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Seated bolt upright before a tilted mirror, upon a padded stool, my latest costume being sewn and pinned together around me piece by piece, I battle not to shiver.
Our substitute dressing room seems unusually cold, though I know that this may be, in part, a result of my own undress—the scarlet brocade of my overdress still falls below my hips as my sister plies her needle, my shift alone covering my chest and shoulders, with the underdress of white satin pushed down over my elbows and my waist.
My darling Cressida leans her head into my neck, and she is so warm there that she chases back the chill at least a little. Her cheek and chin press against the sateen of the scarf that's been chosen to serve as a sash for my all but completed costume. I know not where she found the garment - the fabric is a soft and lovely thing, but neither the colour nor the pattern would suit her. I do not wonder that she gave it up so easily, but I wonder where she got it.
Neither my shift nor the underdress are designed to be warm, though I am not wholly unused to sitting around half-clothed as my costumes are adjusted—being, by now, a veteran of many amateur theatricals and historical or dramatic tableaux among my friends and family. I never fear to catch a chill or an inflammation of the lung when I am engaged in making music or in acting, for the limelights cast on even our makeshift stages are so warm that I prefer to be more lightly clad, especially when moving—but there is no fireplace in this small and windowless room, and the candles against the far wall offer far too little heat alongside their meagre illumination, mostly cast against my back to light my sister's stitchery. Cressy's cuddling close in this way is a welcome physic in response.
I cannot dress or have my costume adjusted quite so severely in the less frigid environs of the studio, as the brother of my dearly beloved, our artist, Alexander, is there, preparing his materials—and his canvas, so she says, though I do not know what a portrait painter must do to prepare. It may be that he sketches out the background, I suppose? I might perhaps ask Verity, but I ought not tease her so for her lack of any interest in romance; she has enough already to endure.
When in her home on other occasions, we ladies would all dress in Cressy's bedchamber, but I dare not enter there with her today either, for fear of great distraction. Then, too, Alexander will be waiting upon our presence once his scene has been set, and we will be sitting for this portrait together, my twin and I.
Cressy's breath is hot and damp against my skin, a welcome warmth, and even more so when she begins to speak, to tell me that she has ordered the studio brazier lit for our comfort. "Alex doesn't like firelight for his work," she explains, "but the brazier doesn't cast light, merely heat, which was why he obtained it. It will be warmer there, I promise you both."
(It could scarcely be otherwise, I thought in response, but I did not speak that thought aloud. I do try not to tempt fate, and I was, and am, ever grateful for all the consideration and affection Cressy puts into assuring my comfort. Her temper can be quick, in particular when I give rein to my sarcastic tongue, and we have no time to argue.)
I cannot move my head to meet her eyes, not with this awkward and seeming misplaced helmet limiting my side to side movement, but I can feel the corner of her square, sturdy jaw digging into the flesh of my shoulder, and some strands of her straight black hair, slipped loose from the wine-red turban that pins them back, brush against my neck. I struggle to stay still, to avoid reacting to the tickling sensation they produce—I have no wish to spur my dear sister to run her needle into my back yet again (she has already done so twice over as I shivered from the chill!).
"I do wonder where he found the helmet," Cressy murmurs, her warm breath against my skin and the gentle amusement clear in her tone both bringing an answering curl to the corner of my mouth, "and this truly peculiar sword. He often asks me to help him find props, as you know, my dearest Lee."
I did know, as his hobby had been the occasion of our meeting, for which I was forever grateful. My smile widens on hearing the abbreviated form of my name.
"For this, however, he would not ask," Cressy continues, a note of puzzlement entering her voice. "Nor would he answer any of my questions! Why Joan of Arc should wear a Roman helmet, I cannot imagine."
She's perched on the very edge of her upholstered bench, and it occurs to me that her position is forcing my stillness as much as my sister's, her weight leaning forward against me so likely to fall into me, should I move too much. Perhaps they intended it thus. I have long lost count of the complaints that my twin has cast upon me o'er the years for my fidgets. I must have learned not to engage in them in public, but in private, I often revert to all the habits that society would rather not allow me.
All of those habits.
