Katie
There are some dresses that are flattering to more voluptuous figures.

After trying on four different Edwardian styles, I came to the conclusion that perhaps these weren’t those sorts of dresses.

Okay, not “perhaps”. Without a doubt. As my only high school boyfriend said, “Some girls are more like a guitar, but you are definitely a cello.”

Yeah, I dated one of those guys.

Needless to say, we didn’t date for long.

At any rate, the entire “cello” comment was coming back to haunt me as these dainty and elegant gowns found a hard time making it over the bottom of my cello. And since high school, I’d grown more into the top of my cello, so I had serious doubts about buttoning any shirtwaists too.

I rubbed at an aching spot on my temple and transferred my frustration into a chuckle.

From the shapes of these gowns, rich Edwardian women were flutes.

And this cello was definitely not playing the right song for Edwardian England.

Emily, the young maid who’d attempted to dress me, alerted Mrs. Lennox of the...unfitting. The matron arrived to find my bed littered with discarded gown options and me wearing a pink day dress that hit too high on my calf and left an embarrassing pucker at my chest. With another lift of those manicured brows of hers, she ran a palm over her now perfectly smooth hair. “Well, you certainly cannot present yourself before guests with any bit of credulity in such a fashion. No high-bred lady would be caught like…” She waved a palm toward me, her frown deepening. “That.”

It took me a full five seconds to comprehend her, but the intention rang as clear as her perfectly articulated diction. The little curl of her lip probably helped too.

“Which means you won’t be able to participate in our activities until you have an appropriate wardrobe.” She nodded, running her palm over her hair again. “It’s a very good thing you arrived early enough for us to solve this little dilemma.”

“You think you can?” I waved toward the bed and cringed a little at the mound of discarded gowns. “I could just watch from the sidelines.”

“No, of course not.” The words whipped out her. “You cannot fully appreciate the experience without actually participating. We have classes on everything from meal etiquette, to dancing, to the language of the fan.” Her hand rose in imitation of a fan opening. “This is a fully immersive program which requires complete participation. How can you fully critique our experience without comprehension saturation?”

Ah, so moving from cello analogies to…sponges?

The fire in her eyes took a teensy tip toward crazy. “Sidelines are not an option.”

Super. And fully immersive classes? Why did the idea stick somewhere in my mind between ‘run away’ and ‘most embarrassing moment of your life’?

I kind of got the “obsession” feel when Mrs. Lennox gave me a ten-page booklet on the Craighill Experience which covered house rules and Edwardian etiquette.

Including…how to appropriate handle romantic relationships.

I caught my snicker before it burst out. Cello, sponge, or not, I didn’t plan to meet my perfect match at some crazy baronial home dressed as a Downton Abbey character in the middle
of “nowhere” Scotland. Oh no, no! I didn’t need to compete with crazy in a relationship.