Work Text:
Sofia had always been good at math, and enjoyed the mental exercise of tallying numbers and sums in her head. It also schooled the mind in logical thought, of which she made frequent use in her day to day. There were things she could break down into near-mathematical equations – endlessly more complex than simple arithmetic, of course, with some guesswork involved, but Sofia had gotten quite good at it over the years.
One such thing was the choice of what to wear each day. There were many variables involved: the contents of her wardrobe, the weather, the planned activities for the day. But most important to consider were the people she would meet in a day, who would perceive and judge her. The correct choice of dress allowed her to manipulate their impressions of her, and serve her goals as she liked.
She had thought that most ladies performed these mathematical equations each day, and weighted the different factors similarly to her. It had been at the funeral of Lord Wilmot that she had been abused of that belief: A cousin of Sofia’s late husband had commented what a pity it was that Sofia was now forced to wear black, a depressing color, and suggested she keep the mourning period as short as socially acceptable and go back to colorful dresses as soon as possible.
The idea seemed silly to Sofia. The mathematical function was weighted too heavily towards mourning dresses. She was a widow, that was her position in life, and a widow wore black. A widow in mourning was not asked to remarry. Wearing black showed that she had done her duty to society, that she had wed as a lady should, and that she was now unavailable. Sofia intended to keep it that way – had endured marriage to Lord Wilmot and was now looking forward to return home, where she would be left in peace. Indeed, once she returned to Broadwater Hall she planned on ordering several more mourning dresses since she intended to be in mourning for as long as it was possible.
*
London offered a wide variety of cloth and fabric, but Sofia kept to the stalls that sold black. It was practical, it was a logical choice, but she found she did not mind the color. It would not have mattered whether she liked the color, as her own enjoyment was a low-ranking variable in her clothing equations. But black suited her, she thought, a serious color, no-nonsense. It was as if she had been destined to wear a widow’s garb her whole life.
Her eye was caught by a dark fabric. It was a thick and black brocade, adorned in a green pattern so dark it was invisible unless the sun hit it just right. The pattern was floral, but not the typical roses and lilacs; it was ivy that wound itself over the bundle of cloth in front of her. And like ivy grew on castle walls, this pattern seemed to devour the light that touched it.
She liked how heavy it felt against her fingers. She did the calculations in her head: this fabric did not fulfill the rules of full mourning – it was not black enough, the green occasionally visible in the weak London sun. But it was enchanting in a way that she did not see too often, it was both pretty and handsome, in a heady mixture that seemed somehow illicit.
It was illogical to have a dress made from this. She would never find an occasion to wear it in her day to day.
Sofia was about to leave the fabric and head over to the next bundle of fiber when a thought struck her. An equation with many variables could have several local minima and maxima, depending on what parameters one set, if one was prepared to think in more than one dimension. And she should not forget that she had no intention of ever actually remarrying, of actually enchanting any man. To fulfill her equation and her obligation sometimes it was enough to adhere to conventions pro forma, only so much that visitors to Broadwater Hall had nothing to complain about. But that was enough: she did not want anyone to get closer anyways, so this could suffice. And after bartering with the vendor and quickly estimating the costs for the tailor she realized that her plans were very well within her budget.
*
There was a freedom in being a widow that Sofia adored. Or rather, there was a freedom in being a widow and her father’s favored child that Sofia adored.
Of course it still stung that the estate would never go to her but to Thomas. Even though she was the one who helped her father run it, and who was better suited to running it. Of course it still hurt how Thomas could blunder and drink and whore his way through life while she had to be perfect.
But it was not their father’s fault, he had not made the world as it was. He had not made it so women had to marry to have a roof over their head and food to eat, and where she had to fight tooth and nail to be seen as half as worthy and intelligent as her useless brother. He had said, many times both when they were alone and when Thomas was present, that he wished it were different. That he wished that Sofia had been the boy and Thomas the girl. Then Sofia would have gotten Broadwater Hall, and Thomas could have been married off, out of sight and out of mind and no longer a large problem for their family’s reputation.
Thomas’ antics would never have been tolerated. Her father knew her to be more intelligent, more diligent and more trustworthy. And he showed it by trusting her with the running of the estate in a way that he never would with Thomas.
He gave her more reign over the money of Broadwater Hall than he had ever given Thomas.
And Sofia used that free reign to buy things for herself. Of course, carefully budgeted. She was not a big spender and good at math: the estate had to come first if she wanted this to be a long-term sustainable solution. But she could get away with carving out little things for herself; by buying books her father would not approve of, or by attending the theater which he found frivolous, or by buying clothes that he thought she should not have a use for.
