Chapter Twelve - Dahlia
Dahlia sat at the desk in the front parlor and stared down at her sketchbook. She nibbled the end of her pencil until she caught herself and gave a small noise of disgust, wiping the pencil off with her handkerchief.
It had finally happened. She had no more good ideas.
What timing for this to occur! Right when she actually needed to use her talent, it had fled her all at once.
At least she had the half-dozen dresses she’d already designed for the Preston ladies, as it seemed that was the extent of her inspiration.
She’d been sitting in the front parlor for two hours now and hadn’t managed more than a rough sketch of a riding habit that she wasn’t even sure she liked. A figure suddenly appeared in the doorway.
Dahlia jerked with surprise. “What on earth are you doing?”
The entirety of Rachel’s person was draped in what looked like an old sheet, giving her the appearance of a wraith. It fluttered and billowed behind her as she walked. She’d cut two holes in the material to see through.
The wraith shrugged. “Mrs. McNamara said I could have it, as it already had holes.”
“Yes, but why?”
“It seemed an amusing way to pass the time. You’ll never guess how high the parlor maid jumped when I sprang out from behind the armoire.”
“I’m fairly certain that Percy doesn’t pay his staff well enough to be objects of your personal amusement.” She snapped a little, her frustration showing.
Rachel tugged the sheet from her head, revealing frizzy, static hair and a frown. “What on earth is the matter with you? It cannot be your monthlies, as you haven’t demanded that cook make those little jam-filled biscuits you like.”
Dahlia sighed and looked heavenwards. Of course her sister would take note of such a thing.
“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be designing entire wardrobes for the Preston Misses, and I cannot seem to think of a single idea.”
Rachel frowned. “You always have ideas.”
“I know.” She threw her hands in the air. “Which is why this is so frustrating.”
“Do you think it’s because you actually have to do it, and that is what has stifled your creativity?” Rachel came and perched on the corner of her desk.
“I don’t think so.” Dahlia tugged the edge of her portfolio from beneath her sister’s backside. “I knew that I had to do it yesterday, and I had no problem sketching ideas then.”
“Then what’s changed between then and now?” Rachel threw a finger upwards. “I will help you solve this case of the missing talent.”
“Missing talent?” Dahlia repeated, bewildered.
She certainly hoped it wasn’t gone for good.
Designing gowns was her vocation, though no one knew it.
It was also her artistic release. What would she do if she had no more talent left?
Was talent like a well that could somehow run dry?
She’d never thought so previously, but now she was paralyzed with the terror of the idea.
“Wait here,” Rachel said. “I’ll be right back.”
She sprinted from the room, her skirts ruffling in her wake. When she returned moments later, Dahlia still sat in the same position, staring at the ticking porcelain clock on the marble mantle, wondering whether all her good ideas were behind her.
“Now,” Rachel said, putting an antique magnifying glass to her eye. “We shall get to the bottom of this, just like Sir O’Connor.”
“Your Scottish brogue is awful,” Dahlia said, even as a smile plucked at her lips. Rachel had always had a knack for cheering her, ever since they were little girls.
“Describe the last place you saw it,” Rachel said, still in her terrible accent.
“Saw what?”
“Your talent, my dear.”
Dahlia sighed. “The last time I designed a dress was only yesterday, in the upstairs parlor of the Cavendish home.”
“Who was present? Who’s our main suspect?”
“Lord Cavendish and his sisters were there.”
“Describe your talent, please.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Describe it.”
“I draw dresses.”
“That’s a very vague statement,” Rachel said, rolling her words. She was still in character as the titular character of Sir O’Connor’s Mysteries.
“What other details are there?”
“When you typically draw these dresses, where are you? What are you doing?”
“It can be any number of locations.” Dahlia shrugged. “I’ve drawn them in hotel lobbies, on the street, in my mind in ballrooms.”
“Walk me through your process.”
“I don’t have a process,” Dahlia argued, her frustration mounting. “I simply look at a lady, at what she’s wearing, and I see how I can make it better.”
“Ah, there you are then.” Rachel lowered her eyeglass. “Case closed.”
“Pardon?”
As far as her sister’s games went, this had been a relatively short one. Dahlia was grateful; her sister’s Scottish accent was truly dreadful.
“Well, you said it yourself. You look at a lady.” Rachel extended her arms to the side. “There are no ladies here to look at. Therefore, you cannot design a dress.”
Dahlia frowned. “But it shouldn’t matter. I know what they look like.”
“Artists know what the ocean looks like, but they still sit at the seaside to paint.”
Dahlia chewed her lower lip. Was her sister right? Was it really that simple?
“Let’s try an experiment to prove my point. Design a dress for me.” She ran her hand down her figure with a flourish. “I am going to a very fancy ball, and I need a very fancy ballgown. I am your client. Go.”
Rachel punctuated this request by performing a twirl. Almost instantly, a dress appeared in Dahlia’s mind’s eye. She turned the page on the terrible riding habit and began to sketch.
The gown would be navy, naturally, as that was one of the only colors that Rachel wore.
Wide at the neckline, just covering the tips of her shoulders, with ornamentation creeping along the lines of the bodice.
Except Rachel wouldn’t wear flowers as any typical lady would. At least, not regular flowers.
So Dahlia sketched Scottish thistles all along the edge instead. Certainly, some milliner would know how to create what she was looking for, even though Dahlia had to admit she’d never seen any such thing on a hat before in her life.
At some point, Rachel came to stand next to her, looking over her shoulder. Dahlia frowned, but as she was almost finished, Rachel’s presence didn’t disturb her enough to stop her progress. Rachel’s presence wasn’t nearly as distracting as William’s had been.
“That’s lovely.” Rachel’s eyebrows raised. “That’s better than any ballgown Madame Aubert gave me for the Season. I must have it; it’s so much more me.”
Dahlia blinked down at the completed dress. It was. It was utterly, perfectly Rachel. Every line, every detail would suit her immensely.
“You know what this means,” Rachel said, a smile stealing over her face. “You’re going to have to spend a lot more time with Lord Cavendish.”