Ironskin (19 page)

“Here’s the story,” Jane said finally. “Your father wants you to come down and meet these people tonight. You’ll like that, won’t you? All the ladies in their pretty dresses?”

Small voice. “Pretty dress?”

“Yes, one for you, too,” said Jane. “Your father brought you one from the city. And.” She took a deep breath before offering Dorie the bargain. “You won’t be wearing your gloves the whole time his guests are here.”

Dorie rolled over and looked at her. The first spark of interest lit her blue eyes.

“But,” Jane said, forestalling. “That means you have to be very good on your own, without the gloves.” The blue eyes flickered and she pressed harder. “Dorie. Your father is counting on you to behave. I don’t know how to impress on you how important this is to him. If we leave the gloves off during the day, will you promise me that you won’t do anything with the lights or moving things without touching them?”

“Mother stuff.”

“Right. No mother stuff. Your father would get in so much trouble, I can’t even tell you. Can you promise me that you won’t get him in trouble?” Jane held her breath, used her tiny bit of leverage for all it was worth. Would the girl do for her beloved father what she wouldn’t do on her own? She hadn’t when Jane arrived, but now, maybe, maybe after their weeks of work and toil, the days of wearing the hated gloves…?

Slowly Dorie nodded. “I promise,” she said.

*   *   *

Mindful of her charge’s fragile self-discipline, Jane cranked the gramophone for Dorie for most of the morning, and she did not make her do any of the hand exercises that would persuade her that “mother stuff” was a good idea after all. Even with the door shut, she heard the entrances and chatter in the foyer below, as the house party guests arrived one by one. After lunch Dorie wanted to go outside, and Jane eagerly seized on that, glad Dorie seemed to be taking an interest in life again.

When they exited Dorie’s rooms, another guest was arriving. The servant’s footsteps were silenced by the carpet, but the door creaked as it opened. Dorie tugged to go see, but Jane clamped down on her hand, held her fast. She recognized that plum silk wrap, that drawling, amused voice.

Jane and Dorie went out the servants’ side door, wound their way past a coach and four, a shiny black steam-powered convertible, and the same reliable old Peter with his lurching motorcar who had dropped Jane here two months ago. He pulled out onto the road, looking shell-shocked by the passenger he’d just dropped off.

Jane and Dorie crossed the hard-packed road, walked out the opposite way from the forest, walked onto the open moor. It was the end of April, and wildflowers were beginning to bloom in the heath: purple heather and yellow cowslip and fringed blue-eyes like tiny daisies, no bigger than Dorie’s thumb. The fields around Jane’s childhood home had been covered in cowslip; it had been blooming early the year she and Charlie marched into battle. So she looked away from the butter yellow petals and envisioned the field in another month, when it would be covered with color, the cowslip lost in a sea of purple and blue.

The ground was damp. She leaned back on her hands, watched bits of white and grey after-storm clouds chase each other around the sky. The sky behind them was as blue as the daisies, which made the clouds the white petals, blown carelessly across it.

Dorie ran around the field as if she’d been let off a leash. There was already more pink in her cheeks and her curls were bouncing back to life. Amazing what a holiday from work could do. When Dorie tumbled on the grass in a clump of the tiny blue daisies, Jane watched her out of the corner of her eye.

Dorie stretched her palm over a yellow blotch of cowslip. Jane waited, dying inside, wondering what choice Dorie would make. Wondering what she could do if the girl refused to play along, if she refused to keep her extra abilities under wraps. It would look strange to have her in the mesh gloves, but there wasn’t another alternative if Dorie didn’t cooperate. And if her love of her father didn’t make her try for these two weeks, what else did Jane have to bargain with?

Slowly, slowly, Dorie withdrew her palm.

No flowers jumped to her hand, no blue lights sketched patterns on the moor.

She also did not lean over and pick the cowslip with her fingers, but Jane was all right with that. Dorie didn’t have to succeed in all her goals today, as long as she started to show some control.

Dorie looked over at Jane, who was careful not to show that she was studying Dorie’s behavior. She put her hand over the flowers one more time.

Then she jumped to her feet and started running down the moor again, running in circles, running with her curls streaming behind her.

Jane let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and wiped a cheek she hadn’t known was wet.

