Ruby
BEAUFORT
James' last name stands out in imposing letters on the facade of the company headquarters. As he gets out of the car and purposefully heads towards the entrance, I stop and stare wide-eyed first at the sign, then at the huge modern building in which – as James explained to me during the drive – the lower part houses the largest Beaufort branch in England, and the upper part contains the offices of departments like design, sales, customer service, and above all, the tailor shop. Window fronts stretch across all six floors of the building, behind which mannequins are displayed, dressed in the classic fashion that made the brand famous.
“Are you coming?” James calls to me from the entrance door.
We talked for the rest of the drive. Not much, but still more than I had expected. The feeling that I am actually in a dream doesn’t want to disappear.
I am in London. With James Beaufort.
I just can’t believe it.
“Ruby!” James calls, raising his eyebrows as he points to his watch.
This snaps me out of my trance. Hastily, I start moving and run towards him. He holds the door open for me, and I enter the branch hesitantly. Then I look around.
It is significantly larger than the one I visited with my parents back then. The high ceilings, white walls, and well-maintained hardwood floor make the salesroom feel open and inviting, even though all the furniture is black. Along the back wall, shelves stretch up to the ceiling, storing countless shirts. Above the shelves is a brass rod with a ladder hanging on the left side. Directly behind the entrance area is a large round table with a brass deer statue in the middle, around which neatly folded trousers are stacked in small piles. A chandelier hangs above the table, giving the room warmth with its gentle light. The scent in the store is unique – aromatic, but not overpowering, a mixture of the natural smells of the fabrics and an aroma likely from an air freshener.
James gently nudges my arm. I look up at him, and he motions with his head towards the back of the store. Slowly, I follow him. To our right is another wall of shelves. In the middle, there is an alcove where pictures of men in various suits hang, illuminated from the sides by two brass lamps. Directly beneath them is a dark green velvet sofa with plaid cushions, a fur-covered futon, and a glass table with crystal glasses and a carafe of water.
All around us, I see sturdy tweed, exquisite silk, and the finest leather – the fabrics Beaufort works with are the best; that's their promise of quality. There is no doubt that I am in a store frequented by aristocrats and politicians, and even though I don’t want to, I feel a bit out of place.
Perhaps it’s simply because only men seem to be here. Men working in sales, men standing on stools in front of large mirrors in the back, men having their measurements taken at their feet, and then the man standing next to me.
Suddenly, one of the aforementioned men rises from the floor. He says something to the customer whose pant hem he was just pinning, then his gaze falls on us. When he recognizes James, he goes rigid. "Mr. Beaufort!" With a chalk-white face, he glances at his wristwatch.
"Don't worry, Tristan, we have time," James replies.
I don’t recognize his tone at all. He speaks like a different person. Lofty and authoritative. As I glance at him from the side, I notice his upright posture. Even though his hands are casually buried in the pockets of his suit trousers, it's clear that he is not just anyone in this store. I wonder how he does it. He seems to make every place he goes his domain. The school, the lacrosse field, this store. Does that happen when he enters an ice cream parlor too? Maybe I'll have to test that out sometime.
Tristan beckons another tailor over and hands him his measuring tape. In the next moment, he hurries over to us and shakes James' hand. "Apologies for not greeting you earlier."
"Don't worry about it, Tristan," James replies. "Do you have time for us, or are you still busy?"
The tailor looks at him, flustered. "Of course, I have time for you, sir."
James turns to me. "Ruby, this is Tristan MacIntyre, the head tailor at Beaufort. And Tristan, this is Ruby Bell. She is the head of the events team at Maxton Hall."
I raise my eyebrows at James. I'm surprised he introduced me like that. He could have simply said I go to school with him. Or just mentioned my name.
Tristan adjusts his jacket, and as he looks at me, his demeanor relaxes a bit. A practiced smile appears on his lips. "Mr. Beaufort doesn't often bring school friends here, so I am particularly pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Bell."
I return his smile and extend my hand. He takes it, but instead of shaking it as I expected, he half-turns it and gestures a kiss on my hand. Suddenly, I feel the urge to curtsey. Luckily, I manage to hold back and say instead, "The pleasure is mine, Mr. MacIntyre."
"Please, call me Tristan."
"Only if you call me Ruby."
