RUBY
BEAUFORT.
James' surname shines in the imposing letters of the main headquarters of the company. While he gets out of the car and confidently walks towards the entrance, I stand still, my eyes wide as I first look at the sign and then the huge, modern building, where - as James explained to me during the journey - at the bottom is the largest Beaufort branch in England and, at the top, the offices of departments like design, distribution, customer service, and, above all, the tailoring, of course. The windows stretch across the six floors of the building; behind them, mannequins dressed in the classic style that has made the brand famous can be seen.
"Are you coming?" James asks from the entrance.
We spent the rest of the journey talking. Not much, but more than I had expected. The feeling of truly being in a dream insists on not disappearing.
I'm in London. With James Beaufort. I can't believe it.
"Ruby!" James calls me, pointing to his watch while raising an eyebrow.
That snaps me out of my trance. I quickly make my way to join him. He holds the door open for me, and I enter the branch hesitantly. Then I look around.
It is undoubtedly larger than the store I visited with my parents. The sales area, with its high ceilings, white walls, and carefully crafted hardwood floor, feels cozy and spacious, even if the furniture is mostly black. On the back wall, there are shelves that stretch up to the ceiling, holding countless shirts. Above the shelves, there is a brass bar from the left end of which a ladder hangs. Just behind the entrance area, there is a large round table in the center of which stands a statue of a deer, and around it, small piles of carefully folded trousers.
A chandelier hangs above the table, casting a warm light in the room. There's a peculiar, herbal but not overpowering, aroma in the air, a mix of the natural scents of the fabrics and possibly some fragrance from an air freshener.
James gently nudges my arm. I look up at him, and he nods his head towards the back of the store. I follow him slowly. To our right, more walls with shelves rise up. In the middle, a space has been left where images of men in different suits hang, illuminated by two brass lamps. Just below, there is a dark green velvet sofa with square cushions, a futon covered in fur, and a glass table on which there are crystal glasses and a jug of water.
I see all around us -sturdy tweed, fine silks, delicate furs... the fabrics Beaufort works with are top-notch; the company lives up to the quality it promises. There's no doubt that I'm in a store frequented by aristocrats and politicians, so, even if I don't want to, I feel a bit out of place.
Perhaps it's also because there are only men here. Shopping, sitting on stools in front of large mirrors, other men taking measurements at their feet... besides the one with me.
Suddenly, one of them stands up. He says something to the customer whose pant's hem he just marked, and then his gaze focuses on us. When he recognizes James, he stiffens.
"Mr. Beaufort!" With a face as white as chalk, he checks his wristwatch.
"Relax, Tristan, we have time," James tells him.
I don't recognize his tone of voice at all. He speaks as if he were someone else. Authoritative. When I glance at him, I notice his upright posture. Although he has his hands casually tucked in his pants' pockets, it's clear that he's someone in this store. I wonder how he does it. It's as if he turns every place he enters into his kingdom. The school, the lacrosse field, this business. Does the same thing happen when he enters an ice cream parlor? Maybe I should check it out if the opportunity arises.
Tristan signals to another tailor and hands him the tailor's tape. A moment later, he comes running and shakes hands with James.
"Sorry for not coming out to greet you."
"Don't worry, Tristan," James replies. "Can you spare us some time, or are you very busy?"
The tailor looks offended.
"Of course, I have time for you."
James turns to me.
"Ruby, this is Tristan MacIntyre, Beaufort's head tailor. And Tristan, this is Ruby Bell. She's the head of the events committee at Maxton Hall."
I look at James curiously. I'm surprised that he introduced me in that way. He could have just said that we go to school together. Or nothing more, just my name. Tristan straightens his jacket, and as he looks at me, his demeanor relaxes a bit. A studied smile appears on his lips.
"Mr. Beaufort doesn't usually bring schoolmates here, so it's an extraordinary pleasure to have met you, Miss Bell."
I smile too and shake his hand. He takes it and, instead of shaking it as I had thought, he turns it slightly and hints at kissing the back of it. Suddenly, I feel like I should bend my knee to make a curtsy. Fortunately, I refrain in time and instead say:
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. MacIntyre."
"Call me Tristan."
"Only if you call me Ruby."
His smile widens, and with a meaningful look, he turns to James.
