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ludi-ling · 15 days

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Maison Romy

So last summer I was hanging out with @narwhallove in Seattle, and she challenged me to write something that married my love of Romy with my love of historical fashion. She seemed to be really into it, and I was like, nah, it's not possible, but then she started throwing ideas -ahemdemandsahem - at me, and somehow something took hold and started sprouting.

This is as far as I got.

Will it ever be finished? I don't know. It's such a niche interest, I might continue writing it just for me. 😉

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Maison Hoareau was in decline.

For more than fifty years it had dressed queens and princesses and duchesses and debutantes, and they had done so with flair and panache. Now, in 1910, they still dressed the wealthy and the famous; but their clientele had grown as old and distinguished as they had. Very rarely did a pretty and winsome young lady cross their threshold.

Across the busy New York city street that separated them was the House of Burford. The House of Burford was only five years old, and had no distinguished lineage at all; but it was there that the pretty and winsome young ladies entered, and left with dainty parcels and smiles on their faces.

“What do they have that we do not?” Monsieur Hoareau asked from the head of his boardroom table. “We have beauty and taste and the finest fabrics from across the world; and what’s more, we have pedigree! Three generations at the forefront of fashion! How could they possibly compete?”

There were murmurings of assent around the table.

Remy LeBeau, however, stood at the window, and looked silently across the street to their rival.

A pretty young redhead was alighting from a motorcar, dressed in a startingly avantgarde concoction of furs and elegantly-arranged silk drapery. A returning customer – he had seen her before. With the exuberant stride of every fashionable young woman about to shop, she stepped past the very officious doorman and into the as-yet uncharted stronghold of the House of Burford.

“Young women do not care for pedigree,” he muttered to himself. “They only care to look beautiful, and more beautiful than anyone else around them.”

“What do you say, LeBeau?” Monsieur Hoareau demanded waspishly. “Speak louder, man!”

LeBeau turned away from the window.

“I say that if we want to appeal to young women, we must move with the times.”

He walked back over to the table, opened his portfolio, and pulled out his latest designs.

“If we want to expand our clientele again,” he said, handing out the drawings around the table, “we need to be bold, innovative, forward-thinking. But most of all, we need to be unique.”

There were hmm-ings and hah-ings as they took in his designs; but Monsieur Hoareau was shaking his head, saying:

“Monsieur LeBeau, this will not do!” He looked at one drawing, then another. “No, indeed, it will not! These are… why, they are tubes! Women do not like to wear tubes! They like tiny waists! And the drape of this one is quite ugly! Women like to show how slender they are! This coat swathes the figure, and does not show it off to advantage at all!”

LeBeau was used to this. He merely raised an eyebrow.

“I thought it quite fetching,” he noted. “And modern.”

Monsieur Hoareau drew his eyebrows together disapprovingly.

“Monsieur LeBeau,” he began testily, “can you imagine Lady Carruthers wearing such a garment? Or our dear First Lady?”

LeBeau said nothing. Far better to say nothing, than to confess he could not.

“Of course, our most esteemed clientele could not bear to be seen in such clothing,” M. Hoareau declared as if to put an end to the matter. “We would lose their custom, and that would be insupportable to Le Maison Hoareau! And so, Monsieur LeBeau, you will go back to the drawing board, and re-design these veritable monstrosities!”

LeBeau did as he was told, picked up the drawings, and walked back to his studio.

He sat at his desk, and laid out his designs. He stared at them a very long time.

Monsieur Hoareau, you see, was a businessman, and not a fashion designer.

Unlike his father and grandfather before him, he had no interest in the creative aspects of Maison Hoareau. He left that to LeBeau; and LeBeau had willingly and enthusiastically taken on the thankless task of being the creative lead of the world’s foremost fashion house. Thankless, as Monsieur Hoareau the Third had made it his life’s work to thwart every idea LeBeau had to turn the waning fortunes of his employer. Indeed, some of his best work had seen rejection after rejection. Today was no exception.

With a sigh, he ripped up his designs, one by one, screwed them up into a ball, and pitched them into the nearby wastepaper basket.

He lounged in his swing chair for a bit and stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the graceful Victorian plasterwork, intricate whorls and loops that were now thoroughly out of fashion.

An idea was forming in his head.

