Page 6 of I Know You

Ben laughs. I manage to get up and decide that putting the petticoats over my head is a better option. The next snag in the process comes when it’s time to put on the dress, an exquisite black silk lace concoction with beaded embroidery.

I open the door. “I can’t fasten it up by myself.”

Ben stares at me for a moment. “Wow, Clara…” He pulls in a breath. “You look stunning. Like … you’re born for this.”

I spin around, embarrassed by his compliments, even though I smile. This is just further proof that it’s a dream, and it chases away that lingering fear. Men have called me pretty before—in a flirtatious, almost passing kind of way. Ben is like a freaking model, and for him to say it makes heat rise to my cheeks and excitement fling through my chest like when my usually classical-loving father played jaunty bluegrass on his violin.

“It’s fun to be dressed up,” is all I say.

“Take a deep breath,” he says, his tone sounding reluctant. “I won’t get it fastened unless I lace you up tighter.” I obey, but I’m still startled by the force in the way he yanks. I gasp. “We’ll have corsets made for you that will be more comfortable,” he promises as he yanks again.

“Good idea,” I wheeze. I turn around, trying not to hyperventilate at the fact that I can’t take a deep breath. This is fine.

Except for the part where the beading on this dress feels so real and I’m taking shallow breaths.

Not real. It can’t be.

Still, I can’t help fingering the beading more and studying the intricate pattern. This dress is amazing. Tonight I’m just dressing for dinner, but I chase away the panic by imagining myself whirling around a dance floor, my steps as fluid and practiced as any period-drama heroine, and Ben as my knight in shining armor with his hand around my waist.

Ben studies me in a way that makes the heat in my cheeks return. He shakes his head with a half-smile and then asks, “Should we ask if Martha can do your hair?”

“Probably.” I’ve spent my fair share of time experimenting with vintage hairstyles and posted a few on my blog and on Instagram, but I’d been able to use hair spray and electric curling irons. Letting the maid do it tonight seems like a safer bet.

Ben holds out his arm, the chivalry in the gesture underscored by the teasing smile he gives me. Everything is a confusing blur as my brain tries to parse out the evidence that this isn’t real with the bits that feel too real. But him acting like we’re old friends makes my heart slow.

He escorts me to Mrs. Halloway’s room, where the maid answers the door of a much larger suite than Ben’s and leads us into a private sitting room before the maid goes to get her mistress.

The woman who returns is in her mid-twenties, close to my age but seeming so much older. Maybe it’s the confidence with which she holds herself? She has the air of a matron and bright green eyes. Her auburn hair is coifed to perfection.

“Mrs. Halloway, may I present my ward, Miss Clara Granville?” Ben steps away slightly and holds his hand toward me in presentation.

“Oh, you poor dear!” Mrs. Halloway exclaims. “How good to meet you.” She grabs my hands and squeezes them in hers. I had pictured a much more stoic greeting, but I’m glad she’s friendly. I don’t always love it in books and movies when the only other women hanging around are snotty and mean, and clearly my brain is indulging me here.

“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Halloway.” The greeting rolls off my tongue. “Thank you for the clothes.”

“You’re very welcome.” Mrs. Halloway moves her hands to her waist to study me, further accentuating how tiny it is. No wonder Ben had to yank so hard. She turns to Ben, the slight train on her evening gown swishing softly along the floor. I wonder, with all the embellishments, how Mrs. Halloway carries herself so smoothly. “Follow me, Miss Granville,” she directs. “Martha will see to your hair.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, letting her lead me down a short hallway with three doors. Martha is waiting when Mrs. Halloway and I come into one of the bedrooms. It’s set up the same way as Ben’s but with a four-poster bed in the more expansive space. The gilded furniture is the same as Ben’s, but the colors of the rug and curtains are different—light greens and pinks in a floral pattern.

“Do you know Mr. Mitchell quite well?” Mrs. Halloway asks with a fondness that intrigues me. Perhaps Mrs. Halloway hasn’t entered the drama just for moral support after all. A rival? Honestly, if I wake up from this coma, I should really consider writing my own book. “Your families must have been close for his father to have been your guardian,” she continues.

I almost agree with her because it makes more sense, but then I decide to keep the story closer to the truth just in case. What if I really am in 1901? Ben and I will definitely get caught up in any lies I spin. “Our fathers were close, but I only met Mr. Mitchell today.”

Mrs. Halloway’s smile widens in a possessive way. Now I’m curious about the Mrs. part. Young widow? “I see.” She gestures toward the vanity, where Martha waits near a chair. “Martha will make quick work of it so we aren’t late for dinner. I’m sure everyone will be anxious to meet Mr. Mitchell’s new ward.”

My return smile wobbles. Everyone. How am I going to have dinner in front of several people when everything I know about manners comes from a little bit of research and a lot of binge-watching The Gilded Age? I take a seat and wait for Martha to do her thing, trying not to think about the performance to come. I’m sure it will be fine. Or if I do fumble, no big deal, right?

Once I’m settled, Mrs. Halloway smiles at me again and returns to the main room, presumably to talk to Ben. Are they a thing? Would he be flirting with me if they were? Also, is she married or not? I focus on the mystery of it and not the many ways I can mess up this evening.

“What would you like me to do, miss?” Martha asks.

I cringe and try to think of official terms for the hairstyles that were fashionable around the turn of the century. My dream brain, with access to more than 10% of my knowledge, flounders. Probably because that kind of dialogue falls flat in a movie. Mrs. Halloway’s hair had been pulled into a mass of curls at the back of her head with a trail of them lying over her shoulder.

“Whatever you think best,” I say, hoping Martha won’t remark on my lack of interest in what my hair looks like. Can I pull off the heroine with a disinterest in all things feminine and with a nose in the books? Probably not after all the fawning I did over the dress.

She doesn’t comment. Her hands are gentle as she tugs and rats my hair into a style with a full front and pretty twists in the back. As I watch in the mirror while Martha works, a memory hits me hard: me sitting at a vanity like this while my mom sifts her fingers gently through my hair. I must have been maybe three or four, a squishy face staring eagerly into the mirror as Mom worked wispy hair into a braid with a bow. The memory probably comes from one of the many times we’d visited The Villa to stay with Aunt Vi. My throat thickens, and I can see my eyes shining in the mirror. I don’t want Martha to think that the gentle way she works is causing me any pain, but do I want her to know I’m crying over something little like a memory?

She’s not paying attention to me, and I swallow the emotion before she notices.