Thread: Southern Girl [ Ariamella & Reydan ]

RE Southern Girl Ariamella Reydan Lucy's eyes watched Virgil as he came in and walked out, curiosity filling her shining blue orbs. She almost beamed at his words but smiled to herself instead, thinking for the first time since arriving that this was the Virgil Abernathy she knew. His words coated her like honey, making her giddy with warm emotion that sent butterflies through her stomach. How was he able to still make her feel like this after so long? He always did have a way with words, able to weave them together to make a her feel beautiful. Well, probably other women as well -- Camilla was evidence of that -- but he was the only one to ever make her feel that way. Oh, she loved playing those games when she was younger. She remembered a party for when she turned 16 she remembered a young Virgil telling her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes upon. You're an outrageous liar, she'd told him, only to hear him laugh back and say, I'm a liar about many things, Miss Rayne, but never about you. She closed her eyes, the memory washing over her like the warm sunlight from the windows, and her breath caught as she remembered the kiss that followed after his kind words. Her breath! Lucy swayed on the spot, slightly dizzy from the lack of oxygen in her lungs. She opened her eyes, looking at the girl in the mirror across from her. The dress was a pale orange, almost peach color that washed out her skin and made her blonde hair seem dull. It didn't look bad on her . . . not really. The conservative high collar wrapped around her neck, the sleeves extended down to her wrists, and the dress puffed around her with mounds of petticoats, accented by endless ruffles and lace. It wasn't a typical dress she'd wear to a party or an event and it was something that still screamed luxury and expense, but . . . like Virgil had said, it just didn't look right on her. The worst part was the corset, strung up much too tight and making it difficult for her to breathe. The corset, she almost gasped out, How many inches is it? Eighteen, the dressmaker said fondly, stepping back to look at what she probably thought was her masterpiece. Eighteen inch waist, and you do look so very beautiful. Like a doll. Lucy shook her head. Loosen it! Loosen it, please. Mademoiselle? The slim waist does look very pleasing to the eye -- all the best fashions from London call for such a slim waist, and your petite figure matches it very well. Lucy shook her head again, already beginning to reach behind her back to undo the buttons of the dress to get the boned contraption underneath. No. Lace me up to nineteen and a half, or twenty, or twenty and a half. Eighteen is much too small! With a slight look of regret, the dressmaker removed the dress and unlaced the corset, pulling it apart then tightening it to twenty inches. Is there a style of dress you'd prefer to this one? The dressmaker started putting the dress away, leaving the Virginian woman in a bundle of stiff crinoline and underskirts, and she gestured to the dresses that lined the walls. No high collars, the younger woman answered almost automatically, And something a bit . . . simpler? Do include the ruffles, and maybe a bow? The grand patterns of the Northern fashions never really appealed to her, and the heavy floral prints made her feel like a walking tablecloth. No, she much preferred something simple in its beauty, with just enough accents to truly make it a masterpiece. She tried on half a dozen dresses before stopping at one, a wide smile lighting up her face. The dress had a layer of white with a layer of ruched scarlet skirts lying atop the white, and the bodice and sleeves were the same deep shade of red. The sleeves were off-the-shoulder and slightly ruffled, the neckline was almost pushing scandalous with its sweetheart design, and a sash wrapped around the waist to tie in a bow at the back. Yes, she thought, this was her dress. This one, she said at last. Mademoiselle? Are you sure? The current styles are pastels and -- This one, please, Lucy repeated once more, clearly happy with her decision. The dressmaker circled around her, a smile on her face. Yes, this one does suit you. Not quite what Madame Abernathy prescribed, but if Monsieur Abernathy finds it acceptable . . . then that will be good, non ? Would you like to present this dress to him as well? Lucy nodded, then paused as her eyes caught one of the tired dresses laying across the chair next to the dressmaker. A lavender one. Wait! I think I would like a pastel gown . . . that lavender dress? Yes, that one. The color and style were close to the one she had worn at fifteen, during her older sister's debutante party, except this dress was obviously made for a woman and not a budding adolescent. The neckline wasn't as low as the dress she had on now, but compared to the red, the lavender dress seemed calmer and sweeter, like a warm flame rather than a burning fire. Can I have it boxed now? No, it's fine if Monsieur Abernathy doesn't see it . . . As the dressmaker nodded and grasped the lavender gown, Lucy hopped off the platform and poked her head into the doorway leading to the room over, blonde hair tumbling over one shoulder. Virgil? she asked, eyes sparkling with unmistakable playfulness. Mr. Abernathy, I think I should like two dresses today. One for each week I was holed up in that grand home of yours, yes? Then in a calmer tone with an expression of pure delight, she said, You needn't pay for the other dress, actually. Mother left me money to buy my own clothing. But wouldn't you like to see this one? She flashed a quick grin at him before turning on her heel back into the room.