Page 9 of Welcome to Gothic
“You know, no one asked you to—”
“Do your job? No.”
“Everyone’s afraid of Miss Lindholm, so nobody’s going to hurt her daughter!”
“Miss Lindholm is rich, isn’t she?”
With a wealth of hostility, Betty said, “Yes. So what?”
Wendy delved into the depths of her American history to recall a relevant example. “Have you heard of the Lindbergh baby?”
“Of course I’ve heard of—”
“Charles Lindbergh, the wealthy aviator—his child was kidnapped for ransom and killed.”
Betty stared at Wendy, then what she was saying clicked and she reached for Hazel. “Whoareyou?” she asked.
“I’m the stuntwoman.” Wendy yielded Hazel. “It’s a little late to be suspicious of me. But word to the wise, keep close track of a child, even one as well-liked as Hazel. If nothing else, she could climb a ladder and fall.”
“She’s a dainty little girl. Not a tomboy!”Like you.The words hung unspoken on the air.
Wendy didn’t smirk about what was obviously a pre-WWII insult, but barely. “Kids will be kids—and it’s not a good time to be unemployed.” Because if her recall of history was right, in 1940 the Great Depression still roared on.
Someone touched Wendy’s arm.
She turned to see a plump, smiling woman with sleek dark hair who gestured and said, “I’m Beatrice, Miss Lindholm’s dresser. Come on back and I’ll fit you into your frock.”
“My frock?” Wendy didn’t remember ever having a frock before, but she followed Beatrice toward a door decorated with a silver star and the scrawl ofLindholm.
“Miss Lindholm told me your performance pleased her, and to fit you into one of her old gowns.”
Wendy hadn’t worn a gown since her high school prom, and like this one, that dress had been used, so she went along for the ride. “When did she have time to tell you that?”
“Anytime she’s not onstage, I’m fixing and pinning.” Beatrice looked Wendy up and down. “Course, you’re about six inches shorter than Miss Lindholm, and she’s a lot more voluptuous than you. That woman is a giantess in all the ways. But I picked out a bodice with a bustier and ripped out the whalebones, and I’ve already started hemming the skirt. I’ll be done by the time you’re finished with your bath.”
Wendy looked at the froth of shimmering ice-colored silk that made up that frock. “You’ll be finished all that by the time I... My bath?”
“Right through there. I ran your water and laid out your undergarments.” Beatrice indicated an open door. “Be generous with the scented soap. You can’t go to the party smelling of sweat. And use some of that Mum. You don’t want to offend with a lack of daintiness.”
“Daintiness.”What was Beatrice talking about?Wendy ducked into the bathroom, which was almost as big as the dressing room, and searched the shelves until she found a jar labeled Mum. She started laughing. “It’s a deodorant! My daintiness! Who calls it...?” Then she thought of Hugh.
On second thought, she would use the Mum. But first...
She stripped down and sank into the bath. The footed tub wasn’t deep, but the water was warm and bubbly and smelled of orange blossoms, and as instructed she used soap generously. When she got out, she toweled herself off, rubbed herself with an orange blossom scented lotion and, of course, utilized the Mum.
Using Miss Maeve Lindholm’s space had its advantages.
Then Wendy had to figure out what to do with the undergarments. The tap panties, sure. But the garter belt? And the silk stockings? She understood the theory, but getting them on took skill and delicacy. Then she looked around, opened the door a crack and called, “Beatrice, where’s the bra?”
Beatrice chuckled.
Wendy thought she hadn’t understood. “You know, the brassiere?”They called them brassieres, didn’t they?
“Brassiere,” Beatrice scoffed. “You don’t need no brassiere with this gown. You got tiny titties—”Okay, fine, rub it in“—and it’s double lined. Just don’t dance the Lindy Hop. Come on now. Come out. You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before.”
“You’ve never seen mine!” Wendy hesitated, then whipped out of the bathroom.
Beatrice surveyed Wendy’s mostly bare figure, then looked at the silky confection in her hands. With the satisfaction of a talented seamstress, she said, “This is going to look so good on you. You don’t even need the girdle.”