He got up and walked over to the window.

Across the road he saw the pretty redhead leaving the House of Burford, a pile of parcels precariously positioned in the arms of her driver, a broad smile on her pink lips. This was rarely a scene one saw at the Maison Hoareau.

What was their secret, he wondered? What was their magic? It had scarcely been a year since the House of Burford had set up shop across the way, yet the beached whale called Mr. Burford (which was what M. Hoareau insisted on calling him) had managed to exert some sort of magnetic pull on any young woman worth her salt throughout the neighbourhood. And, LeBeau thought with a lop-sided grimace, Mr. Burford was as much a businessman as his dear M. Hoareau was. There was not a creative bone in the man’s body, none at all.

He was out on the steps now, waving off his latest customer with an avuncular officiousness.

No – there was certainly no mysterious magic about Mr. Burford. Whatever the source of his house’s mystique, it did not lie in him.

A little smile crossed LeBeau’s face.

He walked back to his chair and began to grin.

Yes.

A little idea was forming in his head.

-oOo-

Sometime over the past hundred years or so men’s fashion had become dull, almost utilitarian. Rich fabrics, scintillating colours, and any flamboyance of form, had died under the mighty shadow Beau Brummel had cast. Taste could no longer compel a man to wear frills or ruffles, nor any shade of pink.

No – female dress had continued to hold the torch of glorious ostentation. Sometimes it seemed that no outrageous look was off limits – from crinolines to bustles, from panniers to the now thoroughly modish hobble skirt – women could indulge without abandon, and men like LeBeau were quite happy to do the service of indulging. Others, like M. Hoareau and his rival, Mr. Burford, were quite happy to make money out of said impulse to indulge. Women played; and men felt fortunate to referee. They could admire, but never wear.

They were not, however, immune to the desire to look good; and Remy LeBeau was no exception. Unlike most, he had the power to design and tailor his own personal clothing to best effect, and he did not skimp on this fact. Of course, Mr. LeBeau had been known to turn a head or two in his time.

The motorcar stopped outside Maison Hoareau; and LeBeau, dressed in his sharp grey suit and double-breasted overcoat, clattered down the front steps to meet its occupant. Out stepped a beautiful blonde wearing a vertically striped hobble skirt, and an impossibly wide-brimmed hat festooned with feathers. She, of course, did not shop at Maison Hoareau.

“Monsieur LeBeau,” she greeted him as he greeted her – with a kiss; one planted, featherlight, on each cheek.

“Mam’selle Boudreaux,” he replied, with a sparkle in his eye. He offered her his arm and she took it.

“I got your call. You said you wanted my acting skills,” she said in French, as the car pulled away.

“That I do,” he responded, also in French, “but only if you don’t mind a little improvisation.”

Contrary to expectation, he was leading her away from the building, and towards the street. She stopped before they could cross.

“Well, you do know how I like to hone my skills, mon cher,” she replied, “but you must at least give me something to work with.”

“Oh, well, that is quite easy,” he smiled complacently. “You are my wife; and I am buying you a suitable gift.”

He cast his eye at the House of Burford across the road; and, following his gaze, she instantly got an idea of what he had in mind.

“Monsieur LeBeau, am I to be an accomplice in your corporate espionage?”

“Ma chere,” he answered breezily, “scruples are not quite your style.”

“No indeed!” she half-laughed. “But I thought this kind of perfidy rather below you!”

“Mam’selle,” he said, serious now, “will you play at being my wife? You almost were once, if you remember.”

“Good grief!” She pushed him slightly away with affectionate ire. “You only say such things because you know I hate arranged marriages as much as you do! Otherwise, your words would have severely wounded me.”

“Ma chere, Belle,” he murmured gallantly. “You were always my friend before all else. If it doesn’t pain you to pretend at something we almost were, please would you humour me, at least for the hour?”

She scoffed and pushed him away again – but she was fonder of him than she was bitter at the impromptu dissolution of their betrothal – and so she said:

“Well, all right. But only for the hour!”

It was half-past five, and far too late for any shop to be anything but closed; but Mr. Burford could hardly ignore a visit from the beautiful and freshly-feted young actress named Belladonna Boudreaux. The portly fashion designer was thrilled to have such an eminent guest enter his establishment, and took every pain to be exuberantly officious.

