As dusk deepened its embrace, Lemieux Manor blazed to life, a colossal beacon of light and shadowed opulence. Tonight, the sprawling estate pulsed with an almost feverish energy; this was no mere soirée, but a sleepless, vivacious night, a grand spectacle designed to impress.
The Lemieux Family's true motive for this lavish affair had little to do with the Van der Linde Gang, who were merely an intriguing sideshow. The real star, the very gravitational center of this celestial event, was Camille Morgan. Her arrival had drawn a new constellation of dignitaries, all eager to orbit her influence, to forge new alliances, and inevitably, to watch the delicate, treacherous dance of a power reshuffle.
When J.P. Morgan, the very titan of finance, decided to set his sights on a new territory, the local elite invariably found their meticulously built sandcastles swept away.
This time was no exception. Camille Morgan hadn't arrived alone; she'd brought her own rising star: Rhodes Brown, the newly appointed financial bank president for Saint Denis.
The city, finally reaching a size that piqued J.P. Morgan's colossal interest, was ripe for the plucking. To the Van der Linde Gang, a bank president might just be a plump lamb awaiting the shear, but in this cutthroat society, such a man held a status that guaranteed him a coveted seat at Saint Denis's high table, with enough room to spare for a parade.
And that, precisely, was the entire point of this opulent charade. As Saint Denis's official, entrenched family, the Lemieuxs were, naturally, the unwitting hosts of this gilded upheaval.
The carriages groaned to a halt before the imposing entrance of Lemieux Manor, their ornate doors swinging open. The Van der Linde entourage spilled out onto the manicured gravel.
"Shit! This mansion is a goddamn fortress!" John breathed, standing beside Arthur, his gaze wide and unblinking as he took in the monumental villa. He felt a sudden, profound sense of inadequacy, like a farmer stepping into a grand city for the very first time, a wave of inferiority and awkwardness washing over him. It was the same bewildered look he'd worn in the game, clutching that absurd wine glass at Bronte's party, completely out of his depth.
Arthur and Hosea, usually so composed, also felt a subtle prickle of restraint. Their movements became unconsciously stiffer, their expressions more guarded as they tried to project an air of nonchalant gentility. Mr. Marko Dragic, surprisingly, fared slightly better; he'd lived in Saint Denis long enough to be familiar with such displays of wealth, but even he was practically vibrating with excitement.
This was, after all, his very first high-society banquet. Years of humble obscurity, of being the butt of scientific jokes, now melted into a surge of thrilling anticipation. He kept anxiously patting his suit, his eyes darting down to check for any perceived impropriety.
As for the ladies of the Van der Linde Gang, their excitement was a force of nature, radiating outward as they gazed at the bustling, brilliantly lit interior of the manor.
"Oh, Mary-Beth, I've never, ever been to such a high-class shingamadig in my life!" Karen shrieked, her eyes shining like a wild cat's as she peered through the wrought-iron gates, practically bouncing with glee. "Oh, oh, oh! I absolutely have to try their wine!"
"Me too! Wow, look at the waiters inside, their backs are so straight!" Mary-Beth whispered, her own excitement bubbling over, though her demeanor was more composed, more gentle. "Just like in the books!"
Mary, ever the anchor, simply held Arthur's arm, her fingers gently stroking his hand, a silent, comforting gesture designed to melt away his sudden stiffness. Ms. O'Shea, a seasoned veteran of such events, glided gracefully to Dutch's side, linking arms with him, a practiced smile on her lips.
For her, these opulent affairs were familiar territory, a natural extension of her privileged past. Truth be told, if Dutch had simply lived off his father-in-law's wealth instead of resorting to banditry, his life might have been far more luxurious.
"Oh, gentlemen, please present your invitations!" A liveried attendant, his back ramrod straight, greeted them with an unyielding politeness.
After presenting the formal invitations sent by Ms. Alice, the Van der Linde Gang, a motley crew of reformed outlaws and aspiring industrialists, successfully entered the gilded halls. As soon as they crossed the threshold, the person Ms. Alice had thoughtfully arranged to greet them appeared instantly by their side.
"Gentlemen and ladies, please follow me. Ms. Alice has made… arrangements for you." The female receptionist stood with such exaggerated posture, one worried she might snap in half.