Such as a riding habit made from the ivy patterned black brocade. Her father disapproved of her riding or ordering riding habits. After all, she had ample access to the Blancheford coach and horses, which befitted her station much more. Riding was only to be done when hunting, and there was no reason for a proper lady to hunt.
But riding a horse was freedom – a freedom that surpassed that of being a widow and her father’s favored child. It did not properly fit into Sofia’s equations and functions, was uncountable and innumerable. She did not do it often, and she was careful to never discuss it with her father, and simply visited a tailor while in London.
The tailor took her measures for the riding habit, and she left the ivy patterned fabric with him.
She knew that it was illogical to order the habit in the style she did, except for the quickening beat of her heart when thinking about wearing it.
*
The most beautiful a lady was ever supposed to look was on her wedding day. Sofia had always felt that the numbers had been stacked against her in that regard from the very beginning. She thought that pure white made her look washed out, like a painting of white lilies on white canvas. She had worn a white dress, of course, because that was what her math dictated so clearly that it was unthinkable not to. But she supposed that she hadn’t look radiant but rather constipated from all the fake-smiling on the arm of Lord Wilmot. Nevertheless, everyone had told her she had been beautiful, but Sofia had not been able to believe them.
Now she looked into the tailor’s mirror, saw him pin her new riding habit in place and thought, unbidden, that she was at her most beautiful in this piece. Her heart soared, and she had to fight a smile. The math on this piece was off, she did not need it, not really, but she couldn’t help but love it anyways.
The black fabric was a rich contrast with her fair skin, and the ivy pattern shimmered subtly when she moved. The petticoat had a wide skirt, allowing her free movement. The skirt’s silhouette was feminine, with the cinched waist and the bumroll accentuating her hips, she would not be mistaken for a man with this part of her outfit. The jacket, on the other hand, was a strong contrast: it was closed up to her throat, and with trimmings modeled after a soldier’s uniform. It was masculine in all the ways that her father would hate, that men would find unattractive, but in all the ways that made her heart soar. She loved how the cravat drew the eyes away from her breasts, how the military trimmings seemed to flatten her bust, how the jacket seemed to say that there were more important things about her. She loved how the sleeves were subtly flared, giving her the illusion of broader shoulders.
She straightened her back and turned. The skirt swished, but didn’t flare out, and the brocade shimmered. She stopped fighting the smile and allowed it to spread. Her heart was full, and she felt solid, stable, in control and powerful. It was inappropriate to wear anywhere but on a horse, and her equations indicated that she should never even have ordered it, but she never wanted to take it off. This riding habit finally framed her how she wanted while her wedding dress had framed her how everyone else wanted her.
Just this once she ignored her equations and functions. Just this once she didn’t take it off. She paid for the riding habit and wore it straight out of the tailor and onto the streets of London. She relished in the feeling of walking through town in it, of throwing caution into the wind, and bought a tricorne hat to go with it. To celebrate.
The hat was adorned with a crow’s feathers that shimmered in the sun – green like the ivy pattern of her new riding habit. And if her jacket made her look like a soldier, the hat made her look like the commanding officer she would have been, had she been born a man.
She even wore the riding habit home, because she returned under cover of darkness, and quickly changed into a more mathematically sound and suitable dress before dinner. Her father didn’t see her in the riding habit, and never would until his death.
*
The riding habit stayed in Sofia’s closet for the next months. It was a beautiful thing, and she often laid it out onto her bed, and stroked the brocade. She did not wear it: the factors and variables of her equations were stacked against it. The riding habit was not what her father imagined her to wear, and she loved being his favored child even more than the riding habit.
She knew she needed to be perfect, so that he continued to see her as more intelligent, diligent and trustworthy than Thomas. She needed him to love her more than he loved Thomas, and she needed him to continue saying it to Thomas whenever he disappointed their father again. Hearing it made her heart soar – not in this uncountable and innumerable way the riding habit did, but in a fierce manner that she could not live without.
And so she wore her mourning dresses, and continued reaping her father’s praise. It was all fabric and fiber in the end, all math and logic, and she didn’t mind the dresses. She liked their silhouettes and black fabrics, it was not hardship to wear them at all. She liked the feeling she had when wearing them, feminine and protected from men’s prying eyes by the power of a widow’s garb. But it didn’t stop her from yearning for her riding habit and how it made her feel. But she was smart so she did what the math dictated, and her dresses served her better.
A lady used her image to get what she wanted, and her mourning dresses molded her image into what she needed. Her father saw what he had to, and Sofia kept her position.
*
Sofia knew that her position had been secure only so long as her father lived. She knew how to work him, how to get him to do what she wanted. He had been of good health, and while she knew that it would be smart to plan for his passing, she had never anticipated the day to come so soon.