"We've asked them to bring a couple of suits from the private collection. They're upstairs, in the tailoring department. If you would please follow me."
He turns around and leads us through the store towards the back, to a dark wooden door which we cross to reach a staircase.
"I hope you like the suits we've selected," Tristan says as we climb. "They were personally designed by your great-great-grandfather, Mr. Beaufort."
I look at James surprised, but his face doesn't show any emotion when he affirms:
"I'm sure they will be suitable for the occasion."
"The great-great-grandfather who founded Beaufort?" I ask curiously.
Tristan nods.
"Exactly, along with his wife, in the year 1857. Did you know that originally Beaufort was a fashion house for both men and women? It wasn't until the early 20th century that they decided to focus on their specialty."
I already knew this since Lin proposed getting the suits from James. I objected that it wouldn't solve anything because we would always be lacking women's clothing, to which she responded by telling me about the beginnings of the Beaufort fashion house and showed me images of the opulent dresses that were sold with that brand.
"Yes," I say after a few seconds. "But I don't know why."
"Our financial situation was bad," James responds. "My great-grandfather made a couple of wrong decisions, and we were on the verge of bankruptcy. The only solution was to specialize."
"From there, Beaufort became the brand it is now," explains Tristan, as if he were there himself. "No one makes suits like ours. In this company, you can get everything you desire, from everyday suits to formal wear. In terms of quality, the finish cannot be compared to other products available on the market, not to mention that we personalize all garments with the customer's initials. Mr. Beaufort, show her yours."
I stop and turn to James, who is a step below me. We now have eye contact at the same level. My gaze lingers a few seconds too long on his eyes, whose expression I can't define. Then I lower it to the breast pocket of the dark gray suit, where the initials JMB are embroidered.
"I've been wondering since yesterday what the M stands for," I confess.
I look up again, and suddenly I'm so close to him that I can even distinguish details of his face that I hadn't noticed before. For example, that in comparison to the color of his hair, he has surprisingly dark eyelashes. Or that pale freckles speckle his cheeks.
"Mortimer," he responds in a low voice.
"Your father?" He nods and looks at Tristan, a clear gesture that he doesn't want to delve further into the topic.
While we continue up the stairs, Tristan describes to me the special fabrics the Beaufort tailors work with and the high number of cufflinks to choose from.
Until now, a suit, for me, was just... a suit. I have never noticed significant differences, let alone the number of decisions that need to be made to design one, or how many different ways it can be tailored.
"We measure every square, leaving nothing to chance," Tristan continues when we have left the stairs and entered an illuminated hallway. "This has always been the principle of Beaufort. We work with the utmost care and offer the best quality. That's why we even dress the royal family."
He stops next to a photograph hanging on the wall. I approach a bit more and am left speechless. There is the image of the heir to the throne on display.
"Don't tell me you've dressed him," I say, full of admiration.
James doesn't respond, but Tristan smiles proudly.
"Not only him."
We continue down the hallway, on the walls of which hang portraits of illustrious figures, politicians, and members of the aristocracy, all of them dressed in Beaufort suits. I see Pierce Brosnan, the Beatles, and even a photo of the prime minister, as well as a series of men whose faces mean nothing to me, but whose attitude in the photographs conveys that they are powerful and very rich.
"Have you met all these people?" I ask, turning to James.
He gestures indifferently.
"A couple."
"Wow," I whisper, and I almost feel a bit sorry when Tristan opens a door at the end of the hallway and guides us into the tailoring room.
I look around curiously: the space is large and reminiscent of a huge, illuminated industrial hall. Although it's Saturday, about fifty people are working among mannequins and tables full of fabrics.
"Come, the suits are back there," Tristan advances and crosses the room with us in tow. As we pass, the workers politely greet James, but with stiffness. When I glance over my shoulder, I see them huddling and whispering. I observe James with a furrowed brow. He has put on a mask of casual arrogance, the same expression I've seen at school. I wonder what's on his mind. I would say he doesn't enjoy people here seeming to be afraid of him.
Suddenly I realize that I want to know more about him. More about James, Beaufort, and what happens behind the scenes in this wealthy family.
Tristan snaps me out of my thoughts when he abruptly stops.
"Voilà," he says, pointing to a mannequin that...
I am left breathless.