His smile widens, and with a meaningful glance at James, he says, "We've brought a few costumes from the archive. They're upstairs in the tailor shop. If you both would please follow me."
He turns and leads us through the store to a dark wooden door. Through it, we enter a staircase.
"I hope you like the clothes we've chosen," Tristan says on the way up. "They were personally designed by your great-great-great-great-grandfather, Mr. Beaufort."
Surprised, I look at James, but his face remains impassive as he says, "I'm sure they will be suitable for the occasion."
"Is that the great-great-great-great-grandfather who founded Beaufort?" I ask curiously.
Tristan nods. "Precisely, along with his wife in 1857. Did you know that Beaufort was originally a fashion house for both men and women? It wasn't until the early twentieth century that they decided to focus on their core competency."
I knew that since Lin suggested asking James about the costumes. I had pointed out that it wouldn't help because we would still be missing the dress for the woman, whereupon she told me about the beginnings of Beaufort fashion and showed me pictures of the opulent dresses that were sold under the brand back then.
"Yes," I say belatedly. "But I don't know why."
"Our financial situation was dire," James says. "My great-great-grandfather made a few poor decisions, and we were on the brink of bankruptcy. Specializing was the only way out."
"After that, Beaufort became the brand it is today," Tristan explains, as if he had been there himself. "No one makes suits like we do. You can get everything you desire here – from everyday suits to evening wear. The craftsmanship is incomparable to off-the-rack products, not to mention that we personalize every suit with the customer's initials. Mr. Beaufort, show her yours."
I stop and turn to James, who is standing one step below me. Now we are at eye level. My gaze lingers a moment too long on his eyes, whose expression I still can't quite decipher. Then I lower my eyes to the breast pocket of his dark gray suit, which is embroidered with the initials JMB.
"I've been wondering since yesterday what the M stands for," I confess. I look up again, and suddenly I am so close to him that I notice details in his face that I hadn't before. For example, his eyelashes are surprisingly dark for his hair color, and faint freckles stretch across his cheeks.
"Mortimer," he answers quietly.
"Like your dad?"
He nods and looks past me to Tristan. A clear sign that he doesn't want to delve further into this topic.
As we continue up the rest of the stairs, Tristan tells me about the special fabrics the Beaufort tailors work with and the vast number of cufflinks they can choose from.
Until now, a suit has always been just a...suit to me. I never noticed significant differences, let alone imagined how many decisions must be made to create one or how many different ways there are to make it.
"Every check is measured out, we leave nothing to chance," Tristan says as we exit the staircase and enter a lit hallway. "This has always been Beaufort's standard. We work with the utmost care and offer the best quality. That's why we are even allowed to dress the royal family." He stops next to a photograph hanging on the wall. I step closer, and my mouth drops open. There hangs a picture of the crown prince.
"Don't tell me you dressed him," I say in awe.
James says nothing, but Tristan smiles proudly. "Not just him."
We continue down the hallway, whose walls are lined with pictures of celebrities, politicians, and nobility – all dressed in Beaufort suits. I see Pierce Brosnan, the Beatles, and even a photo of the Prime Minister. There's also a series of men whose faces I don't recognize, but whose demeanor in the photos alone tells me they are powerful and very wealthy.
"Have you met all these people?" I ask James.
He shrugs. "A few."
"That's really cool," I murmur, feeling almost a bit sad when Tristan opens a door at the end of the hallway and finally leads us into the tailor shop.
I look around curiously. The room is spacious and feels almost like a vast, bright hall. Even though it's Saturday, there must be about fifty people working here between mannequins and tables piled with fabrics.
"Come, the costumes are back there." Tristan leads the way, crossing the room with us in tow. As we pass by, the employees greet James politely but stiffly. When I glance back over my shoulder, I can see them huddling together and whispering. Frowning, I look at James. He has put on a mask of nonchalant arrogance, the same expression I know from school. I wonder what is going on in his mind. He doesn't look like he is enjoying the fact that people here seem to be afraid of him.
I realize suddenly that I want to know more about him. More about James, Beaufort, and what goes on behind the scenes of this wealthy family.
Tristan pulls me out of my thoughts when he stops abruptly. "Voila," he says, gesturing beside him to a dressmaker's dummy that...
It takes my breath away.
