The Milliner’s Daughter – Zannier Alejandra

Zannier Alejandra is a Bolivian writer, living in the United Kingdom. In a past life she was a credit analyst for an international bank but traded in her spreadsheets for more creative pursuits. Her fiction has appeared on Liar’s League and in the dieselpunk anthology Grimm, Grit & Gasoline.

 

It was the week before Christmas when I first noticed the milliner’s daughter. The shop was bustling with the familiar Yuletide mob of young society ladies, overbearing mothers and adoring husbands.

My husband was the reason I was there myself. For the fifth year in a row, he had decided to give me a new hat for Christmas. Except, on this occasion, he was unable to find the time to commission it himself. Instead, he handed over his purse and sent me to the shop to purchase my own gift. I could have taken the money and bought something I truly desired, but a hat was expected.

The milliner was appalled by the eleventh-hour request. “A week before Christmas?! It can’t be done! It don’t matter how much money you have in there, it can’t be done!”

I looked around hoping no-one heard him, the implications of his rebuttal sending agony through my soul. A married woman, with no Christmas gift from her husband! What would everyone say?

That’s when an unlikely savior came to my rescue. “I can get it done, papa,” said a young woman, appearing from the back of the shop.

I searched my memory, but I could not recall ever seeing her before; perhaps, I simply was not paying attention. The milliner’s daughter was not a particularly striking girl but possessed an understated type of beauty girls her age cannot escape – velvety skin, luscious locks, and eyes full of life, regarding me with an intensity I first mistook for admiration.

“You go on then,” her father said. “If the lady doesn’t mind.”

I gave them a curt nod. It was a slight, no question about it, but it was better than nothing. Perhaps the girl would surprise me by making a good hat, good enough it could pass for her father’s and none would be the wiser.

That first encounter was brief. She showed me a few ribbons and fabrics. I selected a dark grey satin, but she swayed me to a crimson organza that would “draw the eyes to the rouge of my lips.” She made it sound like a desirable outcome, so I agreed.

After we were finished with materials and sketches, she bid me goodbye and asked me to return in a few days. I distinctly remember a foreign exhilaration as I left the shop. A new hat is always exciting, I told myself and didn’t give it another thought.

It was the day before Christmas, when I next saw the milliner’s daughter. The shop was completely empty and, assuming it was closed, I nearly walked away; but, the milliner’s daughter spotted me through the window and rushed to the door.

With solicitous expediency, she helped me with my cloak and hung it on the wall. A curious sensation washed over my skin–the burning tingle of intent eyes on the back of one’s neck; except, I could feel it on my entire body. “Where’s everyone?” I asked.

“Most orders were delivered yesterday,” the girl explained. “It will be quiet today. Father went home to rest.” She uttered the last sentence with more gravity than required for the simple information she was conveying.

She reached behind the counter and produced a large round box. I opened it and dug through the endless layers of white tissue. When I finally unwrapped my hat, I was breathless. “It’s beautiful,” I said sincerely.

The wide-brim hat was the color of fine wine, unapologetic in its exuberance, with three silk roses in the middle and a single red feather sticking out from the side.

“I wanted it to be beautiful,” the milliner’s daughter said.

I noticed a deep blush on her youthful cheeks.

“I remember seeing you around town since I was a young girl,” she continued. “I remember thinking I’d never see anything as beautiful. I wanted the hat to be just like that. A bold sort of beauty.”

I was left speechless, unable to believe I could be the inspiration for such a beautiful thing, but it went beyond aesthetics. This headpiece reflected myself more than anything I had ever owned. Somehow this young woman had seen me, in a way no-one seemed to see me anymore. “A bold sort of beauty,” I repeated to myself. “Will you try it on?” she asked with endearing eagerness.

I was happy to comply and planted myself in front of the full-length mirror. She stood behind me and put the hat on my head. She didn’t step back, she stayed where she stood, her body almost pressed against mine.

I caught her eyes in the mirror and noticed what I must have known for a while. The look on her face was not one of admiration, as I first assumed. It was something else, and it felt good to be on the receiving end of it.

I turned around very slowly, glancing down at her face. She brought her hand to the edge of my long sleeve and traced the lace all the way up to my neck, until her fingers made contact with my skin. She closed her eyes and touched the line of my jaw, my lips, the contours of my cheek. She was methodical, as if trying to chart the outline of my face and commit it to memory.

I remained still, even when she finally gathered the courage to lean up and kiss me. Her lips were sweet, warm; her hand around my waist eager. For a few seconds, I allowed her to taste and touch me the way she clearly wanted. When I stepped back, I had a smile on my face.

I grabbed my cloak from the perch by the door and left the shop, proudly donning my new crimson hat. Unawares, my husband had given me the best gift of all–to feel desired, even if just for a few seconds.

Lady Eden left the milliner’s shop without turning back. She went home, gave her husband a kiss, and told him she wouldn’t be needing another hat next year.