A True Southern Belle

This year, according to the Fosters, the ball was dedicated to, "Their dear Janie", and invitations to Jane's wedding were to be handed out and verbally extended to close friends during this event. Mrs. Foster insisted upon it.

  All through the week Charlie plotted her every action, word, and movement. Jason Asher said she wasn't a lady? Well, Charlie would certainly show him. She'd act just like every other girl at that ball. Better than them even. Men would flock to her, matrons would whisper about her elegance, and would be surprised - no, shocked - by her charms. And she would exercise every charm she possessed. She would guarantee that she was the main attraction; one of the most beautiful Belles at the ball. The Belle of the ball.  And honestly, how hard could it be? She just had to pretend to be a soft, sweet girl. She had to say "Why, my goodness, you are so smart!" or "What a darling, dashing young man you are!" to the men and bat her eyelashes, and say "I love your dress," or "I have never seen anyone as graceful as you," to the women. Even if she'd be happier scratching their insulting eyes out.  Still, acting and dressing the part would be easy since most the mean girls and probably over half of the gentlemen had only fluff and pride in their heads. She could easily fool them.

Her dance card would be full before the first hour was up; she would dance every dance - she did secretly favor dancing - and she would honor everyone with her presence. Everyone. Except. Mr. Jason Asher. (A wicked smile crossed her face whenever she thought of this.) He would find out that she was a Lady. And a highly desirable, stunning lady at that.

Three days before the March ball, she saw a robin outside her window, sitting on the highest branch of a magnolia tree. Robins were good luck and Charlie figured that must mean everything would go as planned. (County people, as you might have guessed, rely heavily upon, and believed deeply in superstitions and omens, such as lucky robins.)

  Yes, Charlie thought masquerading as a Lady would be a breeze. She assumed it was easy. Until the day of the ball, that is. Then some challenges surfaced.

  At four in the afternoon, three hours before the ball, Charlie stood glaring down at all the dresses spread out across her big, oak bed. The warm sun was shining through her open window - the same window she saw the robin through - a cloudless but windy day, with the wind bringing in the fresh scent of lavender and Jessamine. She would have enjoyed the nice day if she hadn't been in such a foul mood. And Charlie was in a very foul mood.

 The reason for this was the white dress her mother sent up for her to wear. The collar was up to her neck, the waist was twenty inches, and the thing ( for that's what it was) had exaggerated frills. Charlie had wanted something tighter, lower, sleeker. She would look like a little school girl in the white dress. So Charlie had pulled all the dresses from her closet out, and sent a confused Mary down to her mother's room. (That was where Mrs. Winter hid most of her fancy dresses in order to protect them from Charlie, whom she apparently felt might get the notion to tear them up so she would never have to wear them and go to any balls.) If we are going to be honest, Charlie would have teared them up a long time ago had they not been hidden, and she still considered, in the back of her mind, to make up a plan to do so after the ball, in the near future.

 Now, Charlie was aggressively studying them, scrutinizing every detail. Being Charlie, she only owned three fancy dresses. (I must say, if only for comparison, her sister's had all possessed the very large sum of fifteen - fifteen dresses  per season.)  The hideous pink one she could not wear again. That left the white and the blue silk that Mary just brought. The blue silk won, despite its tiny eighteen inch waist. Charlie had never attempted to go past twenty before. In addition to the small waist, the neckline was shockingly low - or close to shocking; Mrs. Winter would never allow her daughter's to wear anything horribly shocking. (But if a little skin had to be shown in order to marry them off as soon as possible, she was not above agreeing to it.) Anyway, the low neckline was shocking and edged in black lace, which would make Charlie's skin appear lighter than it was. She had never worn the dress before because her mother had not let her. The midnight blue, single tiered skirt and neck were just too close to improper. Almost indecent. It was just what Charlie needed tonight.

  "Mary," she said. "Please lace me tighter for the blue." Her face was grim but Mary paid it no heed, so pleased was she Charlie had at last taken an interest in fashion.  And so flabbergasted was she that Mary did not see what Charlie was doing. She was utterly nonplussed until the very last minute. Then she realized what Charlie was wearing. And how she'd never ask for a smaller waist without reason. She assumed. Charlie had never asked for a smaller waist, so she didn't really have anything to go by except Charlie's history. Then again. Charlie. Did. Not. Ask. For. A. Small. Waist. Mary concluded she was under the weather.

Mary thought the blue dress was indecent, but it was far prettier than the white and would look much better on Charlie.  Not that Mary would tell Charlie that. 

 Charlie wrapped her arms around the bed post and let out her breath, imagining what Jane would say had she not left earlier to help the Foster's set up. Soon the poor girl was gasping but pleased. Perhaps now she would not need to pretend to faint.

 "Mary? W- what d-do Jane, Diana, and Mother do when they... before a ball? And during... ball? What's ladylike? Exactly?" She puffed. If there were a contest where people had to resemble puffer fish, Charlie would win. "H-how do you catch attention? Flirt or compliment?"

Charlie sank down on her bed. Having an eighteen inch waist took some getting used to.

"Well, I guess you should - Charlie, whatever you do, do not yell or run. Eat bird-like. Small amounts. Don't argue no matter how angry you are. Ladies do not speak of war. And it wouldn't kill you to faint. I don't know what else to tell you. You sure ain't your sisters.  I'm not sure what you know and what you don't."

"It's alright Mary. I'll ask Julie Bradford. Come help me with my dress please." Charlie had found her breath.

 Mary wrestled the dress over her red head, and when it was on, Charlie looked in the mirror. Then Mary knew something was wrong. Charlie, of all the nevers she had done tonight, she never, ever looked at herself in mirrors, and this one act, was the most bamboozling of them all.

 It wasn't that she hadn't ever looked at herself in a mirror, she did once. She just didn't like the odd, gangly girl looking back. But now she saw someone she could almost bear looking at.

 "Are you sure you want to wear that?" asked Mary.

" Yes, I will!" Charlie was angry at herself, and she knew she had taken her anger out on Mary. She tried to soften her voice. "It's fine. Now can we please leave? We're going to be late and I still need to talk to Julie." Charlie picked up her skirts and walked to the door. "You can ask Miss Cathleen too."

 Charlie stopped dead and all the color from her face drained until she looker deader than cotton in December. Dear Lord.  Cathleen.