“This is quite the surprise!” he greeted them in the hallway. “If I had known you were coming, I would have arranged a private viewing for you, Mademoiselle Boudreaux. Alas, all but myself and a few of my staff have already gone home for the day.”

“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burford,” she waved him off imperiously. “I had only just heard of your glittering reputation from a friend of mine, and I was curious to see for myself what all the fuss is about. But no matter – I can come again another day.”

LeBeau knew what working with Maison Hoareau had long taught him, and that was that a customer in your doors during inconvenient hours was better than a customer who might never come back – especially one as eminent as a newly-famous actress. It was generally advisable that a man in the business of fashion kept a lady preoccupied with silks and satins and velvets for as long as it took for their spell to be cast upon her, if at all possible.

“Oh no, no, no,” Mr. Burford insisted firmly. “It is no trouble to give you a quick little tour of our workrooms, Mademoiselle! Your friend is quite in the right – and I would be honoured to prove it to you, if I may. Perhaps there is a bolt of fabric, a fragment of lace, a pretty button that you might fancy for your next ensemble?”

Belle pretended to think about it a moment.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. We do have an hour before we must arrive at the Goodwin’s; and it would never do to be on time anyhow!” She tugged at LeBeau’s arm. “Come, dearest, let us see whether Mercy is right!”

For the first time Mr. Burford cast Remy a look – the kind of bemused yet comradely look only a man can pass to another man in the presence of a powerful woman. LeBeau smiled back, faintly, pleased that his former-fiancée’s force of character had bypassed any need for introduction on his part.

He let himself be led hither and thither throughout the building’s salons, where this or that garment, or bolt of fabric, had been left out for previous clients, and were in the process of being packed away. Where Maison Hoareau’s interior decorations were staid and sedate and imminently dignified, the House of Burford’s were light and fresh and bright – and mirrors were everywhere, mirrors that women of a certain age preferred not to see.

As for Mr. Burford – well, he was impressive, though not out of the common way for a businessman. The more LeBeau listened to him, the more he felt certain that this was not a man of great creative taste or impulses.

He picked up a piece of finely-wrought lace from a side table and examined it for a moment or two. Fine work, indeed! Fastidious in execution, if not at all in style. He put it back where he had found it, and noticed that Belle and Mr. Burford had moved on to the next room without him, their animated conversation already trailing behind them.

�� Taking this as his cue, LeBeau turned and went back into the hallway. From experience he knew exactly where the workrooms were likely to be, and that was where he went.

The embroiderer’s workroom was quiet, empty apart from the glow of a single electric light. LeBeau stepped up between the frames, peering down now and then to see what was being worked on. There were no floral sprays or pretty little bows. Arabesque spirals and orientalist clouds unfolded across the fabric with seemingly effortless grace. Here was a little Hokusai; and here a little Greek Geometric; and there a little Alhambra.

His innate eye for beauty could only appreciate such artistry.

He turned when he reached the end of the row; and that was when he saw her.

She was sitting quietly in a corner, engrossed in her embroidery; and as soon as he had become aware of her presence, it seemed that she had become aware of his; and both started and stared, one at the other.

“Apologies, mam’selle,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Her eyes were green. They were greener than any woman’s he’d yet seen, than any emerald he’d had the pleasure of handling.

“No offence taken, sir,” she replied, after a moment. Her accent was at some intersection between New York and the deep South. She dipped her head and turned back to her work.

He’d often done this – wandered through the workrooms, watching the girls go about the business of bringing his creations to life. It was this force of routine that allowed him to walk so freely to her side, to look over her shoulder to see what she was doing.

He was unconsciously certain this was a position she had encountered a thousand times before in her daily life; so he was a little surprised when she stiffened slightly, as if acutely aware of his proximity to her, and her to him. Defensiveness oozed from her pores.

He stared at her a moment, then at her work. She was putting the finishing touches to a cascading border of peacock feathers, her fingers moving deftly back and forth, leaving sparkling gold flourishes in their wake. Her movements held an almost careless rhythm that belied the talent inherent in them.

“That is very fine work,” he praised her, pitching his tone low and inoffensive, knowing instinctively that she would not tolerate anything more enthusiastic.

