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In many ways, it was easier not to speak about certain aspects of the Arctic.
Both Francis and James had grown weary of the constant press of attention since their return to England. Those strangers who recognised them from the Illustrated London News seldom had the self-possession or the common courtesy to realise that the Miracle of the Franklin Expedition had come at a staggeringly-high cost to its remaining men, both in bond and in blood. Never mind the idiot remarks they heard from all corners of society, including former acquaintances and members of the Admiralty.
The fact that they two were returned home against all odds meant others in their party could never make that same journey – dear friends and brothers and good sailors all among them. And while it was often soothing to complain about the idiocy of people who discounted the pain of these sacrifices, sometimes it was equally easy to say nothing at all.
After a fashion, though the pain of their immense losses did not fade, the creation of a life apart from mourning became a survival skill all its own.
Thus, if dark circles sometimes lined James’s eyes in the mornings over the first cup of tea, or if Francis woke in the night to discover James thrashing against his pillows in a nightmare-filled sleep – or worse, found him quietly weeping by the fire after dinner for what appeared to be no reason at all…. the less said about such expressions of grief, the better. There was only so much Francis could tell him that he had not said many times before. All he could do was be present and comforting during these periods of distress, and allow Fitzjames to be present when the black dogs came for him in turn.
In truth, Francis still sought a manner of ways to best comfort James on such occasions. As he reflected further on this idea, walking alone down the snow-covered high street, a glimmer of colour in the window caught his eye. It was a rich, luxurious crimson hue he had not glimpsed in many years.
The sight of it shocked him so much he stopped short, right there on the pavement.
Like other shops in town, the dressmaker’s window had been dutifully trimmed out for Christmas. Its large display was practically buried in evergreen boughs, bows, and high-strung ropes of cranberries and popcorn. While Francis was not fully charmed by the spirit of the Carol during this season, he was unfailingly drawn to the object of said window – a masterpiece of scarlet silk on full display.
He had not seen anything so beautiful or frivolous in many years, not since he had found James digging through a trunk of Sir John’s costumes deep in the hold of Erebus – wearing a sumptuous, ruffled ballgown in place of his usual Captain’s uniform.
The more Francis stared at this beautiful new gown in the window – pondered its delicate scarlet bodice and the black beaded sleeves and the luxurious red ribbons that dangled past the mannequin’s jointed arms – the more he found he could not tear his eyes away from the new vision it offered.
Imagined James in that scarlet swirl of a dress, commanding a room in a dark cape and vibrant kid lace boots, in the same way as he drew everyone’s eye and demanded their full attention whilst in full dress uniform.
Seconds later, he was pushing open the door in a sort of daze, as a burst of vibrant color overwhelmed his vision.
“Good evening, sir. May I help you?”
Francis turned; on a tall ladder near the back of the shop stood a severe-looking older woman with pince-nez glasses perched on her nose, who appeared to be sorting through or perhaps stocking new fabrics. Several large bolts of something floral sat on a high table, just near her feet. Likely the proprietor.
“Yes, hello. I, erm. That dress in the window there.” He gestured to it with a hand. “How – I should like to look at it more closely, if that’s all right?”
“Ah. Yes, of course.” Briskly, the woman stepped down from her ladder, crossed the room, and plucked the mannequin from its perch by the waist, as if she were lifting a very large child down from some forbidden place. This done, she carted the mannequin over to the sales counter, and set it down a meter from Francis’s outstretched walking stick. “It was just finished yesterday.”
“Beautiful.” Francis touched the silk with his gloved hands without meaning to, let his fingertips graze over the scalloped edges of black lace, the velvet ribbons, and the heart-shaped glass beads at the sleeves. “Evening gown, I suppose?”
“Quite right.” The woman gestured to each piece of the elaborate gown with the brass tip of her folded measuring tape, as sharply as if she were teaching mathematics at a chalkboard. “Red silk taffeta bodice, tapered in the modern style, complemented by cartrige pleats around the waistband, a laced-back silk closure, and a full skirt. Accented by black and gold embroidered florals at the hem, and fully-trimmed sleeves, as you can see.”
