Chapter 1 The Gown
... with some comments about writing it
The morning sun peeked through the thick fog of London, casting a pale glow through the frosted windows of the dressmaker’s fitting room.
The morning sun peeked through the thick fog of London, casting a pale glow through the frosted windows of the dressmaker's fitting room.
I stood atop a raised circular platform facing the angled mirrors along one wall, my arms slightly outstretched as the thin seamstress knelt at my feet, a pincushion strapped to her wrist, making minute adjustments to the layers of buttery yellow silk and frothy white lace cascading down from my hips. Jane Clarke's establishment had created the lace showing beautiful roses and leaves. I could only imagine how many hours of painstaking eye-killing work in poor working conditions it would have required.
Not that my mother or the owner of this modiste's establishment cared. The girls and women toiling from sunrise into the night were sitting in the back room, bent over their work before being allowed to have a few hours of sleep in poorly ventilated rooms, two to a bed. I had heard the rumours of the poor working conditions of seamstresses. I had tried to discuss the subject with my mother, but her opinion had been that there was no need for me to think of such things. "They should be grateful they have a paying job!"
With each pin the quiet seamstress added, Madame Beauchamp's hands danced in the air, complimenting how the dress accentuated my slim figure, the glow of my skin, my hair, her French accent adding to the theatrics. She circled around while the seamstress worked, muttering about perfect fit and elegant draping.
I gazed at my reflection, trying not to fidget as the seamstress continued her meticulous alterations. The gown's off-the-shoulder sleeves left my collarbones bare, while boning structured the tightly cinched waist. Marie had arranged my blonde hair in an elegant twist that morning, securing it to place with bandoline she had made of quince seeds and scented with a drop of rose water. Bandoline had hardened the carefully coiffed strands against my cheeks, tickling my skin after an hour of standing, and I resisted the urge to push them back.
My mother sat regally on a plush settee, her posture rigid and straight. Her gaze was fixed on the seamstress as the thin woman meticulously pinned and adjusted my dress. Every so often, mother would flick her finger impatiently, silently reminding me to straighten my posture. But with the corset pulled impossibly tight around my waist, I could barely breathe, let alone relax my back so it would have been anything but straight. In my other life, I never would have imagined subjecting myself to such torture for the sake of fashion. Frankly speaking, I could not wait for night to fall so I could slip away into my secret life.
"Posture, Elsie!" Mother called out. "Remember to keep your shoulders back. A lady never slouches."
My spine was rigid, my shoulders pulled back as far as they could go. The only thing I could do was to straighten my neck and lift my chin with every ounce of effort I had left. Mother's stern gaze softened just slightly, a rare sign of approval. She was a stickler for perfection and any mistake in my posture resulted in immediate correction.
My thoughts drifted as I stood there on display. Mother and Madame Beauchamp discussed suitable trim options and whether to add an extra flounce of tulle to the skirt's hem to add volume.
Madame Beauchamp suggested adorning my fan with the same delicate tulle fabric, causing mother's face to light up in approval. "It would add an ethereal touch to the fan, enchanting all those who lay eyes on it," Madame stated with a firm nod of her head.
I couldn't help but wonder what became of the toile dress that was used to model the final design of my gown. Was it shown to other clients with minor adjustments? Or perhaps sold to someone of lesser means who would personalize it to their own liking? If this happened, Mother would be furious. She had specifically chosen Madame Beauchamp's shop for its reputation of producing unique fashionable designs and expert craftsmanship.
Madame Beauchamp was renowned for her skill in recreating the latest Parisian trends, and my mother expected nothing less for me. Being the only daughter, it was imperative that I stood out to attract a suitable husband.
The mere idea of being forced into marriage caused me to shift my position, causing the seamstress to drop the length of lace she was pinning to my dress. My mother immediately flicked her finger as a reprimand. After weeks of fittings and alterations, I could only hope that this would be the final one.
After a few moments, the seamstress stepped away from the gown. Madame Beauchamp, with a pleased expression, reached out to touch the satin bow that the seamstress had just repinned onto the bodice of the ballgown, as if adding a final flourish to the dress.
"Mademoiselle Elsie, this ballgown shall be my finest creation yet!" Madame Beauchamp studied me with a nod of satisfaction. "It will be completed within a few days and delivered to you."
Thank goodness. And there was no need to go to yet another salon. Mother had been dragging me from shop to shop with a piece of my dress fabric to find matching light-coloured gloves to the dress, not to mention fans, as well as silk shoes, so all those were now ordered.