"Oh, of course, my dear lady." Dutch beamed, readily agreeing. With a theatrical flourish, he gestured for the gang to follow, trailing behind the human icicle to Alice's designated rendezvous point.
The sheer size of the Van der Linde entourage drew immediate attention. Most attendees arrived with a single, elegant companion; the gang, however, arrived like a small, well-dressed army, impossible to ignore. Yet, their initial shock wasn't at the sheer number, but at the breathtaking, unprecedented styles of clothing worn by the Van der Linde ladies.
"Oh, my God! The gowns these ladies are wearing are simply exquisite! When did Saint Denis acquire such divine fashion?" a woman gasped, fanning herself dramatically.
"Look at that astonishing design, the utter simplicity of those dresses!" another exclaimed, her eyes wide with admiration. "Heavens, I absolutely adore dresses of this style!"
"Compared to that minimalist elegance, what I find even more captivating are the clothes worn by… that incredibly busty lady." A gentleman, his eyes practically bugging out, nudged his companion. "Good heavens, her dress accentuates her figure perfectly! I can't imagine how utterly mad my husband would be tonight if I wore something of that style!"
"Damn it," another man muttered, a wistful expression on his face. "Why didn't I see these clothes sooner? Shit! If my wife wore something like that, I'd definitely be… very desirous. Unlike now, where I've completely lost all other thoughts!" He gave a theatrical shrug, earning a sharp elbow from his companion.
"Oh, shit! Did you catch the lettering on the backs of those three ladies? It looks like the names of Ms. Alice, Ms. Ann, and Ms. Dorothea! My goodness, that beautiful embroidery… it's like a manifesto for feminism!" a sharp-eyed lady exclaimed, her voice hushed with awe.
Compliments poured from the lips of the banquet's ladies, their eyes shining with a mixture of admiration and covetousness. Many immediately began whispering, asking those around them where these miraculous outfits could be bought. Their exclamations and undisguised gazes naturally drew the attention of the gentlemen, who, with less restraint, looked up. Unlike the ladies, whose focus was on the revolutionary styles, the gentlemen's gazes were… purer, fixated solely on the ladies' figures. But it was precisely this unfiltered reaction that cemented the utterly stunning nature of these designs.
At this stage of American fashion, especially among the upper classes, ladies' attire slavishly followed European trends. This meant expansive, hoop-skirted monstrosities reminiscent of medieval Europe, and stiff, unyielding tailcoats. While undeniably grand, these dresses possessed one critical flaw: they were utterly devoid of allure. They were, in essence, a sartorial declaration of un-sexiness.
Modern fashion, in comparison, was a dimensionality reduction attack, a stylish bomb dropped on the staid, voluminous dresses of the era. The gentlemen, having endured endless seasons of the same voluminous, uninspiring designs, had long since lost any sense of novelty.
So, upon witnessing the sleek, figure-hugging creations worn by the Van der Linde ladies, a primal, exhilarating new feeling spontaneously ignited within them. This feeling, raw and potent, prompted an even stronger, more visceral reaction from them than from the ladies. Their collective, unspoken desire unequivocally sealed the fate of Dutch's clothing line: it would sell like wildfire.
As more eyes settled on the Van der Linde contingent, some hidden designs on the clothing began to be noticed. First, there was Dutch's promise to Dorothea, Ann, and Ms. Alice: to create a line of clothing bearing their names.
To fulfill this promise with characteristic flair, Dutch had cunningly embroidered their three names onto the garments, not just as text, but as intricate, beautiful patterns. The embroidery itself enhanced the aesthetic appeal, but upon a second, closer look, it became deliciously apparent that these elegant patterns were, in fact, people's names.
But Dutch, ever the showman, hadn't stopped there. He had also boldly embroidered the word "feminism" in prominent, yet artfully concealed, locations on these garments. This was Dutch's promise, a promise worth a thousand pieces of gold. In short, what would become a polarizing slogan in later eras was, at this moment, a revolutionary, disarming dimensionality reduction attack. Dutch, ever the pragmatist, always leveraged every condition, always favored the unexpected, overwhelming assault.