It was one of the most elaborate costume parties she'd ever been invited to and it made her nervous in ways she hadn't felt since junior high. She was no stranger to costume parties, elegance, "foofaraw." But this was, as her bombastic friend Shaniquah would say, "a whole notha level." Shanie had flown out from Atlanta to meet her just for this; she thought it might be fun to attend with a girlfriend.
Before this, she'd been to a couple of pretty exclusive Victorian tea parties. The corsets, long swishing skirts, lacy collars, that had been done to death last year. So this year the couture party to have was the "Louis XVI Gala," styled after the lavish fashion of Marie Antoinette. Which meant the kind of costume you'd see in a period film, a towering white wig (custom-made, of course), soft little shoes with pointed toes and kitten heels, and of course, the massive, tightly-bodiced dress with layers of undergarments, petticoats, bloomers, pounds and pounds of material, with more lace, satin, brocade and jacquard than a wedding dress.
No couture-loving girl could resist the challenge, and Brigitte was probably the first in the city to take it on so wholeheartedly. She stayed out of the sun for weeks aiming for that creamy white "aristocrat" complexion. She hired her dear friend Kitty, a talented costumer, plus two hourly seamstresses, to create her party dress. After weeks of research, sketches, fittings, trips to trim and fabric stores, and watching more period films than she had in her entire life (just to brush up, of course), she finally had the costume to make a real splash at the party.
By the day of the party, she was practically a method-actress she was so immersed in the Edwardian aesthetic. She was practically born for the role, with her delicate bone structure and 5'4" frame, her ivory complexion, and her wide blue doll's eyes and her delicate pink mouth. She looked like a blue-blooded aristocrat accidentally born into the wrong century, with her elegant mannerism and regal posture. She even had little, delicately placed, natural moles in just the right places on her cheek and on her decollete', so artfully placed that they looked like make-up.
The party was going to be held at a sprawling historic manor outside of the city, starting with an art showing and cocktail hour, and followed by one of the most anticipated dance parties of the year. She could hardly imagine how she would dance in that dress but it would have to be done. Her friend Doan was the headlining DJ and it was his big debut, she had to show her support... he was wonderful. He was expecting her, as was everyone who was anyone.
After what seemed like endless preparations, getting her tall, white wig pinned in place, the makeup done just so, and Kitty helping her into the layers and layers of undergarments and lastly, sewing her into her tight bodice in the traditional way (so she could barely breathe), she was loaded into a hired car and headed out to the party. The venue was held by the DC Historical Society at an ambassador's grand estate in Maryland, which was only hired out for major gala events such as this; she'd seen parts of it on two occasions, but this was the first party big enough to rent the entire venue at once.
In a line of taxis and limos, she watched as the whose-who's of DC society unloaded at the foyer. There were a lot of important people: lots of budding artists, a couple of statesman and their wives, debutantes and trust-fund babies galore, and every so often some eccentric person she'd never seen before. It was safe to assume that nobody was a nobody here, it was always best to give everyone the utmost respect just in case they were ... "really important." She learned that the hard way once last New Years eve, by scolding a man who cut in front of her in line at the open bar only to later discover he owned the place.
Just as she was pulling herself out of the towncar, trying to make it look graceful despite the massive dress, she noticed a particularly unusual guest getting out of a cream-colored towncar, which was clearly his own livery. What made him so unusual was not even the car, but himself. Unlike the usual guests to these sorts of events, he was one of the darkest-skinned people she had ever seen ... probably not a local, more likely a foreign dignitary from Africa, or maybe somewhere even more exotic... what would have been called a "Moor" in Edwardian society.
The thought made her feel a little guilty even for thinking of it... but after all, she was at an Edwardian theme party, and surely he knew he was a little unusual He was tall and incredibly elegant, and his coal-black skin was offset by burning white eyes and his cream-colored coattails. He had on a subtle black wig with the traditional side curls, a long, fitted cream coat, dark brown breeches with matching socks and spats, and even in this tailored Edwardian costume, she could see he was very nicely muscled and too athletic for the part. His shoulders bulged even under his shirt's billowing white sleeves, and his legs looked stronger than a horse's.
