, after work, she would spend a few moments looking through the pile. She knew how to bead, didn’t she? Sewing couldn’t be that much more difficult, could it?
As Julietta and Annamaria ran down the stairs after work, Luciana lingered in the room, caught between the desire to turn to her advantage Madame’s generous gift, and the knowledge that she was inadequate for the task. Which was better? To take and wear one of the gowns as it was and look like she didn’t know frippery from fashion, or to keep wearing the one gown she owned and look exactly like who she was: a girl, pathetic and pitiable, who had fallen upon hard times.
She passed a hand over those luxurious silks and wools, pausing to admire a dated, though finely worked, lace fichu. Perhaps . . . perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow she would ask for help.
Mama Rossi had determined that tonight be the night. It was the night that she was going to advance her cause. Little by little. Step by step. Papa still had to be persuaded, but Mama had to have her tomatoes.
She set a plate of food before her husband and then took her seat.
He narrowed his eyes. Lowered his head to sniff at it. “What is it?”
“ Parmigiana di melanzane.”
“Parmigiana di melanzane?” He took up a knife and used it to lift the heavy layer of cheese that was draped over his slice of eggplant. “Where’s the gravy?”
Mama pushed from her chair, collected a
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