Part 31 (1/2)
”I think they're lovely,” Rose said, ”especially the yellow. It would be just perfect with my coloring. The blue would probably be more to your liking. It's a little more plain, less frilly.”
Fern looked at the blue, but her gaze turned back to the yellow dress. ”Which one would you wear to a party?” Fern asked.
”The yellow. The blue dress is meant to be worn at home or when visiting friends.”
”Then I guess I'd better try on the yellow dress first.”
Fern knew wearing that dress wouldn't be the answer to anything. It would probably cause more problems than it would solve, but she didn't care. She wanted to go to the party, and she wanted to go in that dress.
But it wasn't that simple. If she went to the party, she doubted she could ever go back to the life she had led before Madison got off that train. Fern resolutely closed her mind to the consequences. If she didn't, she wouldn't have the courage to go through with it.
All her life she had lived with fear, letting it dictate everything she did. Today she would cast caution to the winds. She would wear this dress, she would look as beautiful as she could, she would go to the party, she would dance all night even though she had no idea how to dance.
Very soon Madison would go away and there would be nothing left of her dreams. She had no choice but to accept that, but she would have this moment, this one last chance to unfurl her wings and fly toward the sun with all the other b.u.t.terflies. Just once in her life she would pretend she was just like any other woman, that she had the same chance for love. Just this once she would ignore reality, defy reason, thumb her nose at the sensible.
She would fly as high and as long as she could. It didn't matter if she singed her wings and plunged to earth. After tomorrow, n.o.body would see her again. Tomorrow she would move out to the ranch. Tomorrow she would put Madison Randolph out of her mind forever.
Only he would remain in her heart until she died.
”Strip down to your skin,” Rose ordered. ”I'll see if I can find a s.h.i.+ft that will fit you.”
”What for?” Fern asked. ”I can put the dress on over my own underclothes.”
”You can't try on a dress like you would a pair of shoes,” Rose said. ”You have to prepare yourself.”
”What do you mean?”
”You'll see.”
For the next half hour Fern allowed herself to be pushed and pulled, prodded and poked, discussed and argued over. Rose and Mrs. Abbott discussed styles and lengths of hair, lamenting that Fern had allowed her luxurious locks to become so dry and brittle. Mrs. Abbott virtually went into mourning over Fern's skin.
”I've seen better on a man,” she wailed. ”Don't you ever put cream on at night?”
”Papa would have taken a stick to me if he'd ever caught me putting grease on my face.”
”Cream,” Mrs. Abbott corrected. ”Grease is for boots. And look at her shouldersnot that they aren't much better than I thought, but her shoulders and arms are white as a sheet while her neck and hands are brown as an Indian. Where will you ever find a dress to cover her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes?”
Fern's self-confidence hadn't been very high, but Mrs. Abbott's strictures caused it to take a nosedive.
”It's not that bad,” Rose said, ”but we will have to improvise a high collar and long sleeves. Let's hope it's a cool night.”
”It's never cool in July, not even at night,” Mrs. Abbott told her. ”Well, there's nothing I can do about the weather, but I can do something about this skin,” Rose said. She took a jar from the table, touched her fingertips to the white contents, and gently ma.s.saged it into Fern's skin.
”It's disappeared already,” Mrs. Abbott exclaimed. ”Her skin's as dry as paper.”
”I've got a big pot of cream,” Rose said, dipping into the jar once more.
Fern let them rub and ma.s.sage. She knew it wouldn't make any difference. Even the paint the girls down at the Pearl Saloon wore couldn't make her beautiful.
”Now we've got to do something with her hair.”
”What?” Mrs. Abbott demanded. ”It's like trying to comb a bristle brush.”
”We've got to wash it first,” Rose said. ”Probably half the Kansas prairie is hidden in there.”
”I wash my hair regularly,” Fern protested.
”I was just kidding,” Rose said. ”One day in the Texas brush and everything needs was.h.i.+ng.”
Fern wasn't mollified by the tacit apology, but she meekly submitted to having her hair washed. Somewhere during the oil treatment she lost herself in a daydream. She was dressed in the yellow dress and surrounded by men clamoring for a chance to talk to her, telling her she was beautiful, wanting to dance with her, to bring her something to eat or drink, to escort her home, to take her for a ride.
Before she could decide how to distribute her favors, Madison appeared on the scene. Sweeping everyone aside, he took her into his arms and engulfed her in his embrace. Deaf to the shocked exclamations around him, he pressed his body against hers until she thought she would burst into flame from the heat. ''I don't think we ought to do any more than trim the ends,” Rose was saying.
”I think we ought to cut it short and curl it.”
”No!” Fern said, horrified at the thought of appearing anywhere in curls. ”My hair has never been cut.”
”What do you think about wearing it in an elegant chignon on the nape of your neck?” Rose asked. ”Or you could wear it on top of your head.”
”She'd be the tallest person at the party,” Mrs. Abbott objected.
Fern didn't care what they did as long as they left her hair untouched. She'd kept her hair long despite all the trouble it caused her. Her mother's hair had been long, and Fern had always wanted to be like her mother.
”It's a shame we can't show your shoulders,” Rose said, ”but your skin will improve if you stay out of the sun.”
”Not by tonight,” Mrs. Abbott said.
”No, not by tonight,” Rose said with a sigh. ”But I think I have a bolero jacket she can wear.”
Fern had lunch in her room while her hair dried. Rose visited with George and William Henry.
Fern decided that if being turned into a beauty meant having her hair washed all the time, her skin rubbed with oil until she felt like a greased pig, and dresses, jackets, and s.h.i.+fts by the dozen pulled over her head, young ladies like Samantha Bruce were much to be pitied. The waiting was awful. And boring. She was used to being active, being outside, giving orders, yet all morning long she'd sat in the same chair, never leaving her room, and agreeing to everything Rose said.
”What's that thing?” Fern asked when Rose and Mrs. Abbott returned after lunch.
”It's a corset,” Rose said of the garment in her hands. ”You put it on before you put on the dress.”
”You're not putting that thing on me,” Fern said, backing away from the stiff garment. She had heard about corsets. She had seen them on the girls at Pearl's. Sometimes a corset was about all they had on.
”It won't have to be tight,” Rose said. ”You're already very slim.”
”I'm not putting it on,” Rose said.
”You can't wear the dress without it.”
”No.” Fern eyed the corset as though it were some malevolent beast. She thought it was a barbaric contraption, the kind of thing Madison would have said had been thought up in Kansas.
”I'll hold her down while you slap it on her,” Mrs. Abbott offered.
”No,” Rose said. ”She has to wear it because she wants to. It won't work any other way.”