Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [51]
“You cannot go dressed as yourself,” Eugenia told me two days before my exams.
She did have a point: a young woman traveling alone with a man would surely attract attention. Moreover, if Jack was to succeed in his thievery, both the English Secret Service and the homegrown Nikolashki would surely be looking for us. Traveling as a married couple on a honeymoon was briefly considered but discarded because, rings or not, the police would not be fooled. However, Eugenia very sensibly suggested no one would not be looking for two men.
“But men’s clothes are so drab!” Anastasia exclaimed. “No offense, miss, but you have to glitter.”
Leaving aside that mysterious pronouncement, I considered the gist of her words. “I need a military uniform,” I said, finally. “A grenadier, perhaps.”
Eugenia shook her head. “Don’t be a fool, Sasha, you’re not built for infantry. You will pass as a young hussar, or a Guardsman officer.”
“Why not a dragoon?”
She sighed. “In our apartment, there’s a chest of old clothes. Your father’s guardsman uniform is in it still, as well as your uncle’s—he was a hussar. You can try them on, and see what fits best.”
“Uncle?” I asked, confused.
“My older brother,” Eugenia said. “Pavel Menshov. He was killed during the Napoleonic invasion, but he was a small man. His uniform is old-fashioned, but surely we can use his sword and insignia.”
Eugenia told me a little about my dead Uncle Pavel—he was young when he died, she said, barely more than a boy. His uniform, had it been wearable, would have fit me. It was strange for her, an old woman now, to think of him as her older brother. She told me how hard she cried on the day she realized she had forgotten his face.
Maria Verbova, my aunt determined, could sew me a uniform quite similar to my dead uncle’s; moreover, Eugenia predicted, since the woman charged so much she must be used to keeping secrets. My aunt was proven correct. When I stopped by the atelier and requested Madame Verbova make me a hussar uniform, the seamstress only nodded and asked me if I would need to have my hair cut too.
“Yes,” I said. “In a week.”
She smiled then, dark lids hooding eyes that seemed too old for her well-kept face. “If you let me cut off a lock now, I will have a mustache ready for you as well,” she said.
I laughed at the idea but conceded it was a good one, and with a swift clip of scissors she sheared a lock of hair near my temple. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I asked.
She inclined her head. “As you can imagine, there are many reasons for women to disguise themselves as men and men as women. If you wish, I will make you a corset to flatten your chest and thicken your waist.”
“That would be helpful,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Maria assured me. “You are paying me enough to take care of it personally—my girls are quite reliable, but sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry.”
The fittings at Maria Verbova’s atelier evoked an almost sinister but giddy mood. The hussar uniform was still wide in the shoulders, but the corset (a disturbing-looking contraption of satin, whalebone, and cork with metal grommets) was designed to widen my shoulders, and its weight, aided by a set of particularly strong hooks and laces, pressed my bosom until it was as flat as a boy’s. The cork-and-whalebone bodice surrounded my waist, thickening it. It had joints that allowed me to bend, and generous padding made the device surprisingly comfortable.
The breeches, white and tight fitting, took a bit of getting used to—I felt naked without my petticoats and skirts, but soon enough I discovered the trousers were quite comfortable as were the tall boots that squeaked with every step. The blue jacket, its chest stiff with gold braid, and a fur-trimmed pelisse completed my attire; a tall bearskin hat gave me much-needed height.