It all seemed an endless frivolity to me. My days had become an endless parade of fittings, French lessons with my strict governess, and practice conversations about polite topics like the weather. And let's not forget the art of communicating through subtle fan movements that a proper lady must master. I had decided I would use one position of the fan especially, should someone show too much interest in making my acquaintance. Namely placing my fan on my left ear. The message being I wish to get rid of you.
But despite my reluctance, soon I would don this resplendent dress and make my formal debut into London's high society. The dress was only the first part of the performance, albeit a critical one. Mother had reminded me repeatedly that my entire future depended on the impressions formed at these crucial first balls and soirees. She was already planning which suitable gentlemen would I meet, whose hands I might be pressured to accept in a dance.
Mother had grand hopes of my making an advantageous match with some prosperous son of the aristocracy, thus elevating our family's status. But the whole charade felt more like choosing a gilded cage. I dreaded relinquishing my freedom to become some man's decorative property, expected to birth heirs and host flawless dinners.
The things a woman must do for her family's ambition... I repressed a sigh, not wanting to elicit Mother's criticism. She had no patience for such "silly melancholy." Best to smile prettily and give no hint of my midnight adventures that kept me sane. The two worlds had to remain separate. And a husband would not fit that scenario.
In fact, it would be utterly impossible for me to marry. Because of my secret, I simply could not marry unless the future husband would fall asleep long before me - and preferably in another room. Or rather - another house. Maybe I should choose someone teetering on the brink of the grave so that he would show no need to visit me at all in that way. Another thing I knew all about, and which frankly speaking, disgusted me. Mother would have been horrified if she had as much as suspected I knew anything about the intimacy between a married couple.
But I could never explain to my parents why that was. I could explain no one.
"The gown is nearing perfection, if I may be so bold," Madame Beauchamp declared.
Mother agreed, clearly pleased by the seamstress's work. We had commissioned several new gowns for my debut, but this was to be the pièce de résistance I would first appear in at the first ball of the season.
"Madame, you have truly surpassed yourself," Mother exclaimed. "Every girl making her debut this season will envy Elsie thanks to your dress."
I tried to keep the corners of my mouth turned up while carefully descending the platform stairs, but my shoulders ached from maintaining perfect posture for so long. I thanked Madame Beauchamp for her talent before Mother and I exited her salon.
"Quickly now, so the soot won't ruin your dress!" Mother said.
I had tightly wrapped my dark coat around me, bracing against the soot and grime that filled the city's air. The chimneys of every building spewed out small black flecks, like a never-ending rain of pollution. It coated everything in its path, quickly ruining light-colored dresses and tarnishing any sense of cleanliness. That's why ladies favored black coats.
The streets were littered with dirt and dust. Women draped in their wide skirts walked cautiously, careful not to let the fabric sweep up any of the grime, which, when inhaled, could cause respiratory problems. The air was thick with the scent of pollution and smoke, making it difficult to breathe for those sensitive to the city's harsh conditions.
We climbed into the family Brougham, a sleek and stylish carriage that Mother was very proud of. She insisted on using it now that I was entering the marriage market, determined to draw attention to our family's wealth and status. The Brougham was a symbol of luxury, its interior upholstered in rich silks and velvets. As we settled into our seats, we could see and be seen, protected from the outside world by glass windows on all sides. In front of us sat our coachman, Smith, his figure adorned in a heavy double-breasted coat and a brightly colored vest. His breeches and knee-length stockings added to the traditional look, topped off with a low-crowned coachman's hat perched atop his head. In his gloved hands, he held a whip, which I had never seen him use. He was very gentle with horses and drove them with skill.
Father had spared no expense in purchasing a magnificent Hackney horse for our Brougham carriage. Its glossy black coat shimmered when the sunlight found its way through the mists, each strand of hair seeming to catch and reflect the light. Smith took great pride in caring for this prized animal. His gentle touch and devoted attention made it clear that he was the only one allowed to tend to its needs.
Our customary routine was to take a leisurely drive back to our grand Mayfair townhouse. Through years of successful trading abroad, my father had accumulated enough wealth to purchase a home for us in that prestigious neighborhood. We were fortunate enough to come across a townhouse that had been left behind by a destitute noble family who had relocated to their rural estate. While it may not have been as large as some of the other homes around us, my mother always said: "Location in a good address is everything when it comes to your house!"