The mannequin is wearing a Victorian dress. It's green silk, two-piece, short-sleeved, with black lace ruffles. The top is fitted, with a discreet sweetheart neckline embellished with black crystal stones. The skirt is voluminous, and due to the petticoats, it looks even bigger and heavier. The green fabric distributed in folds alternates with lace ribbons and reaches the floor. It is by far the most beautiful garment I have ever seen.
I don't know how to take it home or to school. I don't even dare to touch it for fear of soiling it.
Behind it is another mannequin dressed in a men's suit consisting of a coat, vest, shirt, and trousers. The coat is slightly tailored at the waist and seems to be made of a soft wool fabric. The black vest has several pockets and tapers at the bottom. On the small collar of the white shirt is a black tie that seems wider and of a different shape than the ties I know.
"Before, when gentlemen dressed, they didn't do things by halves. Every detail had to be perfect," explains Tristan, beginning to remove the gentleman's suit from the mannequin. When he has done so, he indicates to James to follow him behind a partition. "Come on, Mr. Beaufort. Let's see if it fits you."
James doesn't look at me before following Tristan behind the partition. He gives the impression of being on pause, as if he isn't fully present. Since we got out of the Rolls-Royce, I haven't perceived a single emotion on his face. It's as if his main goal is not to share his thoughts or feelings with anyone.
While I hear Tristan's faint murmur and the rustle of the fabric, I dare to take a step and approach the dress. I wonder what kind of woman must have worn it and what life she must have led: if she dreamed and if she was able to make her dreams come true.
About five minutes pass until the employee comes out again.
"It fits you perfectly," he says triumphantly.
"You have my measurements, Tristan," James comments dryly. "I'm sure you did something."
Then he also comes out from behind the partition. I am astonished. It's as if James had stepped back to the 19th century. The suit fits him phenomenally, and Tristan has even combed his hair to the side and put a walking stick in his hand. I slowly look him up and down.
James looks fabulous.
Only when I look up again and see his face do I realize how I must have looked at him, and judging by his murky smile, James knows exactly what went through my mind. Ugh- how embarrassing.
"Now it's your turn, Ruby," Tristan suddenly indicates.
"How?" I look puzzled. "What for?"
"To change, of course," he points at the dress. I look at it, first at him, and then at James. He manages, with little success, to contain his laughter. That's when I realize what they both want from me.
"No way!" I exclaim with a panicked voice. I was supposed to get the dress; no one said anything about putting it on.
"Did you think I was going to be the only one time-traveling? I'm sure not..." James extends the walking stick and gives me a slightly too strong tap on the shin. "So, please change."
"A true gentleman would never urge a lady with his cane, Mr. Beaufort," Tristan intervenes.
James snorts.
"Ruby is not a lady, Tristan. She's a tyrant."
"You haven't seen my tyrant side yet. But it will be a pleasure to show it to you." I look at James with narrowed eyes. "Tristan, do you happen to have another cane?"
"I'm afraid not. But she also doesn't need it to wear this wonderful dress. Come with me," he says, and he seems so hopeful that I can't refuse.
I follow him behind the partition, and he leaves; he arrives shortly after with a woman whom he introduces as his assistant and who helps me put on the two-piece suit. It's evident that I couldn't have done it alone. Fastening the countless clasps is an art in itself, not to mention that the top piece, like the skirt, is reinforced inside with metal rods. I have to twist to get one piece over my head and the other over my hips. After dressing with assistance, the hem of the dress is so huge that I can barely navigate the narrow space between the partition and the wall.
"Ready, boss," Tristan's assistant announces, approaching us. When she sees me, she claps her hands in satisfaction, her face lighting up. "How wonderful! Just a few final touches..."
She produces a hairpin seemingly out of nowhere and positions herself behind me. She takes the top part of my hair, or at least that's the impression I get, pulls it back, and secures it with the pin. Then she positions herself in front of me again and releases a couple of strands until her face reflects satisfaction. Then, I can finally face the mirror hanging on the wall behind me. I am petrified. I didn't know I was capable of looking like that. Apart from the fact that the dress hugs my curves as if it were made for me, I feel like I can channel the spirit of the woman who wore it in her time. I feel beautiful, imposing, and strong at the same time. As if the whole world had fallen at my feet and I only had to snap my fingers to get what I want. I turn calmly to Tristan and smile.
"Thank you for insisting that I try on the dress."