He looked like he didn't belong in clothing at all, kind of the way one of Michelangelo's sculptures would look if you tried to put clothes on it... and it was made out of gleaming ebony instead of white marble; thinking this, here in this proper, public setting, made her blush crimson. Worse, finding herself staring eye to eye with him, she tore away and hurried into the reception area, pecking friends on cheeks, exclaiming excitement as each one appeared, losing herself in the early stages of the party... and she forgot about the strange, dark man she'd seen at the entrance.
She spent most of the early evening on the elbow of her DJ friend Doan, a longtime pal she had briefly dated in college only to confirm that they were really best as friends. He was easy-going, bright, and fun to walk around with, but there was no attraction. She liked being with him though, it was safe.
Since she had stopped dating Adrian when he moved to New York, she'd lost interest in the whole dating scene and instead immersed herself in her work, her friends, and music. Adrian had crushed her heart without her knowing it and now men were dangerous things, not to be toyed with as she had in the past. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd wanted to kiss one, and recently she'd started to wonder if she was done with them for good. It wasn't a dramatic loss in her life, but still, one that had sort of closed off that part of her, like an unused wing in a castle.
Fleetingly as the night came on and the drinks grew stronger, she wished she had a real date, one with intrigue, maybe even sex. Her friends all had theirs... flirty, attractive guys who were willing to dress up like fruitcakes if it mean they'd get some later. She laughed to herself knowing she could have made similar arrangements. But she could see through the act, underneath the bargains were really quite simple, and she wanted none of the deals offered.
By 10:30 it was time for Doan to spin and he passed her on to her chattering friends, all of whom were well into their third and fourth drinks. Brigitte's massive dress proved too heavy and hot to dance in for more than a few minutes, and soon she wandered off the dancefloor, and swiped a fresh, extra-cold cosmo off the open bar. After all, it was probably the only time all year she'd get to see the whole place. Looking for a good vantage point to hear Doan's set and watch the dancefloor, she sauntered up to a little balcony on the side of the ballroom, which opened onto a grand, brightly lit veranda overlooking the grounds. She had found a really good vantage point and so she settled on the stone railing, her petticoats crunching beneath her like a pillow.
Doan's signature progressive house mix was slowly drawing the entire party to the ballroom and soon it was crowded with the elite of the city, all smiling, laughing, toasting drinks and waving to each other. She felt alone, detached, a little like a doll in a glass case... and she felt oddly "watched."
She was always being watched, someone to be watched, but this was different. She felt eyes boring into her in a new way. Casually scanning the ballroom she found them, bright white and set in a dark face, piercing, unblinking. She nodded acknowledgement, tried to return the gaze with friendly smile, but it didn't work. He had a stone face, unsmiling, provoking. The music faded in her head, she felt like she was caught in a vacuum, lost, disappearing. So caught in his gaze, it was only with minimal curiosity that she wondered if she had accidentally swiped someone else's drink by accident down at the bar; perhaps it was laced with something more exotic.
To break the spell she hopped off the rail and, hoisting up those immense skirts so she could move quickly, and she headed for the ladies' lounge down at the far end of the west wing. Doan would understand why she left later. This dark-skinned guy could be some sort of spook. The kitten heels didn't help, and at every doorway she had to turn sideways just to fit the dress through. The west wing was longer than she thought, easily an entire block from end to end, and she was getting out of breath under the heavy dress and the suffocating bodice. That cosmo was making her head fuzzy too, and everything was a little blurry. People were everywhere, she reassured herself, nothing was going on. She was just nervous, she told herself. As she passed down a massive marbled hallway between the art salon and the lounge, the people vanished, she was alone.