Chapter 11

MASK AND SHADOW

By evening the guests were all in. All dined, already bored and ready for the amusement of repairing to the drawing room with drinks and painted chocolates. One of the younger girls sat down at the rosewood piano—to show off, but she was good, and the latest waltzes sang from the freshly tuned keys. The women laughed and flashed rings and angled their hips to display their dressmakers’ concoctions of slim silk and beaded net.

And yet. Now that Jane knew Edward’s true occupation, she saw the women with a different eye. Not art patrons, but women wealthy enough to buy themselves new noses and cheekbones. Not content with the normal faces she’d give anything to have. For an instant she viewed them with disdain, sad creatures focused on appearance. And in the next moment that superiority washed away in shame as she reminded herself that she was focused on her own looks, whatever justification she felt she might have.

Jane ducked out of the shadow of the doorway as one of the new hires hurried through, intent on not spilling her tray. The woman’s pinched, set mouth implied it had been a long day for her already, trying to properly navigate her new employment. Jane wondered if it would be better or worse to carry a tray rather than mind a child. More boring, certainly—but perhaps easier during times like this.

But at least she was not poor Edward, having to actually give the party. Jane was not so naïve as to think he’d rather sit and talk to his fey-scarred governess, but still. She would hate to give parties for all those frighteningly perfect people, so she sympathized with him.

Jane went slowly up the stairs and sat on the bed in Dorie’s room. “Ready to wake up?”

Dorie roused, blinking sleepy eyes.

Jane gently untangled the golden curls, helped the girl from the bed. A shame, keeping her up past her bedtime. Jane lifted the rose-pink dress off the padded white hanger. “Are you awake enough to go?”

Dorie swallowed a yawn, nodded firmly, face lighting at the sight of the party frock. Jane smiled, glad a new dress could still catch Dorie’s interest. She helped the girl into the frock and was attempting to tie a decent-looking bow in the silk sash when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Jane, expecting Martha with their summons. And yet when she looked up it was Edward, staring down at Jane ministering to Dorie, an oddly soft look on his face.

“Father!” said Dorie, and she ran to him, leaving the sash to trail behind.

He set down the paper-wrapped parcel he held, scooped Dorie up in his arms, and swung her around till she giggled. Jane had never seen him do that, and she thought: He is happy, and look how she beams from it. How did he get that way, and can it happen more often?

Edward stopped spinning and came to a halt, still holding Dorie, and for a moment looking very boyish indeed. His hair had already gotten mussed, and one of the locks stood straight up. “You are going to be perfectly behaved tonight, I can tell,” he told Dorie, and she nodded.

Jane smiled faintly at the two of them, and did not say, “We hope so.”

He set Dorie down. “Your tail is trailing,” he told her solemnly, and she laughed again, beaming at them both, and for one ridiculous moment the three of them were lit with happiness, because of how
normal
it all was, could be. “Be good and let Jane tie it.”

Dorie let Jane catch her trailing sash, and Jane bent again to the task. Her fingers slipped on the silk, but at last she managed a creditable attempt at a bow, and she set Dorie free to spin around in front of the mirror, engrossed in the whirl of her skirt.

Edward cleared his throat.

“Yes?” said Jane, and she was surprised to see hesitancy in his face.

He picked up the lumpy brown parcel from the floor and handed it to Jane. It felt like cloth, folded and wrapped in butcher paper to keep it tidy. “The slippers from your sister, and a dress for you,” he said at last. “If it would please—if you like it.”

“Thank you,” said Jane, but he cut in:

“It’s nothing, just from the attic. Just washed and pressed is all.” He spread his hands. “Perhaps I should have picked you up something in town.…”

“That would not be necessary,” said Jane, meaning,
that would not be appropriate,
and she felt warm with embarrassment. “Thank you for this.”

“So you will come,” he said, and his usual assured cynicism seemed to flow back in, his mask settling back in place. “You will save me from being quite alone down there. Ah, Jane, I told you once of the tale of the beastly man, but do you know the famous tale of Tam Lin? Stolen away by the fey, and for his beloved to win him back, she had to hold him as he changed into a variety of loathsome beasts.”