He hints at a bow.
"Mr. Beaufort," he says solemnly. "Allow me to introduce Miss Ruby Bell."
I proceed cautiously. One step, two steps, circling the partition, four steps, five steps... until I stop and dare to look up. James is talking to Tristan's assistant, but when he sees me, he interrupts his sentence. His eyebrows raise, and he slightly parts his lips. He looks me up and down, as if he has all the time in the world, and I swallow hard. Then he whispers something that I don't understand.
"What?"
He clears his throat.
"You look very... very beautiful."
My heart skips a beat. It's not the first time a guy has complimented me, but it feels like it is. I also don't think James says them very often. I feel like his words are... sincere. And candid.
"The dress is as if it's made for you," Tristan agrees. He nudges me a little closer to James and takes out his phone. "Now you really look like a 19th-century lady and gentleman."
James emits an almost inaudible sigh next to me, but when I dare to observe him, he looks at the camera as if he had done nothing else in life. I remember the images that circulated at Maxton Hall last year. In them, he modeled alongside Lydia for his parents' new collection and put on the same studied poker face as now. I turn to Tristan and try to appear dignified and serious. I don't know if I'm doing it well, but he keeps taking pictures of us non-stop.
"Change your pose again. You could get closer to each other, and extend your hand to her as if asking her to dance," he suggests after a couple of minutes.
James acts like a professional when he obeys the instruction. I doubt that many eighteen-year-old boys could make a bow as elegantly as he does, with or without a period costume. But James takes it seriously. I am surprised that he suddenly takes my hand and looks up at me from below. His skin is warm, and even though he only lightly brushes my fingers, a tingling sensation runs up my arm. When he looks at me like that, I imagine it. A room full of people dressed in period clothing, lively orchestral music, and James and me. He places his hand on my back and guides me onto the dance floor. I'm sure he knows how to move. I wouldn't find it hard at all to imagine losing control while dancing with him. I swallow with a dry throat. I like the idea more than I should.
"Now how about we take a picture where you're facing each other?" Tristan proposes, and James straightens up again. The silk handkerchief in his breast pocket has slipped a little, and I automatically put it back in place.
Something sparkles in James's eyes. I quickly withdraw my hand, and then I don't know where to put my arms, so I let them drop heavily to my sides.
Unexpectedly, James grabs my hand again. And he takes me by the waist: I hold my breath. My heart races, and I don't know how it's possible, but I find it surprisingly pleasant that he's touching me. At that moment, I can't even remember why I dislike him.
What is he doing to me?
James responds to my gaze with the exact same mix of dazzlement and observation that I feel. The sounds around us are gradually getting quieter the more we look at each other. I can only feel. His fingers, resting on my waist and moving slightly; his hand, firmly holding mine. His gaze almost feels like a challenge that I want to respond to at all costs.
"James," a deep voice resounds behind us.
The fire in his eyes fades- within a second- and so does his relaxed attitude. Suddenly, he stiffens like a stick and lets go of me as if he had been burned.
Barely a second. That's all what it took him to become the James Beaufort I knew before today again. The arrogant tilt of his mouth and the coldness of his eyes when he's dressed like that give him an almost threatening look.
"Mum, Dad. I didn't know you were coming today."
Oh. My. God-I start to spin with this huge dress, and when I finally manage to- my heart sinks. In front of me are Mortimer and Cordelia Beaufort, James and Lydia's parents. Directors of one of the most successful companies in all of England. Suddenly, I don't feel as imposing and strong as I did a moment ago, especially compared to Cordelia Beaufort. Everything about her is stylish, elegant, and sublime. She has a slender face and the same arrogant smirk as James on her lips, but in her case, painted in burgundy. Her complexion is porcelain, and she's wearing a tight white tube dress, probably the work of an expensive designer. Her shiny, coppery brown hair reaches her shoulder, perfectly wavy, as if she had just come from the hair salon.
James's father has sandy-colored hair, ice-blue eyes, and the corners of his lips slant slightly downward. Upright and proud in his tailored Beaufort suit, he looks like he's on his way to an important business meeting. His face shows no emotion as he looks me up and down: now I know where James inherited that impenetrable mask from.
