Dressing the pirate lady

Vivian Drew wants her clothing post. Monday night, I heard a thump in the kitchen and looked to see if a cat had jumped on the counter, and saw instead an open cupboard door above my head and a mug flying at me. My "Vivian mug," which shattered at my feet.

On my ex-mug: "From Home to Port"
by Sherrie Spencer, because it makes me think of Vivian Drew

A new mug has been ordered from cafepress.com--because I can't have several Captain Hook mugs and no Vivian mug--so I suppose it's time for the post that was delayed for Tiger Lily and children who fly away. One of the ongoing challenges in writing The Stowaway has been figuring out what an Edwardian woman would wear aboard a pirate ship which has a tenuous connection to any particular era of history. Vivian's evening gowns were a simple matter, and great fun to describe, but something practical for daily life aboard ship was another story altogether.

The pirate wench: Even if the historical accuracy of this image weren't absurd, Vivian would be disinclined to throw aside the standards she's lived with for over three decades in front of men who have already tried to take unwelcome liberties with her. No, respect should not be contingent upon what a woman wears, but it happens now, and The Stowaway takes place in 1908. Any sort of bodice over a shirt would contribute to the costume-y "wench" effect, so I was left to find a different direction.

From a Dutch printing of A General History of the Robberies
and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates, attributed to
Captain Charles Johnson (apparently a pseudonym)

Historical female pirates did not provide me with a solution either. Anne Bonny and Mary Read dressed the same as their male counterparts, all the better to startle their foes into making mistakes when they undid shirts and showed their true identities. While a great ploy, Vivian is not inclined to combat, dressed or otherwise, and discovers she is too fond of nice women's clothing to forgo it.

An Edwardian S-shaped, tightly-laced corset would of course be deeply unsuitable for working on a ship. But Edwardian women did wear waistcoats under suit jackets and over shirtwaists, and my discovery of the Liberty bodice provided me with the key to Vivian's wardrobe. Made of fleece-lined fabric without boning with buttons rather than lacing, and with shoulder straps, it was made for young girls as well as women like maids who needed more freedom of movement than a traditional corset would allow. Thus it would be a reasonable compromise for Vivian, providing the support and modesty she was accustomed to without the restrictions of a corset.

So a suitable outfit for her would start with a combination--a one-piece undergarment with no sleeves and divided legs rather than a skirt--with a Liberty bodice on top, and then her shirtwaist, skirt, and waistcoat. A great deal of clothing, yes, but without heating on the Jolly Roger, she'd be glad to have all of it. As for warmer weather--well, that's in the book. *wink*

When I started streamlining the narrative, it was easy to cut out details of love scenes, but much harder to let go of clothing descriptions. The world is rife with regular porn. It needs more clothing porn.

Blue fruit

As requested--no, really--a short vignette that didn't make the cut for The Stowaway, but which manages nevertheless to work in several themes of the book. We begin with Captain Jas. Hook speaking to Vivian Drew.

"We need to replace the oranges those wretched boys stole. Care to accompany me to the island?"

It couldn't be much more dangerous than the ship had been recently, I thought, and agreed, provided we could stay within hailing distance of the Jolly Roger. So after a brief stop at the cabin for hats (the lesson had finally taken), we took possession of the dory.

"We're rowing ourselves?" I had never thought to see James take this duty on.

"We can hardly do a worse job than some of our compatriots," he said, a point I could not argue.

This is Koh Samui, Thailand, not Never Neverland, but the resemblance is notable.

The sea was calm and the afternoon windless. We left the dory in a small cove and set off along the powdery sand of the beach, picking our way carefully through a crowd of tiny spotted birds intent on dining from shells and strands of rotting seaweed. 

"Look up, Viv. Mr. Smee says they're delicious." I followed his gaze to the feathery leaves of a pale-barked tree and a cluster of fruits tucked within, something like plums but with skins of turquoise blue.

I shaded my eyes with my hand and frowned. "Pretty enough, but we shouldn't eat them."

"They didn't hurt Mr. Smee, Viv, and they won't hurt us."

“Didn't your mother ever warn you about blue food?”

“It's a wonder my mother didn't encourage me to eat it.”

I shook my head, but squeezed his forearm to acknowledge the real mistrust that lay beneath his words. Probably my own parents wouldn't have even noticed if Miles and I had poisoned ourselves on blue food, as long as we'd ultimately survived.

“You don't eat blueberries?” James asked.

“They're more purple than blue," I pointed out.

He waved aside my further protests, plucked one of the fruits, and sliced it open with his deck knife. The flesh inside was as blue as the rind, and crunched like an apple as he chewed. Curiosity won out over caution as he presented to me another slice upon the point of his hook, and I bit into it with only a moment of hesitation. 

“It tastes somewhere between an orange and a lemon,” I said in surprise.

“I wonder if these would be any protection against scurvy. Probably best not to chance it.”

“Probably best to see if we survive the remainder of the day after eating them,” I said. “Assuming we don't die at the hands of the lost boys or the teeth of the crocodile.”

Neverland, according to the 2003 film adaptation of Peter Pan

“I have made you dismal, haven't I?”

I thought for a moment. “No, not much more so than I have always been.”

“We are distressingly well-suited for each other, then."

“Agreed.” I took another bite of the blue fruit.

“There are worse ways to die than this,” he said.

“If a person is looking for one.” I wiped my hand on my skirt and sat down carefully in the coarse grass at the base of the tree, leaning against the trunk and closing my eyes.  “Take the first watch, will you, sir?”

“As the lady commands,” he said, but belied his words when he reclined beside me and rested his head in my lap.

“Hmph,” I said sternly. But I was already stroking his hair, and I doubt anyone of our acquaintance would have believed I truly objected.