I stared out into the grey dirty air that could have used the light of the gas lamps even this early in the day and nodded and said yes in all the right places to Mother's never ending monologue about my future balls and possible suitors.
My mother always dreamed of me marrying into nobility, but our family was "new money", and the "old money" looked down on us. However, their disdain did not deter my mother. She made every effort to establish connections with those higher in society and had been doing so for years. Her efforts had become almost feverish this last year since we had lived in our new house.
While Mother chatted, my mind was far away in a completely different reality, where I was free from the expectations and limitations placed on me as a woman. Sometimes I wished I had never known such a life was possible. That I could always live a life of freedom. It only made this reality feel suffocating and oppressive. A constant battle between longing for liberation and feeling trapped by societal norms consumed me.
As we returned home, our butler greeted us with a stately bow and informed us that a cold luncheon had been prepared in the dining room. Mother, ever the efficient hostess, had ordered it before we left for my dress fitting. The spread comprised various dishes, remnants of last night's indulgent dinner party. One of many Mother was arranging to make sure the eligible bachelors and their families were aware of me.
The meal was uneventful, with Mother reminding me to take small, delicate bites and keep my napkin neatly in my lap. Table etiquette was another subject that the governess and Mother had firmly instilled in me.
If only she had known of me eating with the rowdy crews at the taverns at night... I was so used to them I had to resist the urge to wipe my mouth on my sleeve or toss back my drink like the sailors did instead of gently patting the sides of my mouth with a napkin and taking tiny sips from my glass. I wondered what would happen if I forgot myself - surely such behavior would destroy Mother's carefully made marriage plans once and for all.
The thought caused me to let out a quiet laugh, resulting in a stern expression from Mother.
Following a hearty luncheon, Marie bustled in to assist me in changing into a stunning day dress. The fabric was soft and airy, with layers upon layers of delicate ruffles cascading down the skirt. It was perfect for receiving the constant stream of afternoon callers. Every detail of the dress had been carefully chosen to exude elegance and sophistication, from the intricate lace trim to the shimmering buttons adorning the bodice. As Marie expertly adjusted each fold and frill, I sighed.
It was essential to my mother that we always looked our best when entertaining guests. She believed that appearances were crucial in securing our place among the upper class. As Marie styled my hair, carefully twisting sections into sculpted rolls behind my ears and leaving the rest to fall in elegant waves, I couldn't help but feel like a doll being dressed up for show.
"Do you think there will be many callers today, Marie?" I asked, smoothing out the layers of ruffled flounces. "It's been nearly daily now." Marie hummed thoughtfully as she adjusted my corset. "I believe so, Miss Collins. The word is spreading about your beauty and charm. The young men are curious to see you."
Or rather, the young men's mothers, I though, bracing myself to be the object of their scrutiny yet again.
With the arrival of our first visitors looming, I hurried down to the drawing room. Mother was meticulous in keeping a diary of all her social calls and invitations received in the two years we had been living in this house. She knew precisely when it was appropriate to make a visit or leave a calling card as a sign of acknowledgement. And she often hoped for an invitation to the homes of more established families.
Our family was not considered part of the old and elite society, as my father had gained his wealth through overseas trade. He had invested in clipper ships with other merchants, bringing tea and cotton from China and India. His ships were some of the fastest, allowing him to bring the newest harvest of tea to England for a great profit. This same tea would be served during these calls.
Mother attempted to make up for our lack of ancestral prestige by dressing us in refined garments and adorning our house with extravagant furnishings, hoping to impress others and improve our social status. As I glanced around at the gilded walls and extravagant decor, I questioned if my mother had gone too far and crossed over the boundary between tasteful presentation and excessive pomp. The established old families would likely view this as distasteful, a desperate effort by the newly wealthy to assert their newfound riches and position in society.
I settled onto a settee that was specifically crafted to accommodate women's wide dresses and confining corsets. Mentally preparing for the upcoming parade of guests, I braced myself for polite conversations and plastered on gentle smiles. I knew Mother would inevitably ask me to showcase my musical talents on the grand piano, which held a place of honor in the room. She never failed to remind our visitors that Broadwood and Sons, suppliers to the royalty and nobility, made it, with a price tag equivalent to a small house. However, what she failed to mention was that we had inherited the piano from the previous owners of our house, who had sold it along with the property at a greately discounted price. After we moved in, I was quickly assigned a piano teacher and could now play well enough to show my good upbringing.