"We're at the store because we had a reunion meeting with China," James's mother explains. She steps forward and kisses her son on the cheek, and I catch the fragrance of her perfume. It smells like powder makeup and a bouquet of fresh roses. "Percival mentioned that you and your..." - she gives me a brief glance - "school companion had come."
James doesn't respond. As he doesn't make the gesture of introducing me to his parents, I take a step forward with my cheeks burning and extend my hand to his mother.
"I'm Ruby Bell. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Beaufort."
She gazes at my hand for a bit too long before shaking it.
"The pleasure is mine," she smiles, exposing a row of pearly white teeth.
I want to be like her, I think. I want to walk into a room like her and instantly have everyone around me consider me a strong woman worthy of respect based solely on my appearance. What I don't want is for my mere presence to provoke fear and terror in everyone, as it seems to be the case with Mr. Beaufort. She briefly lowers her head when I also shake hands with her and then looks over the tailor's shop, as if she had already grown tired of me.
"It seems you've ordered a couple of pieces from the private collection," Mrs. Beaufort points out, watching us with her head slightly tilted. She takes a step forward and tugs at the skirt of my dress. A furrow appears between her brows. "The skirt is too long. Please, Mr. MacIntyre, fix it."
Tristan, who hasn't said a word since the Beauforts arrived, immediately nods.
"Of course, ma'am."
Mrs. Beaufort now indicates with a hand gesture that I turn. I follow her indication with an unpleasant feeling in my stomach.
"What do you need the suits for?"
"For the late October Victorian party," James responds. He is completely changed, and the monotone tone of his voice makes me think of a robot.
"He means the party he has to organize as a punishment for having behaved like a spoilt child," Mr. Beaufort says.
Mrs. Beaufort clucks her tongue. I've just turned, which hasn't been so easy with the dress, and I discreetly observe them. James shows no reaction to his father's words. Mrs. Beaufort, on the contrary, gives her husband a brief look of admonition. Then she turns to me again. She places her hands on the short sleeves of the dress, adjusts it from side to side, and finally tells Tristan:
"It needs to be widened a little in the front. It's too tight, and..." - she looks inquisitively at my face.
"Ruby," I help.
"Ruby can't breathe comfortably," she concludes.
Tristan nods and takes me with his assistant behind the partition. I glance at James over my shoulder, but he's not paying attention to me; he's completely focused on his parents. His father is talking to him with his gaze turned towards me. He murmurs as if he's angry, but I can't hear what he's saying to James.
I look away and address Tristan. "They both seem to... be very important." At the last moment, I manage to replace "inspire fear" with more positive words. Tristan is already busy carefully shortening the dress hem with the pins from a pincushion he wears on his wrist.
"You're right about that, miss," he says no more.
The silence that has engulfed the vast room since the Beauforts entered is eerie. No one is conversing, even Tristan only smiles at me before leaving and leaves his assistant to help me undress. It's evident that it's much easier to get out of the dress than to put it on. In just ten minutes, I've put on my clothes and can leave.
I stand next to James, who by now has taken off his tailcoat and is carrying it folded on his arm.
Mrs. Beaufort glances at me, then places her hand on her son's arm. "We'll see you downstairs."
James nods briefly. She turns to me. "I'm glad to have met you, Miss Bell."
James's father says nothing. They both turn around and leave the tailor's shop. Only when the door closes behind them can I breathe again.
"You could have warned me, you know?" I say in a low voice.
James turns rigidly towards me. I wish I could identify his gaze, but there's only icy turquoise. "Percy is waiting downstairs."
"Well, I'm ready. You're the one who's still stuck in the 19th century."
I smile cautiously. He, however, doesn't smile back. "Our outing is over," he says, and his tone sounds as it appears: cold and distant. "You better leave now."
"What?" I frown.
"You have to go, Ruby." He says it slowly, emphasizing each syllable, as if I were slow to understand. "See you at school."
He turns on his heels and goes behind the partition to change. For a while, I can't help but keep staring at the spot he just left.
Then I realize what he just did. The way he spoke to me.
Anger takes hold of me, and I take a step forward to give him a piece of my mind. But I don't get far. Tristan grabs my arm and restrains me. When he looks at me, he has a pitiful but also severe expression in his eyes.
"Come on, miss. I'll take you downstairs."
He gently pulls my arm. I reluctantly let him lead me out and as we cross the tailor's shop, I feel the workers' compassionate gazes upon me.