The dummy is wearing a Victorian dress. It is made of green silk, two-piece, with short sleeves and black lace ruffles. The bodice is form-fitting, the neckline modestly heart-shaped and adorned with black glass stones. The skirt is opulent and looks even larger and heavier due to the underskirt. The pleated green fabric alternates with panels of lace and reaches the floor. It is by far the most beautiful garment I have ever seen in my life.
How I am supposed to take it home or to school, I do not know. I don't even dare to touch it for fear of soiling it.
Behind the dummy with the dress stands another dummy dressed in a men's costume consisting of a frock coat, waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. The frock coat has a slight waist cut, and it looks as if it is made of a soft woolen fabric. The black waistcoat has several pockets and tapers to a point at the bottom. In the small collar of the white shirt is a black tie, which looks wider and differently shaped than the ties I know.
"When gentlemen dressed back then, they didn't do things halfway. Every detail had to be perfect," Tristan explains, beginning to remove the men's costume from the dummy. Once he has managed it, he gestures for James to follow him behind a partition. "Come, Mr. Beaufort. Let's see if it fits you."
James no longer looks at me before he follows Tristan behind the partition. He seems more like he's on standby and not really present. Since we left the Rolls-Royce, I haven't seen a single emotion on his face. It's as if his primary goal is to let no one here share in his thoughts or feelings.
As I hear Tristan's soft murmuring and the rustling of fabric, I dare to step closer to the dress. I wonder what kind of woman might have worn it before and what kind of life she led. Whether she had dreams and if she was able to fulfill them.
It takes about five minutes before Tristan comes back to me. "It fits him perfectly," he says triumphantly.
"You have my measurements, Tristan," James comments dryly. "Surely you helped it along." Then he also steps out from behind the partition.
My mouth goes dry.
James looks as if he has just stepped out of the nineteenth century. The suit fits him perfectly, and Tristan has even combed his hair to the side and given him a walking stick. I let my gaze slowly wander over his body, from top to bottom.
James looks simply fantastic.
Only when I look back up at his face do I realize how much I must have been staring, and judging by his dirty grin, James knows exactly what was going through my mind. My cheeks grow hot.
"It's your turn, Ruby," Tristan suddenly prompts me.
"What?" I look at him, confused. "For what?"
"To change, of course." He points to the dress. I stare at him first, then at James. He tries, with moderate success, to suppress a laugh. Only then do I realize what they both want from me.
"No way!" I say, panic in my voice. I was supposed to procure the costumes. There was never any talk of wearing them.
"Did you think I was the only one taking a trip through time? Certainly not." James stretches the walking stick out to me and taps it a bit too hard against my shin. "So if you would please change."
"A true gentleman would never hit a lady with a walking stick, Mr. Beaufort," Tristan interjects.
James snorts. "Ruby is no lady, Tristan. She's a tyrant."
"You haven't met my tyrannical side yet. But I'd be happy to show it to you." I glare at James with narrowed eyes. "Tristan, you wouldn't happen to have another one of those sticks, would you?"
"I'm afraid not. But you don't need a walking stick when you're wearing this wonderful dress. Come," says Tristan, looking so hopeful that I can't bring myself to resist any longer. I follow him behind the partition, and he disappears, returning shortly with a woman he introduces as his assistant, who helps me put on the two-piece dress. It turns out that I could never have managed it alone. Fastening the many tiny eyelet closures is an art in itself, not to mention that the bodice and skirt are reinforced with metal stays. I have to contort myself quite a bit to get both pieces over my head and hips. Once we're done dressing me, the circumference of the skirt is so enormous that I barely fit into the narrow space between the partition and the wall.
"All set, boss," calls Tristan's assistant, and he rejoins us. When he sees me, he claps his hands together in delight, his face lighting up. "How wonderful! Just a few final touches..."
Out of nowhere, he produces a hairpin and steps behind me. He takes the upper part of my hair—at least that's how it feels—pulls it back, and secures it with the pin. Then he stands in front of me again, adjusting a few more strands until a satisfied expression spreads across his face. Finally, I'm allowed to turn towards the mirror hanging on the wall behind me.
I gasp.