She preferred not to think about how her father’s death had come about. Those thoughts stirred a pot of anger and hate and grief and jealousy and rage that was beyond logic and would not serve her right now. If she wanted to survive and to live, she had to be smart about this and keep her cool. Thomas was her brother, and now he was her only relative, and if she wanted to keep her position, then everyone had to believe in his innocence. The best way to achieve that was if she believed in his innocence. She had been what her father had needed, so that he would secure her position in Broadwater Hall. And if she now became what Thomas needed, that would once again secure her position in Broadwater Hall.
And what Thomas needed was different from what her father had needed. He needed his bigger sister, he needed someone with a good head on their shoulders and a keen eye on the horizon. Someone to tell him where to go, what to do, and what to say. That suited Sofia better than the gentle lady her father had preferred. She could be what he needed.
And Thomas needed a scapegoat, and who was better suited than Nell Jackson? Any pity Sofia might have felt for her family’s situation before her father’s … before had to be violently suppressed. Nell Jackson was their father’s murderer, and Sofia had to make sure everyone believed that.
It could not be hard. Nell Jackson was a strange woman, a dangerous woman, a thief and a highway woman, who dressed and fought like a man and a devil with ideas above her station. She was uneducated and no match for Sofia; she was unable to read and to count and do the complex math Sofia did to manipulate her image to make the world like her and do what she wanted.
In a way it was lucky that she already owned a large wardrobe of mourning dresses. The parameters favored them, they would serve her well when she was seen in society.
But first, Sofia had to hunt Nell Jackson and bring her to justice. And for that, the math demanded something different.
*
During most of Sofia’s life, the calculation of her outfit arrived at a simple solution: wearing this or that dress was the most logical fashion choice because it would make her look a certain way to impress whatever man she had to impress.
But this time her calculation arrived at a different solution.
She had paid men to look for Jackson. If they found her, Sofia would ride out with them to witness Jackson’s arrest. The men were only interested in her money, and she did not need to impress or woo them in any way. She would have no contact with them beyond this service. She could disregard them from her equation.
Thomas did not need her to be the perfect lady. He did not need her demure or silent, pliant or warm. He needed her strong, smart, decisive, cool and powerful; all the things he wasn’t. She did not need nor should she wear her pretty dresses for him right now.
Who was left? Who would perceive her?
Nell Jackson hardly counted. Nell Jackson was not a man, and it did not matter whether she saw Sofia as a perfect gentle lady. If anything, appearing strong and powerful before Jackson would show the strange woman her place. Whatever tricks Jackson attempted to play by dressing like a soldier failed in comparison to Sofia. Sofia knew how to wield and project power and wealth in her silk and brocade, unlike Jackson in her stolen soldier’s coat.
The solution her calculation arrived at was exciting: it was not only possible for her but actually made sense to wear her riding habit.
Despite the madness and the uncertainty of her situation, a certain giddiness overtook her.
Her maid dressed her in her riding habit, and Sofia felt even better than when she had first seen herself in it at the tailor’s shop. Her heart still soared at the silhouette of her jacket and petticoat, the padded flowing hips with her thin waist, her flattened bust and broadened shoulders.
The smile that she wore this time was grim and fierce: between her and Jackson, her dress said it was Sofia who had the crown’s might on her side, that she was the one in the right; by birth, by status, by intelligence and by virtue. She deserved this. She had done the math all her life for this.
She had her maid fetch her pearl ear rings, each of them worth more than Nell Jackson’s sorry life. They shimmered in the light, just like the crow’s feather in her hat and the ivy patterned brocade. Sofia grinned at her reflection.
She looked at the woman in the mirror, who would capture Nell Jackson, save her brother, and secure her rightful place at Broadwater Hall.
*
After Jackson had gotten away – and after Sofia had learned what true power was – she returned the riding habit to her closet.
It would not stay there for long, she promised herself. She loved it too much, but it would not serve her with Lord Poynton. She had to be forward with him, forward in a way that was unseemly for a lady, but there was no time for finesse. She needed him to teach her magic, and once she possessed it, she would be truly powerful. Then she would be able to tip her calculations in favor of her riding habit far more often.
But until then she had to appeal to Poynton. She could not be too crass – he could not think ill of her, and he had to find her attractive. And the riding habit was not suitable to any of those pursuits, and so the logical choice was to pack it away. It had stayed in her closet for such a long time that a little longer would hardly matter.
Once she had gotten what she wanted – Jackson in chains, Thomas’ and her position at Broadwater Hall incontestably secured – she would get to wear it until she tired of it.
*
A little later, as a logical consequence, the riding habit stayed abandoned in the depth of Sofia’s closet, while its owner fled Broadwater Hall with only the clothes on her back.