A Defiant Liaison

III

"To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved." George MacDonald

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III.

Susanna twirled excitedly, watching as the skirt of her dress fanned out from the high waistline. Of course, she was twirling in the dress that Belle had stitched out of cheap calico fabric as a practise, but she was twirling, nonetheless.

"I am certain I shall never own, nor wear anything near so fine as this gown that you are making for me, Belle," Susanna said excitedly.

It was Sunday, and so Belle had had the time to finish her practise gown in the daylight, as opposed to stitching by candlelight as she so often did. She did not attend church. Not because she did not want to, just because it was easier on the Ashwood villagers if she was not there. Belle did not like to draw attention, and she did so well enough as it was. Susanna had only recently returned home with her family and had come up to Belle's bedroom to see how she was progressing.

"Only I wish you would not spend your Sundays thus. It is the day of rest. I do feel rather guilty," Susanna added.

Belle wanted to laugh, though she composed herself so as not to make Susanna feel badly. Never, not once, in her nineteen years of life had she known so much as a day of light labour, let alone rest. But she liked this work. This work was fulfilling. This work made her happy, and happiness was something terrible foreign to Belle, and to others like her.

"Guilt is not a feeling I would want you to have when you are standing in what will be turned into your wedding gown," Belle replied thoughtfully.

Susanna flushed. She had such a lovely, healthy complexion, with full, rosy cheeks and beautiful blue eyes that suited her so well. Nothing about Susanna was startling or could make anyone who looked upon her uncomfortable. Though, she supposed, such was the prerogative of the white woman, and Susanna could not be blamed for that.

"Would you lift your arms up for me?" Belle requested, observing that the seams at the bust appeared a little tight.

Sure enough, when Susanna lifted her arms, a few of the loose stitches that Belle had sewn burst, indicating that it was a little too tight, and the measurement needed to be adjusted.

"Oh, dear," Susanna said bashfully, bringing her arms down immediately. "How terribly embarrassing. I suppose I must have put on a pound or two in the last few weeks. I suppose it is how well we are eating now that we are home."

Belle fetched her tape measure and retook Susanna's bust measurement, and just as she had suspected, there had been an inch gained. Belle was glad that the changes and rips happened on the practise garment and not on the real dress. She and Susanna had spent an ungodly amount of money on fabric ordered from a French catalogue that had arrived only a few days earlier. Belle had never touched anything so fine, and she was nervous to prick the silk with her needle, let alone rip seams and make adjustments.

"I am certain that if I avoid ... breakfast, perhaps? Do you think that would help me?" Susanna worried, suddenly taking herself over to the mirror to inspect her figure. She placed her hands either side of her ribcage and squeezed in.

The English style of gown, the high waisted fashion, were not designed to hug the feminine figure, Belle had observed. There was a practicality about the style, and she enjoyed that the high waist disguised her own figure, or lack thereof. Of course, Belle had nothing whatsoever to her own bust measurement, but the flare of her skirt did not directly advertise that her waist and hips could belong to a twelve-year-old child.

Susanna, on the other hand, had a beautifully feminine figure. Soft and slender, yet rounded and womanly where she needed to be. Were it not a sin, Belle would have envied her. Perhaps she was a sinner, and she did, indeed, envy her.