Upon my arrival, Mother had already made sure that the refreshments were set up with great care and attention to detail. Sandwiches were meticulously arranged on platters and cakes were portioned out onto delicate plates. Our finest bone china tea set was by the renowned Minton brand. And to add to the display of wealth and sophistication, Mother had also brought out a silver tea service from Garrard, complete with a teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, and slop bowl. This was all part of her effort to impress the world with her refined taste and status.
Our butler materialized at the door with a silver tray in hand, upon which sat a calling card. The folded corner of the card indicated that the sender was waiting for confirmation that the lady of the house was "at home". In other words, everyone knew she was present, but it was customary to ask if she would like to receive the guest in the drawing room.
"Thank you. Please bring her in," Mother replied with a smile, signaling that the visitor must be someone of importance.
"Remember, Elsie," Mother whispered, "keep your back straight and smile politely." As the butler opened the door and bowed to an elderly woman, Mother stood up eagerly to greet her. I followed suit, hoping that Mother would tone down her exuberance to a more subtle level.
"Lady Burlington, how delightful you could call on us today," she gushed while I curtsied politely. "Please, have a seat."
Mother and Lady Burlington murmured pleasantries about wishing for the finer weather as we all took seats.
While waiting for the inevitable piano request, my thoughts drifted to the world outside the parlor walls and the stifling conformity.
And I wasn't thinking about the world we saw through our windows. No, in my thoughts I was in a world where I might sprint down alleys in trousers, brandishing a lock pick. Or conversing with witty rogues in taverns filled with music and raucous laughter.
Guests came and went, making the afternoon feel like an endless parade of forced pleasantries. No one stayed more than about fifteen minutes, as was proper. Every new arrival received the same rehearsed welcomes until my cheeks hurt from smiling. My fingers moved mechanically over the keys of the piano, playing Robert Schumann's Traumerei repeatedly. Discussions revolved around mundane topics like the unusual warmth or upcoming events, and I was so bored I had to stifle a yawn on several occasions. However, it was important to maintain proper etiquette at all times; any slip-up was simply not an option.
After the last guest left, all I wanted was to go upstairs and take a break. But before I could do that, Mother insisted on carefully recording each visitor in her fancy leather guest book, noting when we needed to return the favor with our own social obligations. I sat patiently and waited.
When Mother finally declared the visitation obligations satisfied for one day, I feigned a mild headache.
"I'd like to go to my room to rest and maybe have dinner in my room as well."
Mother's face twisted into concern. "Oh dear, are you feeling unwell?" She placed a hand on my forehead.
"No, no, it's just a slight headache, " I assured her before she would go to the medicine cabinet and force me take some concotion I suspected was sheer snake oil.
Mother nodded, still looking worried. "Of course, dear. Rest is important for a young lady's fragile health."
I hid my amusement in a fake cough. Fragile... If only she had known.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor slowly, as if I really had a headache, but as soon as I was out of sight from below, I quickened my steps.
I pushed open the polished mahogany door to my bedroom and stepped inside. My footsteps sunk into the plush Persian rug covering the floors as I crossed to the canopied bed and sat on the tufted velvet duvet. It felt blissfully soothing and inviting. I wanted to just flop onto the bed, but the restricting corset prevented any drastic movements.
I took in the room's opulent furnishings that had become so familiar—the massive four-poster bed, the ornately carved armoire housing all my gowns, the dainty vanity table and stool for dressing each morning under Marie's attentive eye. While the furniture was not as grand as what guests would see in the reception rooms, and the rugs were old, I knew it was a luxury that most young women could only dream of having.
This room was my sanctuary, the place where I prepared for my nighttime escapades. Checking the clock, I noted that I still had a few hours left until nightfall. I reached for a leather-bound book on the shelf; it was a guide to proper etiquette that Mother had given me. I sat down on the chaise and started flipping through its pages, considering it as potential currency in my upcoming venture.
While engrossed in my book, I heard a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," I called out, assuming it was Marie checking up on me.
She peeked her head .
"How's your headache?"
"It's getting better. I just need some rest," I smiled weakly.
"Are you sure? I can make you some tea if that helps," she offered.
I shook my head, not wanting to inconvenience her.
"No, no, I'll be fine. Thank you for checking on me."
Marie had been my maid since I was ten years old, and she tended to me with more love than obligation. She would brush my hair at night and select my outfit each morning, often sneaking small acts of kindness - like a sprig of lavender under my pillow or a book bought secretly from Mother's disapproval. I knew it was frowned upon for proper ladies to befriend servants, but Marie felt like family to me.