“Madam, I assure you that you need not sell me on it,” said Francis through a laugh, though he could not have explained his reasoning for the next few words which sailed out of his mouth. “It is warm, I hope?”
“Well, it is not as light as the summer clothes, obviously.” As if Francis had spent his life differentiating between the seasons of ladies’ fashions, and not patching up the same few jackets over and over. “Lined with linen and red satin. Many ladies wear an embroidered cloak over all, or perhaps a cape and muff, for additional warmth.”
“Those articles would be made of fur, then.”
“Naturally, although there are some who choose to purchase velvet.”
Francis was already removing his gloves, and pointing toward the dark fur muff on display behind the counter, of a deep chestnut color that reminded him of James’s hair. “Do you have a cape to match that, by chance?”
“Oh, yes. We have many furs and velvets which would complement it very well,” answered the lady as she followed his gaze. “Although I will tell you the new fashions are a bit costly, given the richness of the materials.”
“Cost is immaterial,” blurted Francis, and then thought better of such an idiot remark. “I mean, I’m not the da – er. Something like this dress, and the accessories, ought to be fine.”
“It is quite all right,” said the woman, and actually smiled. “Newlywed, I take it?”
Francis had no rejoinder to this most logical question, but apparently his open-mouthed gawp was taken for a wordless assent, as the lady just sniffed out an amused noise.
“Well, you are not the first husband to be surprised by the prospects of winter fashions. And if you have daughters you will certainly learn the cost in time.” The woman went behind the counter and fetched a slip of paper from a drawer. “Is your wife a florid brunette, sir?”
“What?”
“Dark-haired, with rich-toned or olive skin.”
“Oh. Yes. That is – accurate.”
“Excellent,” said the lady. “Scarlet will do well, then. And do you possess her measurements?”
Francis was nearly reduced to gawping a second time. “Beg your pardon?”
“Well, my seamstresses cannot be expected to tailor a dress if we do not know your wife’s particular shape. Is she of an average height and build?”
“Ah, of course. My apologies. And no.” Francis held up a hand to indicate James’s height, perhaps an inch or so above his own head; he could not help grinning at the boggled look this prompted from behind the pince-nez. “Erm. Very tall.”
“How formidable.” Another scratch of pencil against paper. “Shoulder width?”
Francis bit his lip. “Er. Broad-shouldered?”
##
Several days later, Francis and James were reading in the front parlor when they heard the telltale strike of hooves and carriage wheels on gravel outside.
Frowning, James put down his novel, and peered out through the curtains in clear confusion. “Are we expecting a delivery today?”
“Bought something in town,” said Francis from behind his newspaper, as the young delivery boy proceeded to bring in a veritable mountain of brown paper parcels wrapped up in string. Judging by the size, first came the dress box, then two large hatboxes, and the matching kid-lace boots he had ordered. By the time the last package had been brought in, the invoice had been signed, and the carriage was setting off for its next destination, the pile of boxes and packages in the middle of the floor rose nearly to James’s thighs.
“But – these cannot all possibly – what on earth did you buy?”
Francis just shrugged, and pretended to be very interested in the paper although he hadn’t read a word in several minutes. “Suppose you’ll have to open them to find out.”
With a look askance, James did so, starting in on one of the small packages first.
This turned out to be the brown muff, made of a dark sleek fur and lined in a similar-colored silk. Beaver fur, if Francis recalled correctly. He might have laughed at the utter irony of beaver pelts having got all the way to the dressmaker’s and used for modern fashion purposes, if James were not giving him such a bewildered glance.
“That’s to keep your hands warm,” was all Francis said, as if beautiful fur muffs were delivered to their home on a daily basis.
“But this is for – ” and suddenly James was snatching up the largest box, with a near-manic look in his eye.
In one quick motion, he ripped off brown paper and string and tossed aside the pink-and-cream lid to reveal the swirl of scarlet and black beneath. When he’d parted the tissue paper, he actually sank into a kneeling position in his shock, splaying backwards onto the carpet with the open box now balanced on his lap.