I didn't know I could look like this. Besides the fact that the dress hugs my curves as if it were made for me, I feel as though I can channel the spirit of the lady who once wore it. I feel beautiful, powerful, and strong all at once. It’s as if the whole world is at my feet and all I have to do is snap my fingers to get what I want. I turn slowly to Tristan and smile. "Thank you for making me wear this dress."
He gestures a bow. "Mr. Beaufort," he says solemnly. "I present to you Ms. Ruby Bell."
Carefully, I start to move. One step, two steps, around 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 stops mid-sentence. His eyebrows raise, and his lips part slightly. He looks at me from head to toe, as if he has all the time in the world, and I swallow hard.
Then he murmurs something I can't understand.
"What?"
He clears his throat. "You... look very pretty."
My heart stumbles. It's not the first time I've received a compliment from a boy, but it somehow feels like it is. I also don't think James says such things often. His words seem... honest. And unguarded.
"The dress is made for her," Tristan agrees. He nudges me a bit closer to James and then takes out his phone. "Now, look like a lady and a gentleman from the nineteenth century."
Next to me, James lets out a barely audible snort, but when I risk a glance at him, he looks into the camera as if he's done nothing else his whole life. I remember the pictures that went around Maxton Hall last year. He had modeled with Lydia for his parents' new collection and had the same practiced poker face then as he does now. I turn my head to Tristan and try to look dignified and serious. Whether I'm doing it right, I don't know, but he takes one photo after another of us.
"Change the pose a bit. Perhaps you could bow and hold her hand, making it look like you're inviting her to dance," he suggests after a few minutes.
James moves like a professional as he follows the suggestion. I doubt many eighteen-year-old boys would look as elegant while bowing, costume or not. But James seems to take this seriously. I'm surprised when he suddenly takes my hand and looks up at me from below. His skin is warm, and although he touches my fingers very lightly, a tingling sensation shoots up my entire arm.
When he looks at me like that, I can almost imagine it. A hall full of people in costumes, atmospheric orchestral music, and James and I. The way he would place his hand on my back and lead me across the dance floor. He surely knows how to move. I can easily picture myself giving up control and letting go while dancing with him.
I swallow dryly. The thought appeals to me more than it should.
"Maybe now a picture where you face each other?" says Tristan, and James stands up again. The silk handkerchief in his breast pocket has shifted a bit, and I automatically reach for it to straighten it.
Something flashes in James’s eyes. I quickly pull my hand back—and then suddenly don't know what to do with my arms, so I let them hang limply at my sides.
Suddenly, James reaches for my hand again. He places his other hand on my waist, and I hold my breath. My heart starts racing, and I don't know why, but it feels surprisingly good to be touched by him. In this moment, I can't remember why I can't stand him.
What is he doing to me?
James meets my gaze with the same mixture of wonder and wariness that I'm feeling right now. The sounds around us fade away the longer we look at each other. I can only feel. His fingers on my waist, gently moving, his hand firmly holding mine. His gaze feels almost like a challenge that I want to accept at any cost.
"James," a deep voice calls from behind us.
The fire in his eyes extinguishes in an instant. His relaxed posture vanishes. Suddenly, he stands up straight and lets go of me as if he had been burned.
It took just a second. No longer than that for him to revert to the James Beaufort I know. The arrogant set of his mouth and the coldness in his eyes make him look suddenly quite menacing in this attire.
“Mum, Dad. I didn't know you were here today.”
Oh God. I start to turn around in the bulky dress, and when I finally manage it, my heart sinks.
Standing before me are Mortimer and Cordelia Beaufort, James and Lydia’s parents. Leaders of one of the most successful companies in all of England. Suddenly, I don’t feel as strong and powerful in my outfit as I did just moments ago—especially not compared to Cordelia Beaufort. Everything about her is stylish, elegant, and regal. She has a narrow face and the same arrogant mouth as James, only hers is painted dark red. Her complexion is porcelain-like, and she wears a tight-fitting white sheath dress that is undoubtedly from an expensive designer. Her glossy, copper-red hair reaches just above her shoulders and is perfectly waved, as if she has just come from the hairdresser.
James’ father has sandy hair, ice-blue eyes, and downturned corners of his mouth. His posture is upright and proud, and in his tailored Beaufort suit, he looks as if 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 his impenetrable mask from.