Cressy reaches out a hand to finger the basket hilt, with its intricate design in some black gemstone—jet, obsidian, I know not. This is a real sword, such as I have never been used to handling. I have been careful never to touch the blade with my bare hand, nor to let it lean into the wood of the dressing-table before me, as it has not been blunted in the manner of a stage blade. Alexander had made some comment on reflections—or had it been refractions?—of light, and the ways in which filing or blunting the weapon's edge might change them. Of his choice of subjects he had said little even to me, and I understood no more than Cressy why he should wish to have me don armour in the Roman style to be painted as Joan of Arc, nor whom Verity was intended to be. I expected to learn more during our sittings, however - Alexander liked to talk as he painted, or so she had told me.
I grant you, I might have missed some item among his rambling information, but I did not believe this was among them. I had recognised much of his meandering speech from the lessons we had had in watercolour painting, but I had not listened closely, knowing that my sister would hang on his every word and thus be able to repeat to me, later, any relevant portions that I needed to hear. Painting and embroidery are her talents, not mine. Likewise, however, she lacks my talent in music. We have never been mirror images of each other, despite our all but matching names, and for that we are both thankful.
What arrangements my parents made to have Alexander paint us, I do not know. At first I was surprised by the request. I know that my mother loves me enough to make any excuse to allow me to spend my time as near my beloved as I may, no matter that I can never give her a grandchild, and I treasure that in her, being only too well aware how rare it is—but I do not understand why my father would allow this, let alone request it, unless...
Pulling the overdress up my torso and beginning to pin it in place, Verity exhales audibly as she removes the pins from her mouth (her own bad habit when she forgets or misplaces her pin-cushion, as she so often does—in that way, we can be thought very much alike!).
"Almost done," she tells me. "Cressida," she asks, "would you mind asking your brother to come in to us, please, to make sure he wishes no more alterations?" Cressy takes her momentary dismissal in smiling part, stroking my bare shoulder with one hand as she gets up, leaving the room with a quick nod to my sister.
Verity moves into my direct line of sight. No fool she; she knows I could not have seen her else. Her smile is a little diffident.
"Alethea," she asks quietly, "how would you feel if there were some way for us to remain here?" The question confuses me for a moment, and I know she will see it, as attuned to each other as we usually are. She registers my puzzlement without any notable mark of displeasure or anxiety in her own face, but elaborates gently, "I know you cannot wed your Cressida, but Mother and I have thought of a way that you might at least be able to live unexceptionably beside her."
I feel my pulses begin to race, staring at my sister with hope yet without comprehension. How could we do this? Had she and mother been discussing us together? I am unsure how to feel about that idea, though I suppose mother and I have done the same on her account a time or two. I have no need to speak, however: she reads my face as well as I read hers. Her smile warms.
"One at least of us must make a conventional match," she explains, "or rather, a match more conventional than yours to your lady could be." She isn't wrong. "You know I have never cared for marriage or romantic love," she goes on, "but your Cressy has become almost as dear a sister to me as you are yourself, after all this time. How would it be, if I were to accept an offer from Alexander, do you think?"
I'm sure my eyes are wide, in their rings of sheltering kohl. Verity, to wed Alexander? Words fail me for a moment. I try not to stammer when I finally manage to speak.
"Are you certain this is what you wish?" I ask her in return.
She smiles wryly, her eyes crinkling at the corners from it. "He has spoken to Father," she told me. "He hasn't yet approached me in person, but he spoke to Mother during his visit." This was a surprise to me.
"He knows that Cressida will never marry," Verity goes on, "and he has seen the affection you bear each other. Mother has also told him that I ... well, we need not go into that, as you know my sentiments better than any other. But he has told her that he would be willing to wed me in spite of my preferences and his own, that he is fond of me and would be happy to live with me as a companion, in a mariage de convenance, and in such a situation whereby we would shield and protect each other from the opinions of Polite Society."
My mouth must be open like that of a goldfish, I am sure. I wish to embrace her, but without being able to remove the plaguey helmet I cannot do so. Instead I swallow, I gather myself, and I give her my brightest smile. I can think of little more suited to either of us, if truth be told.
"Oh, my dear, dear sister. Need you ask?"
Verity smiles back, though really one could call it a grin, with the most mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
"No," she says, "I suppose I needn't, really, need I?"
A light knock sounds at the door. My beloved and my twin's husband-to-be walk in, arm in arm, and, together, we step into our future.