18 MALTA
IT ALL WOULD HAVE gone perfectly if not for that fat fool Davad Restart.
Malta had found the money under her pillow on the morning that her father left to go to sea. She recognized his cramped handwriting from the missives her mother occasionally received while her father was off trading. ‘For my not-so-little daughter,’ Papa had written. ‘Green silk would suit you best.’ Inside the soft little bag had been four gold coins. She had not been sure what they were worth; they were foreign coins, from one of the lands he visited when he was trading. What Malta had been instantly certain of was that they would be enough for the most sumptuous gown that Bingtown had ever seen.
In the days that followed, whenever she had doubts, she had held the note and re-read it and assured herself that she had her father’s permission to do this. Not only his permission, but his assistance: the money was proof of that. His connivance, her mother would say later, darkly.
Her mother was so predictable. As was her grandmother. Her grandmother had declined to attend the Harvest Offering Ball, citing mourning Grandfather as a reason. And that was all the excuse her mother needed to tell her that no one in the Vestrit family was going to the Ball. And thus, she said, there was to be no argument over dresses or frocks or gowns. She had Rache giving her dancing lessons now, and they were seeking a good etiquette teacher as well. In the meantime, Rache would help her with those lessons, also. And that was more than enough for now for a young girl of her age.
The severity of her mother’s tone had surprised her. When Malta had been brave enough to say, ‘But my father said…’ her own mother had turned on her with something close to fury in her eyes.
‘Your father is not here,’ she had pointed out coldly. ‘I am. And I know what is proper for a young Bingtown girl. As should you. Malta, there is time and more than enough time for you to be a woman. It is natural for you to be curious about such things, and natural, too, for you to wish for lovely gowns and wonderful evenings dancing with handsome young men. But too much curiosity and eagerness… well. It could lead you down the same path as your Aunt Althea took. So trust me. I will be the one to tell you when the time is right for such things. I also know there is much more to the Harvest Ball than pretty dresses and bright-eyed young men. I am a woman of Bingtown, and a Bingtown Trader and I know such things. Not your father. So keep your peace about this, or you will lose what you have gained.’
Then her mother had stormed out of the breakfast room, not even giving Malta time to argue. Not that she would have. She had decided that she did not need to argue. Arguing would only have made her mother suspicious and watchful. There was no sense in making her own tasks harder.
Her father had suggested green silk, and fortunately there had been a good supply of it in Aunt Althea’s sea-chest. She had been aching to know what was in there since it had been delivered to the house, but her mother had wearily told her it was none of her concern. But it hadn’t been locked — Aunt Althea never remembered to lock anything — and as she certainly was never going to use it, Malta saw no sense in letting the lovely fabric stay there and fade. Besides, by using this fabric, she’d have more coin to spend on a fine seamstress. She was only being thrifty. Had not her father told her that was a good trait in a woman?
From Delo Trell, Malta obtained the name of a good dressmaker. It shamed her to have to ask her friend, but even in that important area, her mother and grandmother were so old-fashioned. Almost all their dresses were still made at home, with Nana measuring and fitting and sewing, and sometimes even Mama and Grandmother helping with the sewing and trimming themselves. And so they never had anything that was the latest style from Jamaillia. No. Oh, they would see something they liked at the Ball or the Presentation, and then they would copy it onto the next gown they made. But that was always what it was: a copy. No one was ever astonished by what one of the Vestrit women wore to a social gathering. No one ever gossiped about them or put heads together behind their fans to whisper enviously. They were too respectable. And too boring.
Well, Malta had no intention of being either as staid as her matronly mother, nor as mannish as her wild Aunt Althea. Instead she intended to be mysterious and magical, shyly demure and unknowable, and yet daring and extravagant. It had been hard to express all that to the dressmaker, a disappointingly old woman who clicked her tongue over the green silk Malta brought her. ‘Sallow,’ she had said, shaking her grey head. ‘It will make you look sallow. Pinks and reds and oranges. Those are your colours.’ Her thick Durja accent made it seem like a pronouncement. Malta folded her lips and said nothing. Her father was a Trader who had seen the whole wide world. Surely he knew what colours looked best on women.
Then Fayla went on to measure her endlessly, muttering all the time through a mouthful of pins. She cut and hung paper shapes all over Malta, and paid no attention at all when Malta protested that the neck seemed too high and the skirts too short. The third time Malta objected, Fayla Cart had spat the mouthful of pins out into her own hand and glared at her. ‘You want to look like a trollop? A sallow trollop?’ she demanded.
Malta shook her head wordlessly as she tried to recall what a trollop-flower looked like.
‘Then you listen to me. I sew you a nice dress, a pretty frock. A dress your Mama and Papa happy to pay me for. Okay?’
‘But… I’ve brought the money to pay. My own money. And I want a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s frock.’ With every word she spoke, Malta became bolder.
Fayla Cart stood slowly, rubbing at her back. ‘A woman’s gown? Well, who’s going to wear this dress, you or some woman?’
‘I am.’ Malta forced her voice to stay firm.
Fayla scratched at her chin. A hair was growing out of a warty looking mole there. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. You are too young. You will only look silly. You listen to me, I make you a pretty frock. No other girl will have one like it, they will all stare and tug their mamas’ skirts and whisper about you.’
Without warning, Malta tore the paper shape loose from herself and stepped out of it. ‘I am not eager to have girls staring at me,’ she said haughtily. ‘Good day to you.’
And she left the shop, her green silk under her arm, and went down the street to find a dressmaker of her own, one that would listen to her. She tried not to wonder if Delo Trell had purposely sent her to that horrible old woman, if Delo did not think that Malta still belonged in a little girl’s starched skirts. Lately Delo had begun to give herself airs, to imply loftily that there were many things that Malta, young little Malta, simply could not understand about Delo’s life now. As if they had not been playmates since they could walk!
The young seamstress Malta chose wore her own skirts as if they were silk scarves, at once clinging and revealing her legs. She did not quibble about the colour of the fabric, nor try to hide Malta in paper. Instead she measured her swiftly and spoke of things like butterfly sleeves and how a spill of lace could flatter a young woman’s developing bosom into an illusion of fullness. Malta knew then she had chosen well, and had all but skipped home with a tale of being unable to find a free shimshay to excuse her lateness.
From that one decision of finding her own dressmaker had flowed all her good fortune. The woman had a cousin who made slippers; she sent Malta to him when she came in for the second fitting of the dress. And she would need jewellery, Territel reminded her. She pointed out to Malta that the reality of jewellery was not nearly as important as the effect it created with sparkle and shine. Cut glass would do as well as real gems, and then her budget would allow her larger and more glittering pieces. She had yet another cousin, and she came to show Malta her wares during the third fitting. When Malta returned
