Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(35)

Jackaby nodded and tipped a generous helping into the skillet. Then, for good measure, he tapped in a few from the other container, too. He flinched and covered his face as the powder cracked and popped violently in the greasy pan. When it did not explode, he straightened up, wafting the pleasant aroma under his nose with a smile.

I excused myself to go see a duck about a dress.

Douglas was agreeable, as birds go, and upon my uncertain inquiry he guided me to a mossy chest toward the back of the pond. I thanked him kindly, and he flapped off, back to his perch on the little island. I pulled open the chest and exhumed a dusty, black dress. It looked like something a puritan grandmother might have considered a bit old-fashioned. I held it up to my shoulders anyway. The client’s late wife—or possibly mother—had apparently been as tiny as she was dowdy. A soft giggling bubbled up behind me.

The ghost was resting comfortably on a grassy log, her shimmering head propped up casually on one hand. “Oh! I didn’t . . . Good morning, Miss Cavanaugh,” I said.

“ ‘Jenny’ is fine.” She smiled. “You really shouldn’t wear those, you know.”

“I did ask.”

“I’m sure you did, dear. You shouldn’t wear them because they’re dreadful.”

“Oh,” I said. “I suppose you’re right. Although, if I were about a foot shorter and twenty pounds lighter, I might have made a fetching Pilgrim. A tiny, fetching Pilgrim.”

“I think you look positively darling in that pretty red outfit—but it is really more of an evening gown than a day dress, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t much choice. Everything I have with me is either pretty or practical, except maybe the one you washed. Thank you, by the way.”

“If you don’t like them, why did you pack them?”

I sighed. “They were the first things I saw in my closet. Before I ran off on my own, my mother used to love to dress me like a paper doll in showy gowns from her favorite dressmaker. I never had to think about what to wear, because it never much mattered what I thought, anyway. I might have had more to choose from if she had packed for me, but I also would have needed a separate carriage just for hatboxes. It was one of her deepest fears that some passing gentry might see her daughter dressed in rags. That was what she called any outfit that did not have a wire frame, lace fringe, and five layers of fabric. I had a few school uniforms, at least—and I rather liked those—but they were worn out even before I left, and built for sitting in desks, not for clambering over rocks. They tore easily, and the hems got all tattered to ribbons. By the end of the first month, they really were rags. I spent the rest of my days at the dig site in boys’ trousers.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. And I loved it . . . at first. It was part of my big act of defiance, all bold and brazen and exciting. I can assure you, though, it stops feeling liberating after months of hard, dusty work. Now I just wish I had some dresses that were a little less . . . dressy.”

“Well then,” said Jenny, “when you find you must choose between two conflicting options, just do what Jackaby does. Take both.” She patted a neat pile of folded clothes beside her with her slender, gloved fingers. “As I was going to say, if you need more functional attire, try these. You’re a little smaller than I was, I think, but if you like, I can show you how to bring them in. It isn’t as though I’ve any use for the things any longer.”

I picked up the first garment. It was a rich, chocolate brown skirt, made of sturdy cotton—not as hardy and rough as denim, but thicker and more practical than any of my own. I held it to my waist. It hung well off the ground. My mother would be mortified at the thought of my bare calves, open to the world. I was delighted at the idea of not tripping over myself when stepping up to a curb.

“It’s just a day dress, nothing fancy,” said Jenny. The next item was an understated shirtwaist. It had been sewn with a minimum of unessential embroidery, but without losing its feminine lines. A long, fitted coat had been cut to drape smoothly over the shirt, coming in at the waist and then flowing loosely into the skirt. Laid out in front of me, the outfit looked infinitely more comfortable than my current options, and it was simple but elegant.

“The waist cinches up in the back, and there are pockets sewn into the hem, here and here.” Jenny gestured to the skirt.

Pockets! I was thrilled. I have never understood the aversion to pockets in ladies’ fashion—as though it has become some great shame to appear as if one might actually need to possess anything.

“These were yours?” I asked, feeling immediately indelicate about my use of the past tense. Jenny did not seem to notice. She nodded.

“Drab, I know.”

“Not at all—they’re brilliant!”

She smiled again. “I have some other skirts and aprons if you prefer. Not as much fun to wear, but they served me well helping out around the laboratory.”

“Laboratory? You were a scientist?” I asked.

Jenny’s smile faltered. “My fiancé was the scientist, but I was studying. I dare say it helped to prepare me for sharing a home with Mr. Jackaby. Well—as much as anything could prepare one for Jackaby.”

“And your fiancé? What happened to him?” I was beginning to let myself feel like I was gossiping with an older sister.