“We were at the company for a meeting with China,” James’ mother explains. She steps forward and kisses her son on the cheek, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. She smells powdery and like a bouquet of fresh roses.
“Percival told us he drove you and your…,” she glances at me briefly, “... school friend here.”
James doesn’t respond. Since he makes no move to introduce me to his parents, I step forward with flushed cheeks and extend my hand to his mother. “I’m Ruby Bell. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Beaufort.”
She looks at my hand a moment too long before shaking it. “The pleasure is all mine.” She smiles, revealing a row of pearly white teeth.
I want to be like her, the thought flashes through my mind. I want to enter a room and instantly be seen as a strong and respected woman by those around me just because of my presence.
What I don’t want is to terrify people just by being there, as seems to be the case with Mr. Beaufort. He gives me a curt nod when I shake his hand, then looks around the tailor shop again, as if he’s already had enough of me.
“I see you’ve ordered some pieces from the archive,” says Mrs. Beaufort, looking at us with her head tilted. She steps forward and tugs at the skirt of my dress. A crease forms between her brows. “The skirt is too long. Please fix that, Mr. MacIntyre.”
Tristan, who hasn’t said a word since the Beauforts arrived, nods quickly. “Of course, ma’am.”
Mrs. Beaufort now gestures for me to turn around. I comply with a queasy feeling in my stomach.
“What do you need the clothes for again?” she asks.
“For the Victorian party at the end of October,” James replies. He is like a different person, and his monotonous tone reminds me of a robot.
“He means the party he has to organize because he behaved like a spoiled little boy,” says Mr. Beaufort.
Mrs. Beaufort clicks her tongue. I finish my turn, which wasn’t easy to perform in the dress, and now look unobtrusively between the three of them. James shows no reaction to his father’s words. Mrs. Beaufort, however, gives her husband a reproachful look for a moment.
Then she turns back to me. She places her hands on the short sleeves of the dress, fiddles with them, and finally says to Tristan, “The front needs to be let out a bit, Tristan. It’s too tight, and then…,” she looks at me questioningly.
“Ruby,” I help her out.
“… Ruby won’t be able to breathe properly,” she finishes.
Tristan nods and, along with his assistant, leads me back behind the partition. I glance over my shoulder at James, but he doesn’t look back at me, instead fully focused on his parents. His father is talking to him, his gaze fixed on me. His murmuring sounds angry, but I can’t understand any of what he’s saying to James.
I look away and turn to Tristan. "They both seem very... important." At the last moment, I manage to replace "frightening" with a more positive word. Tristan is already busy carefully pinning the hem of the dress with needles from a pin cushion on his wrist.
"You are right, Miss." He says no more.
It's eerie how quiet the huge room has become since the Beauforts entered. No one seems to be talking anymore, even Tristan just gives me a brief smile before disappearing and leaving it to his assistant to help me change. Getting out of the dress is much faster than putting it on. It takes less than ten minutes before I'm back in my own clothes and can return to the front.
I stand next to James, who has now taken off the frock coat and draped it loosely over his arm.
Mrs. Beaufort lets her gaze slide over me, then places her hand on her son's arm. "We'll see you downstairs."
James nods curtly.
She turns to me. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bell."
James's father says nothing. The two of them turn and leave the tailor shop. Only when the door closes behind them can I breathe again.
"You could have warned me, you know," I say quietly.
James turns stiffly to me. I wish I could read his expression, but there's nothing but icy turquoise. "Percy is waiting for you downstairs."
"Well, I'm done. You're the one still stuck in the nineteenth century." I cautiously smile at him.
He doesn't return it. "Our outing is over," he begins, and his voice sounds just like he looks. Cool and distant. "It's better if you leave now."
I frown. "What?"
"You have to go now, Ruby." He says it slowly, emphasizing each syllable as if I am slow-witted. "We'll see each other at school."
He turns and goes behind the partition to change. For a moment, I can only stare after him. Then I realize what he just did. How he spoke to me.
Anger spreads through me, and I take a step forward to confront him. But I don't get far. Tristan grabs my arm and holds me back. The look in his eyes is regretful but also stern as he looks at me. "Come, Ruby. I'll take you downstairs."
He gently pulls on my arm. Reluctantly, I let him lead me away. As we cross the tailor shop, I can feel the pitying looks of all the employees on me.
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