text: It was hard to tell the difference between fantasy and reality at Greenbrier. A few things were obviously genuine. The musicians playing quadrilles for guests engaged in the rigors of Regency dancing. The gardeners planting daffodils and tulips in showy displays along the paths where guests strolled and gossiped. And Greenbrier Manor House, which had been built to impress. And to last. Crafted of Indiana limestone, it served as a private boarding school for wealthy Midwesterners seeking a New England elite education closer to home. A private rail line ran to the station in Rochester, connecting Greenbrier to Chicago and the world. Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century the Manor House had been used as a sanatorium for patients dying from tuberculosis and Veterans convalescing from Civil War injuries. The heirs to the Greenbrier Mining Company bought it in 1925, installed the modern convenience of electric lights, and used it as the family’s summer home. The British accents adopted by the Greenbrier Regency Faire staff, however, were decidedly inauthentic. A disturbing conglomeration of the Scottish accent you might hear in a Disney movie about dragon riding Vikings mixed with a cockney twang reminiscent of the Artful Dodger. “In need of lodgings, are you, ya Bonnie Lass? I know a respectable Mistress what’ll give you a room for a farthin’, she will,” Billy--the lantern lighter and town crier--called out to Margaret as she walked down the cobblestone road from the bakery to the dressmakers’ shop. She waved at the enthusiastic young man and pulled her shawl around her shoulders against the wind that had dislodged ringlets from her braid. Margaret loved the Faire. The air of celebration and excitement. And she treasured her role in the community. Margaret was the modiste. She transformed guests from jeans-and-t-shirt-clad modernists into chemised and corseted ladies of the ton. As enjoyable as it was to dress people in flowing gowns and fitted pelisses, she reveled in the metamorphosis of a slouching teenager into an erect and elegant peer of the realm--performed with the magical power a high collared shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and breeches. Margaret lived and worked in the heart of the village that had been assembled by the eccentric Greenbrier visionary who spent his fortune salvaging nineteenth century mercantile buildings from as far away as Niagara Falls and St. Louis. Her three-story dressmaker’s shop sat between the tiny post office and the cheerful tea shop. The bakery stood across the village green from her store, tucked between the print shop and the perfumer. The early morning sun had not yet chased away the grey light of evening when the doorbell tinkled. Alexander stepped into Margaret’s shop. “Morning Maggie.” “Sandy. What a nice surprise.” Alexander--known as Sandy to his friends--was the Greenbrier Regency Faire’s art tutor. He gave lectures on the paintings and sculptures in the Manor House, taught drawing and painting classes, and occasionally accepted commissions to paint guests’ portraits. Although Maggie’s dressmakers’ shop had comfortable living quarters occupying the third floor, Alexander lived in the studio on the far side of the Manor House. A single large room overflowing with easels, canvases, paints, and brushes. One wall, made of windows and glass-paned doors, overlooked the gardens. It provided a beautiful view of the changing landscape but made for rudimentary accommodations and miserably cold winters. “I’ve popped a button off my vest. Mister Jenkins gave me a warning this morning. He’ll force me to attend Saturday night’s ball if I don’t have it fixed by tomorrow morning. Will you lend me a needle and thread?” “Have you got the button?” Margaret held out her hand. She was delighted to have an excuse to spend time with him. “No,” Alexander said. “I’ll need a button, too. Do you have one that matches these?” He stepped toward Margaret pointing to the two remaining brown buttons fastening his blue vest. She reached out and used both hands to slip first one and then the second button through their buttonholes. She had never stood so close to Alexander. He smelled of bergamot with a hint of turpentine. They had met at the beginning of last years’ Faire season backstage at the theater. He had been hired to paint sets for the theater’s adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo . He fabricated a desolate prison cell, sumptuous dining room, imposing courtroom, deserted island, and a smuggler’s ship. Margaret had been asked to alter the costumes to accommodate the generous proportions of the leading lady. Although she found him to be both excellent company and undeniably attractive with his brown hair, hazel eyes and captivating smile, they rarely encountered each other. He worked either in his studio, the gardens, or the Manor House. She was occupied in the village which was a thirty minute walk from the Manor House. And most importantly, seeking his company would have been in direct violation of Margaret’s absolute prohibition against getting involved with the itinerants. The various lecturers, musicians, acrobats, repairmen, and laborers the who kept the Faire running and the entertainment fresh and exciting. She had suffered heartache her first season at the Faire when she had indulged in a romance with an itinerant tenor who sang his way into her affections and left when he got the lead in a dinner-theater production of Beauty and the Beast . She inspected Alexander's buttons. Placed her hand on his shirt--feeling the flat planes of his abdomen through the soft cotton--and in one smooth motion pulled up and back on the vest, slipping it off his broad shoulders. She stepped around him and took the vest to the far wall of the shop that was comprised of drawers. She pulled on the brass handle of a small square revealing a long row of small boxes filled to bursting with buttons. She withdrew three boxes. The kettle whistled from the stove in the dressing room at the rear of the first floor. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, setting the vest and button boxes on the counter, and opening the frosted glass door separating the shop from the dressing room. She inhaled the scent of lavender that hung in bundles from the ceiling. She would have to make more sachets--she was nearly out of the little fragrant pouches she packed with the clothes she sold to her customers. “I don’t want to be a bother...” He followed her as far as the doorway. “Wow. I thought my studio was crowded.” He smiled at the sight of a dozen racks loaded with clothing--each rack dedicated to one type of garment. The tallest rack bore men’s great coats. Another was full of waist coats. Others held gowns for every occasion. Promenading. Dancing at the Faire’s elaborate balls. Windows were set just below the ceiling, flooding the room with light, but protecting the privacy of customers who stood in varying states of undress when Margaret took measurements and conducted fittings. The sky darkened as rain clouds swept across the morning sky and rain fell in gentle droplets against the windows. She set the tea pot to steeping and lit the first-floor lanterns, chasing away the cloudy gloom with cheerful firelight. “Where are all your apprentices? I imagined your shop full of people wanting to learn how you create your fabric masterpieces.” He’d imagined her shop. Interesting. “They’ve all gone back to college, or jobs, or their families. Most of them left the first week of August.” She loaded a tray with the tea pot, cups, saucers, a jar of honey, and the lemon scones she had bought at the bakery. “Come. Have some tea.” She walked back through to the shop, set the tray on the counter, and withdrew a tall stool from behind the counter for Alexander. She poured the tea and set out two steaming cups and the scones. She inspected the button options. “What do you think of this one?” She held out a button made of brown stone streaked with blue veins that matched the vest. “It’s beautiful.” He took the button from her outstretched hand, drawing his fingers over her palm, leaving a scorching trail across her skin. “It’s lovely. But the others are just plain brown.” “Oh, don’t worry about that.” She snipped the strands that held the two buttons in place. He stared at her, shocked by her bold move, and then laughed. She took a sip of the fragrant tea, enjoyed the sound of his laughter. The rain pelted the shop windows. A bell rang from outside the shop. “Sounds like Billy,” Margaret said. Alexander stepped to the door and opened it a crack, trying to keep the rain outside. “This one’s fer the bonnie Miss Maggie. And I’ll just be givin’ you yours. Save me from wadin’ through muddy fields to get to your patch ‘o paradise,” the young man said as he shoved two bulky bags into Alexander’s hands. “What’s this for?” Alexander asked, water dripping into a puddle despite his efforts to keep the shop dry. “Mister Jenkin’s heard word of a severe thunderstorm warning. High winds and hailstones. They’ll keep the guests coddled ‘n cozy in the Manor House ‘till it passes.” “Thank you,” Margaret said as Billy headed to the post office, bell ringing, water sluicing off his hat and coat, a huge smile on his face. Alexander peered inside the wax-coated canvas sacks. “Bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, a jar of strawberry jam, a couple of apples...” “Sounds like we’re all set for lunch. Do you have to teach classes today?” Margaret asked. “No lectures or classes, today. I’m a free man.” “Well, let me fix your buttons before the rain gets worse.” He watched her as she threaded a needle, tied a tidy knot, and bent over the vest to sew the top button in place. The porcelain clinked as he set his cup onto the saucer. “Would you mind if I sketched you while you work?” She looked up, surprised by the request. She was inclined to make an excuse, but his expression was hesitant and earnest. “I’ve got a stack of newsprint you could use.” She pointed with the needle to the stash of grey paper on the far end of the counter. “Thanks, that’ll be great,” he said, tucking a small notebook into his pant pocket. He emptied the tea tray, lined it with newsprint, and rested it against his stool. She relished in the sight of him in her shop. Like an exotic bird visiting a bird bath--a welcomed and cherished visitor. But every birdwatcher knows that such creatures will continue their migration home once they’ve taken their respite in your garden. “Are you staying through the winter?” she asked. “I am. The winter is the best part of the deal.” “Whatd’ya