As Marie walked out the door, I sank back onto the chaise and let my thoughts drift. I couldn't help but wonder, once again, what my family would say if they discovered how I truly spent my nights. The idea of their prim and proper daughter engaging in a secret double life, gallivanting around an alternate London, would surely shock and horrify them.
Memories from my childhood resurfaced as I considered the strange nighttime occurrences that began when I was young. It all started when I was around five years old, disappearing from my bed only to reappear hours later, usually at dawn. My mother would frantically search my room and find the sheets neatly folded and me missing. Sometimes, I would suddenly appear in different areas of our house, even outside. They believed I was sleepwalking and locked me in my bedroom for safety. And still I kept on disappearing.
I never believed that I had disappeared; the memories of where I had gone were still vivid in my mind. Excitedly, I tried to explain to my parents what I had been doing during my absences, but it only worried them more. At first, they dismissed my stories as a product of my overactive imagination. However, as I continued to disappear into adolescence, their indulgence turned into anger and suspicion. Soon after my thirteenth birthday, Father reached his limit with what he called my "attention-seeking behavior." That night, as I sneaked back into the house before anyone woke up, both Mother and Father were waiting for me in the breakfast room. Father grabbed me and demanded to know what people would think if they found out about my nocturnal excursions. My reputation - and theirs - would be destroyed if anyone discovered the truth.
My father had warned me about the consequences of my late-night adventures, threatening to take serious measures like keeping me locked in my room or sending Marie away or even enrolling me in a strict Swiss finishing school. He was tired of my constant lies and wanted them to stop immediately.
My father summoned a doctor to interrogate me about my mysterious absences at night. The doctor diagnosed me with female hysteria that caused me to lose all self control, and the idea of sending me away to an insane asylum was discussed. He prescribed Laudanum as a way to calm my nerves and prevent further "delusions." It was a clear message: I needed to stop these behaviors if I wanted to avoid harsh consequences.
After that incident, I pretended to have no recollection of what I did when I appeared to be sleeping. The threats had the desired effect, and I kept the truth hidden to avoid further punishment. Mother strictly forbade me from reading any Gothic romances she found hidden under my pillow, or anything fictional for that matter. According to the doctor, novels were harmful to my mind. My governess only allowed me to read educational materials during lessons, which she promptly collected afterwards. Marie, my maid, was instructed to stay with me until I fell asleep and check on me during the night as well. However, I made sure not to fall asleep while she was in the room. As soon as she left, I would sneak out of bed and stuff a blanket and a wig under the covers, disguising it as my sleeping figure. I had purchased this disguise solely for this purpose and kept it hidden inside a pillowcase on my settee by the window. Marie never bothered to check if it was really me hiding under the covers. She just wanted to return to her own bed as quickly as possible, so my trickery was successful.
During daylight hours, I made a conscious effort to act as quietly and obediently as possible. Unfortunately, I was also required to take Laudanum on occasion, which had the unfortunate side effect of making me drowsy in front of my mother. I simply could not fall asleep in her presence and forced myself to stay on my feet and still almost fell asleep. To combat this, I started carrying a large handkerchief in my purse and secretly spat out the Laudanum when her back was turned. Eventually, I was able to convince her that I no longer needed it thanks to the etiquette books she had provided me with.
The doctor prescribed a bland diet for me to reduce my excitement and irritability. I was also instructed to partake in proper feminine activities, such as sewing, to keep myself occupied without overwhelming my mind. I complied with these orders, although one morning I released a rather unladylike burp that smelled of sausage, onions, and beer. My mother was completely perplexed as to where the smell could have come from, as it certainly couldn't have been from me. She scolded the scullery maid, assuming that she had allowed some errand boy into the breakfast room. The poor woman had no idea what my mother was talking about.
However, I was able to deceive them and after a year of not disappearing (or so they believed), I was granted more independence. Marie could finally enjoy uninterrupted sleep at night without needing to observe me, as it was no longer deemed necessary.
After Marie had assisted me in changing into my nightgown, she took the now empty dinner tray and bid me goodnight. I made sure to lock the door after she left. My mother had given her permission for this precaution after I explained my concerns about possibly sleepwalking outside of the house.