“Jesus Christ. ”
Staring down at the beautiful dress bodice, James reached out a tentative hand to touch the trimming, fingers barely curling against the velvet ribbon and the delicate heart-shaped glass beads, mouth slack with wonder. Pink bloomed fierce in his cheeks, and he swallowed hard as he stared down at the garment – but still he made no move to lift it from the box.
When it seemed as if no other words were forthcoming, Francis cleared his throat.
“Saw it in a window near the High Street, and I thought… I mean, it’s different from the first one, obviously. Very modern, according to the dressmaker. But the color should suit you. I, ah, recall how well you liked red, before.”
He shifted in his seat, unsure how to broach the invitation that was perched on his tongue. Put it on, James. You’d look so bloody gorgeous.
“One of my favourite memories from the ships. Seeing you there, in that gown.”
“Oh,” breathed James after a moment, as if none of these words joined together had made sense to him.
“Anyway, we, ah, added some trimmings, made sure all was well-lined even if it can’t be worn out. James, if you don’t want the damn thing, we shall speak no more about this. Only I thought – ” were his hands shaking? Was his voice unsteady? “ – you looked so pretty in your dress before. And you ought to look pretty again now that we are come home. Every damn day, if you like. That’s all I wanted.”
Without warning, James’s face crumpled, and he quickly covered his mouth with one hand, before swiping at his cheeks with the other.
“Is it all right?” Francis asked softly, as a jolt of fear rushed into his stomach.
“Francis.” James actually hiccupped out a laugh. Fresh tears dropped down the lines on his face, past his sharp jaw, before he glanced up again, and his mouth twitched up into a tiny smile. “This is incredible.”
“Then – these are happy tears,” said Francis in relief, as he rose from the sofa and sat down next to James on the floor.
“Yes.” James glanced down at the dress again, casting it a look of equal parts awe and fondness. His hand traced over the stitching on the bodice as he spoke. “I confess I have never been more pleasantly surprised in all my life.”
Francis raised an eyebrow as he put a relieved hand to James’s back. “Not even by the Chinese?”
James’s smile turned wry, and amusement now flashed in his watery eyes when he met Francis’s pleased gaze. “No Tartar ever gifted me a beautiful gown, Francis.”
“Good. Because I’ll not have some blasted Chinaman keeping my Second in fine fashions in my own home.”
“According to this card,” James reached forward and plucked a small piece of stationery from the dress box, a mischievous gleam now rising in his eyes, “it is your new wife you are keeping in gowns, sir.”
“Damn it!” Francis made a face, tried to snatch this from James’s hand. Smirking, James tossed the card clear across the room in response. “Sorry. Proprietor may be under the impression that you are a, ah… giantess of a lady.”
James burst out laughing.
“Well, I didn’t bloody call you a giantess, did I? All I did was give her your height – only way I could get the sodding thing sized correctly! Then she kept asking me for all these ridiculous measurements. Shoulder width, James. Bloody shoulder width. Underbust. And she laughed outright when I tried to mime it out with my hands. How the hell am I supposed to know the span of your damn bustline when you’re as flat as a bloody ship’s boy – ”
“Oh, Francis,” sighed James, and pulled him in by the waistcoat for a kiss.
All of Francis’s jocular complaints were swiftly silenced as the kiss deepened, and James’s arms slid up his chest, stroked through the sides of his hair, and eventually clutched at his shoulders before they finally broke apart, breathing heavy.
“You do like it?” Francis asked again, soft.
“So much,” James assured him, breathless. “Want to put it on as soon as possible.”
“Then open the rest of these damned packages, by all means. Sure you’ll find plenty of options to choose from.”
Drawing back, James’s mouth pursed in surprise. “Options?”
Francis ducked his head on a laugh. “Accessories. Accoutrements. Shoes. Hats. As many bloody other items as you can think of. I was informed a real lady cannot create an evening outfit using one dress alone.”
“You mean…” James picked up one of the small parcels, shook it very carefully. A soft metallic jingle rang through the room. Probably one of the necklaces. His eyes widened at the sound. “Good Christ. You’ve gone utterly mad.”
“Well, go on, then,” Francis huffed in his most impatient voice, though in truth he treasured the manic, impish light that entered James’s face as his Second considered which box to choose next. “Open another, man!”