“I have heard it,” said Jane. She wished they could return to the Edward who swung Dorie around, rather than the Edward who brooded on fey tales of misery and despair.

“I request that you not think badly of me as I change into that most loathsome of all beasts, the Gentleman,” he said.

“I would hardly think badly of you for being a good host to your guests, sir.”

“And yet I am certain that to once lose Jane’s good opinion is to lose it forever,” he said, and that bit of cowlick waved madly. “So I ply her in advance with dresses and words, hoping she will take pity on poor Tam Lin when he becomes an ogre.”

Jane did not know what to say to that.

He laughed, a laugh with
dark
in it. “Jane, if you could see your face. You are certain I have quite lost all remaining sanity. Well then, never mind me, but array yourself in my finery with all speed, and bring that little terror with you. Make haste, Jane.” And he was gone, even as Dorie still whirled in front of the mirror.

Jane clutched the package to her. “Wait for me,” she told Dorie, and she hastened to her room.

She tore open the butcher paper and the dress spilled out on her bed.

The golden dress from the attic.

Jane held it close, warmth flooding her face. He had picked this one for her. He had thought about the gowns and said, this one. Jane will look well in this one. Their tastes had coincided on the exact same dress.

Jane recalled herself with a sigh, and with a bump came back to reality. No, Martha had seen her mooning over it; she probably picked it herself.

She quickly washed her face, sponged down her arms, and changed into the gold dress. It fit beautifully—but the flowing pre-war styling meant it would fit many girls equally well. More surprising was that the dancing shoes from Helen fit perfectly—she must have gotten Jane’s measurements from the old cobbler, though the man who’d made her work boots had surely never made these beaded beauties.

Just as with the silver dress, Jane felt odd in her new attire, a different person—though in the silver dress she had felt like Jane-as-she-was-supposed-to-be, and in the gold she felt—like a fraud? Like a creature from another time, another place? This dress made her into a not-Jane, not any version of Jane. A lady in a different time, a wealthy girl in an estate like this, one of his houseguests from the city. Getting ready for an exciting night of dances and meaningful looks and stillnesses of wild heartbeats. She would never have been Blanche Ingel, with her perfectly chiseled face; she could not be Nina, with her rapier wit and striking demeanor. A friend of the Misses Davenport, perhaps—those two silly girls with their wide eyes and their fits of giggles. Girls, because they had not yet had a reason to grow up. Here before the Great War, in a world where the fey were estranged and practically forgotten, and there was nothing more pressing for any of the guests than to drink too much and to meet a charming stranger. Some tall mysterious man who stepped in behind her with a sardonic quip about the party, and as soon as she dared turn around, she would look up and see his face, see who it was.…

Jane ruthlessly pinned back a stray lock of hair, shoving down that silly flight of fantasy.

The iron mask was cold around her eye. She readjusted the mask on the bridge of her nose, nudged the dark leather straps higher behind her head, where they blended into her hair. So almost pretty, if only she turned her ironskin away, if she only saw her cheek of normal skin, pale against her dark hair, so almost, almost, almost.…

“Pretty ladies,” Dorie said from the stairs, breaking Jane’s spell. Jane hurried after her, concentrating hard on the almost-girl in the rose-pink dress. She picked the child up and swooped her down the last few stairs, and Dorie giggled, before standing upright and saying solemnly, “No, I am grown-up tonight.”

“I believe you are,” said Jane, and they looked at each other and Jane thought—maybe I have done some good, after all. She curtseyed and motioned Dorie to proceed her into the drawing room, and Dorie did, pink step by pink step, looking perfectly happy, intrepid, normal.

She was surprised to see that Mr. Rochart was not in the drawing room. There was a small knot of guests by the piano where the younger Miss Davenport was still playing and smiling up at one of the men. The elder Miss Davenport had her elbow on the piano, trying to steal attention from her sister.

Dorie trotted confidently to the pretty ladies as Jane found a seat behind a table with a large plant on it. The drawing room had seemed bigger this morning before the guests, before Cook had had extra chairs brought from the attic and moved in. Now the piano was too close, the lipsticked girls in their slinky frocks too near. Edward had told her to come, bolstered her self-assurance with his confidences—but he was not here, and the girls very much were.