striking.
She looked over the several shirts she kept in the trunk at the foot of her bed, and chose the one with the most embroidery. A garden of flowers decorated the cuffs and scalloped collar, a feminine touch to the masculine garment. She chose breeches of dark red silk velvet, her quilted doublet to match, and her leggings were white tights. As she drew these on, a bit of a thrill skittered through her. It would be exciting to go out in public dressed in men’s clothing but not to pass as a man. Her doublet had been tailored for her, and revealed much of her shape the way a gown might. It also contained her bosom and kept it from sloshing and bouncing. The sleeves of her linen shirt hung loose about her arms, and the cuffs were drawn snug. The vines of embroidered flowers threw tendrils up the sleeve a little bit, a touch of femininity that would have caught the eye regardless of the garment. Her shoes were also a feminine style, the heels far too steep for even the most fancy man to wear.
She had Sheila pin her hair and curl it in an elaborate, terribly feminine arrangement, and she painted her face exactly as she would if she were wearing her finest gown. Bloodred lips. Blush for the cheeks of a girl. Thick, black linen eyelashes attached with the thinnest line of glue. A single black linen patch, also attached with glue, in the shape of a star just above the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t rich enough for more, but this much would declare her a woman. Possibly even a pretty one for her age and not just “handsome.”
A peek at what she could see in her mirror pleased her. Her costume was unique, hardly boring, and would certainly put those who saw her off balance. The thought amused her, and she couldn’t wait to see reactions. For so many years she’d struggled to be invisible, afraid of attracting the attention of those without her best interests in mind, and now the freedom that came with the money the theatre brought made her a little giddy.
The boy, Christian, pounded on her door and announced loudly the sedan chair she’d sent for had arrived. She rode it the few streets over to the Goat and Boar near the river.
The grimy public house lay tucked into a tiny, nameless alley off Bank Side, so narrow a carriage couldn’t enter it, and never mind turning around. Even the carriers of the sedan chair had to back out for lack of space to turn around.
Suzanne entered the tavern, which at this time of the evening was gathering its clientele as a shepherd gathers his flock at sunset, and paused just inside the doorway to see who was there. The fire burned high and hot, and threw a goodly amount of yellow light into the front room, which was close with men and dotted with women there on business. Suzanne noted that bosoms were in full view, one or two entirely exposed and hanging over a ruffled neckline. She’d never gone quite that far to attract a customer, even in her more desperate days, and wondered at how things had changed since the king’s return a year ago. Was this a French fashion, or was it simply the English had lost their grip on propriety and wished to out-French the French in the absence of Cromwell? Whether this new freedom was a good thing or not remained to be seen.
The public room had only one free table, and there were voices coming from the rear room. The upstairs private rooms would yet be empty, but later on toward midnight they would be alive with gatherings of mixed gender and varying number.
A few patrons paused in their conversation to gawk at Suzanne, and she found herself stifling a smile. Like the old days onstage, it thrilled her and almost made her laugh to be the center of attention and safely among friends.
The large table at the back of the room was crowded with The New Globe Players, and Matthew called out to her over the noise of talk. He had been drinking awhile, and as he leapt up to greet her, he knocked his chair over backward in his enthusiasm. Louis next to him
She looked over the several shirts she kept in the trunk at the foot of her bed, and chose the one with the most embroidery. A garden of flowers decorated the cuffs and scalloped collar, a feminine touch to the masculine garment. She chose breeches of dark red silk velvet, her quilted doublet to match, and her leggings were white tights. As she drew these on, a bit of a thrill skittered through her. It would be exciting to go out in public dressed in men’s clothing but not to pass as a man. Her doublet had been tailored for her, and revealed much of her shape the way a gown might. It also contained her bosom and kept it from sloshing and bouncing. The sleeves of her linen shirt hung loose about her arms, and the cuffs were drawn snug. The vines of embroidered flowers threw tendrils up the sleeve a little bit, a touch of femininity that would have caught the eye regardless of the garment. Her shoes were also a feminine style, the heels far too steep for even the most fancy man to wear.
She had Sheila pin her hair and curl it in an elaborate, terribly feminine arrangement, and she painted her face exactly as she would if she were wearing her finest gown. Bloodred lips. Blush for the cheeks of a girl. Thick, black linen eyelashes attached with the thinnest line of glue. A single black linen patch, also attached with glue, in the shape of a star just above the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t rich enough for more, but this much would declare her a woman. Possibly even a pretty one for her age and not just “handsome.”
A peek at what she could see in her mirror pleased her. Her costume was unique, hardly boring, and would certainly put those who saw her off balance. The thought amused her, and she couldn’t wait to see reactions. For so many years she’d struggled to be invisible, afraid of attracting the attention of those without her best interests in mind, and now the freedom that came with the money the theatre brought made her a little giddy.
The boy, Christian, pounded on her door and announced loudly the sedan chair she’d sent for had arrived. She rode it the few streets over to the Goat and Boar near the river.
The grimy public house lay tucked into a tiny, nameless alley off Bank Side, so narrow a carriage couldn’t enter it, and never mind turning around. Even the carriers of the sedan chair had to back out for lack of space to turn around.
Suzanne entered the tavern, which at this time of the evening was gathering its clientele as a shepherd gathers his flock at sunset, and paused just inside the doorway to see who was there. The fire burned high and hot, and threw a goodly amount of yellow light into the front room, which was close with men and dotted with women there on business. Suzanne noted that bosoms were in full view, one or two entirely exposed and hanging over a ruffled neckline. She’d never gone quite that far to attract a customer, even in her more desperate days, and wondered at how things had changed since the king’s return a year ago. Was this a French fashion, or was it simply the English had lost their grip on propriety and wished to out-French the French in the absence of Cromwell? Whether this new freedom was a good thing or not remained to be seen.
The public room had only one free table, and there were voices coming from the rear room. The upstairs private rooms would yet be empty, but later on toward midnight they would be alive with gatherings of mixed gender and varying number.
A few patrons paused in their conversation to gawk at Suzanne, and she found herself stifling a smile. Like the old days onstage, it thrilled her and almost made her laugh to be the center of attention and safely among friends.
The large table at the back of the room was crowded with The New Globe Players, and Matthew called out to her over the noise of talk. He had been drinking awhile, and as he leapt up to greet her, he knocked his chair over backward in his enthusiasm. Louis next to him
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