mean?” “I only planned to come for a month. To study the Greenbrier collection of Ingibjorg Olafurdottir’s paintings. But I couldn’t afford the guest fees for a month. So, I signed on as the art teacher for a year. I really don’t like public speaking, and nearly had a panic attack before my first lecture until I realized that only two people showed up.” His arm moved with quick motions. Eyes flicking between his page and her form. “I don’t mind the lectures so much anymore. And dancing at the balls can be fun. It’s the fancy dinners that are the major downside of the job. Making conversation with strangers doesn’t come easily to me. But I have you to thank for rescuing me from many an awkward conversational lull.” “How’s that?” “I ask about the clothes my dinner partners are wearing. They’re eager to tell me all about their visit to the modiste, and how it’s one of their favorite things to do at the Faire.” “That’s lovely to hear.” “But the teaching and even the dinnertime chatting--it’s all worth it. Free room and board year-round, and the whole winter free to study and paint. I forget that it’s all make believe in the wintertime.” “What’s make believe?” “This life,” he pointed out the window. “Pretending it’s 1813. Entertaining Jane Austen fans who come here to escape the real world and live out their fantasy of a weekend fling with Darcy. There’s no electricity. The Manor House has power, but all these outbuildings are off the grid. Which means I’ve got no light. No internet. No cell phone. I can’t take a picture of a scene I want to paint. I’ve got to get it down all in one hectic rush before the light vanishes. In bed by nine so I can be up at dawn. Otherwise, I miss the light.” The words of an itinerant. Sharp and clear. A flash of lighting brightened the sky and two breaths later a crack of thunder rattled the shop windows. “You might want to wait out the storm.” She swallowed what remained of her cold tea and turned her attention to the vest’s lining which had split across the shoulders. “Where’d you learn to sew?” “First, I learned to darn. My grandmother immigrated from Alsace to work as an underseamstress to the Kirkham family. She was only allowed to repair underwear her first year in service. She graduated to darning socks and reweaving bed linens and handkerchiefs. My grandfather came from Naples where he’d apprenticed as a tailor. They met in Central Park, waiting in line to buy ice cream on a hot summer’s day. They opened a store that was a menswear tailor’s shop on one side and a dress shop on the other side. I grew up with them.” She didn’t explain why she’d been sent to live with her grandparents after her parents divorced. The official reason was that neither of them could afford to keep her. But the real reason was that they didn’t want her. Maybe the Faire wasn’t real life, but it had been a sanctuary where she could lead a life of her own making. Helping her customers fulfill their fantasies. And to her astonishment, it was the place where her business had prospered. Her customers paid handsomely for hand-made garments made to fit and flatter their bodies. And her apprentices happily peddled the treadle sewing machines, powering the workshop even without electricity. She cut the thread on the final stitch, stood, placed her hands in the small of her back, and stretched. “Do you want to see the workshop? It’s just upstairs.” She flushed with embarrassment at what sounded like a proposition. “I mean, maybe the old sew machines might be interesting to draw.” “I’d like that. This is only a sketch, but I’m really pleased with it. There's a truth in it that’s been missing from the still lifes and landscapes I’ve been wasting my time on lately.” He set the tray on the stool, and although he could reach the newsprint from his side of the counter, walked behind where she stood. His hand rested on the small of her back as he leaned to fetch more paper. Without thinking, she pressed against his hand, keeping him fixed in place. She was violating her own rule. And happy to do so. “Here,” she said, lifting the vest. “Try this on.” She stepped behind him in the close quarters between the counter and the shelf, threaded his arms into the vest, and pulled it up across his shoulders. She spread the fabric over his upper back feeling his taut muscles under her hands. She stepped around him and carefully inserted the top button into its buttonhole. He rested his hands on her shoulders as she slowly tended to each button. “I’ve wanted to paint you since the very first day I saw you, but I’ve been too shy to ask,” his voice was low and rumbling. His hands moved from her shoulders up her neck to cup her face. “There’s something else, I’ve wanted to do...” She stepped up as he bent forward touching her lips to his. Gentle. Soft. Warm. She tugged his shirt collar, pulled him closer, and deepened the kiss. He tasted of lemons and honey. She savored the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. Eventually, he broke the kiss, tucked her head under his chin, and held her in a tight embrace as the sky flashed and thundered. “Is this make believe?” she asked. “No.” He lifted her hand, opened the button fastening the cuff of her sleeve, and brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist. “This is...,” another kiss, “wonderfully real.”