“Thank you,” she said. The words were standoffish.

She would offer nothing more; and so, he turned away.

He stopped.

He was standing before a dress form, on which was mounted a nearly-finished evening dress. Almost translucent white silk shimmered under the lamplight, shot through with tiny beads of teal and turquoise and gold which, by some almost magical sleight of hand, had come together to coalesce into peacock feathers. He held his breath a little at the mastery of it; and he knew this was the work of the little seamstress behind him.

“Do you like it?” he heard her ask behind him.

He turned and saw her swivelled in her chair to face him, her fingers now still in her lap.

“This is all your work?” he asked her, pointing to the embroidery.

She nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

He looked back at her work, then at her.

“It’s some of the best work I’ve ever seen.”

It was no lie.

The girl gave a modest though pleased little smile. She had the complexion of a redhead, with pale skin and a sprinkling of very unfashionable freckles; and of course, there were those brilliant green eyes of hers. But she was a brunette, her long, wavy locks tied up in a silk kerchief that was chicer than her simple white shirtwaist and plaid skirt implied. A single lock of pure white hair had come free of the kerchief and had fallen to her shoulder.

“I didn’t do it all myself,” she admitted, her smile becoming a little more genuine. She picked up the piece she had been working on, and stood. When she moved to join him at the dress form, he was surprised to see that what he had first thought she was wearing was a skirt was actually trousers.

“This section is for the sleeves,” she explained to him. “Here.” She held up the piece of embroidery to the appropriate place. “I wanted to have it done for tomorrow – it was so close to being finished.”

She admired her handiwork for a moment, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

“The cut is very simple,” he noted, half to himself. The waistline was high, and the lines were almost Grecian. He was used to nipped-in waists and structured bodices, the kind of look that was Maison Hoareau’s bread and butter.

She looked at him a moment, perhaps surprised that a man should know anything about the cut of a woman’s dress.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Very simple. And liberating.”

“Such a cut promotes freedom of movement,” he agreed.

“And no need for a corset,” she finished. She smiled a little slyly at him. “Do you generally approve of the woman’s right to free and untrammelled movement, sir?”

There was something a little impish in the question, something that he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of encountering from a woman so below his current social standing. He smiled.

“Miss, I have a keen eye for things of beauty. If free and untrammelled movement can promote beauty, I can only approve of it.”

She screwed up her freckled nose, half-amused, half-offended.

“That is a thought only a man could express!” she declared in a strange blend of Southern and New York. He laughed.

“Alas! I am but a man. But if you will permit me, Miss? This piece you have embroidered for the sleeves? I think it would also do very well here – coming up from the skirt’s hem, up towards the waist, to draw one’s attention back up the dress.”

She looked startled at the suggestion, and he realised, stupidly, how much he had given away. He cleared his throat added.

“But of course, Mr. Burford would not agree to having his design altered, especially not at the suggestion of a stranger whose only qualification is as a connoisseur of beauty.”

He did not know what she would have said, for at that very moment they were interrupted by Belle and Mr. Burford stepping into the room.

“There you are, darling,” Belle declared in that flippant way she did so well. “Mr. Burford was worried you’d gotten lost!”

Burford looked none too pleased that one of his private workshops had been invaded. With an eagle eye he glanced over the place, as if to make certain that nothing was stolen or had been left out of place.

“My apologies,” LeBeau said with a polite smile. “I became distracted and lost you. I found myself here somehow.” He turned a little, intending to indicate that he had been left in the capable hands of Burford’s seamstress; but she had gone back to her table, and was once again busying herself with her work as if nothing had happened.

“I am afraid,” Burford was saying in a rather harassed tone, “that it is getting rather late Miss. Boudreaux. My staff should really be leaving. Perhaps, with all the little samples I have given you, you will be tempted to return in the coming days?”

“But of course,” Belle was all smiles. “Perhaps at the end of the week, when I am not engaged.”

LeBeau knew when to retreat. He let Belle do the business of thanking their host, and of taking their leave; and when he looked back at the seamstress, he saw her eyeing his beautiful companion out of the corner of her eye; though her fingers were busily working as she did so.

#Romy fic #Romy #Rogue #Gambit #Rogue and Gambit #Remy LeBeau #Anna Marie LeBeau #writing process

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