I walked over to my armoire, bringing my dressing table chair with me. Standing on the chair, I could just reach the top of the armoire where I had tossed some clothes earlier. I had ensured I lay them flat, hidden from view below. I did not need to worry Marie would find them - she was quite short and even standing on a chair, she would not have reached up there. I quickly put the clothes on - a long-sleeved shirt, a leather corset that thankfully had front hooks instead of laces in the back. Then came the trousers, a garment that would have scandalized my mother. Over them, I tied a skirt that was short in the front but longer in the back, giving off the illusion of respectability. I pulled my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck and placed a leather cap on my head. After putting on my black leather mittens, I pulled up my knee-high cotton socks, which stayed in place with no need for suspenders.
I studied my appearance in the full-length mirror attached to my wardrobe door. Satisfied with my appearance, I shifted my focus to making the bed. Old habits die hard and I I grabbed the blanket from the sofa, rolled it up neatly, and placed it under the sheets. Next, I retrieved a blonde wig from the pillowcase on the sofa and positioned it to appear as if I was sleeping beneath the covers.
The curtains were already closed, and I knew the sun had set. I checked the time on my dressing table before quietly approaching the door and pressing my ear against it. I could hear a muted conversation between my mother and her maid, followed by the faint sound of a door closing and footsteps heading towards the servants' staircase.
My mother would have already gone to bed and my father stayed in his study on the first floor, engrossed in business documents. He never checked up on me in the evenings, making it the perfect opportunity for me to slip away.
I walked silently to my bed and settled onto the floor, laying on the worn Persian rug. As I closed my eyes, I could feel my breathing slow and my body becoming weightless. Letting myself relax into the darkness behind my lids, I soon experienced the familiar sensation of descending gently downwards, like sinking beneath the calm surface of a pool. My thoughts faded away until my mind was blissfully empty.
As I regained consciousness, I kept my eyes closed and noticed that the room had changed. The soft rug beneath me was no longer there. Instead, hard, uneven floorboards pressed into my back. I could hear the distant sounds of a street vendor's sales pitch drifting through an open window. An earthy, smoky scent lingered in the air, remnants of a fire that had long since died out in the fireplace.
I opened my eyes slowly and sat up, taking in the modest furnishings of a room in a boarding house in a rundown neighborhood. The curtains, once vibrant with floral patterns, now hung lifelessly on either side of the dirty window. Instead of a grand four-poster bed and luxurious bedding, there was a plain, metal-framed bed covered by a faded quilt on top of a lumpy mattress filled with straw. In the room were a simple wooden wardrobe and a worn-out rug with patches rubbed thin from years of use. There was no elegance or opulence to be found here; everything was worn and aged, showing the toll of hardship.
I quickly stood up and made my way to the window. Looking outside, I could see the lively street filled with street vendors and people moving out of the way for a large group of automatons carrying a heavy window pane in perfect unison. In the sky above, an airship glided through the night, its opulent gold decorations against the crimson backdrop signaling that it was a casino for the wealthy elite.
I grinned. I had arrived. Time to start the night.
← Prologue / The Arrow
→ Chapter 2 / Caught
So I am finally back to writing this story now that I have published Nephilim Quest #4 / The Khopesh of the Gods (ebook version, that is. Paperback is still being processed as I have to check the proof copies first and Christmastime slows things down.
I will continue the chapter. This is what I came up with for now. I have always been interested in the Victorian era and thought I’d write something Victorian, set in the 1850s. Well, it wasn’t as easy as I thought.
Starting with dress making. Did the seamstresses come to a client’s home? Or did they have their own salons?Apparently I needed to do some research. With some digging I found out that fashion salons were very much in existence in the mid-19th century. I learned of the often rather appalling working conditions of the seamstresses. Underpaid, working inhuman hours to create the latest fashions - from sunrise late into the night. First sewing machines had been invented, but they were not used to create ladies’ high fashion. No, it was painstaking work, which ruined the eyes and posture.
I also wondered how did women keep their hair-dos in place. Quite fascinating to read about bandoline. It was a kind of hair gel, made from quince seeds boiled in water. The mixture could be scented, and alcohol added as a preservative. Bandoline was applied while the hair was being styled and would harden as it dried, keeping the hair securely in place.
As for the corsets, they were so tight that they kept a woman erect to an extent the muscles of the abdomen and back did not need to do much work. As a result, when a woman took off her corset, she felt almost uncomfortable without its support. Physicians often warned against the health risks of tight lacing. According to them, corsets caused ailments, from digestive issues to respiratory problems. Women wore them still, as it was essential to achieve the desired hourglass figure.