by Rachel Hauck
“Hey, friend Tim, tell feeling-trapped fiancé Tim I didn’t know this dress was in here.”
“I didn’t say you did. But somebody knew.”
“That’s crazy. What makes you say—”
“The auctioneer. The man in purple. I mean, Charlotte, come on, what are the chances of you ending up on the ridge at an auction where you had no intention of buying anything, and you buy a trunk with a wedding dress in it? And what was it the man said to you when he came into the shop today? He had a daughter getting married?”
“What are you trying to say, Tim?” He was killing the glorious moment of discovering this amazing gown. “I’m sorry if this makes you feel trapped.”
“Stop putting words in my mouth. But come on, Charlotte, you don’t find this just a bit freaky?”
“I find it a lot freaky, but get a grip. Your former fiancée Charlotte isn’t going to start crying and declare we were meant to be. Or that we should get back together.”
“I wasn’t anywhere near that assumption.”
Yeah? Then why did he looked so relieved?
Charlotte shoved open her closet door and manhandled out an old dress form she’d stored in there. “Don’t just stand there, help me.”
Tim moved to help, lifting the form over the corner of her bed.
“Put it right here.” Charlotte motioned to a bare section of her room where she’d intended to put a dressing table but never did. “Raise it up to its full height.”
Tim adjusted the height and stepped aside as Charlotte slipped the gown over the form. The soft, swirling, layered swags of the skirt swished down to the floor as if it were glad to come to life.
Charlotte wanted to melt into the gown. The satin-silk blend shimmered in the low, gold light of her lamps. The threads seemed to glow, if she could use such a bold word. A shell of tulle and crinoline held the A-line in perfect shape. Charlotte billowed and fanned the chapel train.
“It’s exquisite.” The front of the skirt swooped up into a center V, just enough for a pair of stylish shoes to peep out.
“Where do you think it came from?” Tim said from his retreat to the other side of the room.
“I have no idea.” Charlotte turned over the hem to examine the stitching and the seams. The ivory satin was hand sewn, not machine stitched. She’d seen enough to know the difference.
The incandescent pearls of the empire waistline were also sewn on by hand. The simple bodice appeared to be tailored and fitted for the bride. Charlotte wondered how she could find a bride to fit it without damaging the perfect craftsmanship with alterations.
Changing this gown would be like modifying a Rembrandt or adding a face to Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel.
No, she’d have to find, must find, the perfect bride for this gown. She’d know her when she saw her. God entrusted this gift to her.
“Tim, maybe this gown is why we broke up.” She whirled around to him. It made sense to her now. “I’m a bridal shop owner. This is a wedding gown. There’s a woman out there who is to wear this and I’m the one to give it to her.”
“Excuse me?” He cocked his brow.
“Maybe God . . . wait, you know what the weird man in purple said to me? It’s the season of the bride.” Charlotte pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I’m not sure what that means, but maybe it means this dress was ‘sent’ to me?” She air-quoted the word. “To find the perfect bride to wear it.”
“All right.” He was dubious. Naturally. He was practical and rooted deeper than ancient live oaks. “So . . . I had cold feet because this dress belongs to some other bride?”
“Yes.” Charlotte grabbed his shoulders, squeezed, then let go. “Maybe. I don’t know. But there’s something here. More to the story. Look, is there anything else in the bag?”
Charlotte moved across the room for a long view of the gown while Tim searched the linen pouch. She’d seen styles similar to this one in bridal magazines and online, but nothing exactly like this dress.
It wasn’t contemporary. But neither was it vintage. She went back to the hem to look for a dressmaker or designer mark. It would be impossible for a gown of this caliber, preserved so perfectly, to be original to the trunk once belonging to a bride from 1912 as the auctioneer claimed. A hundred years old? No way.
If the gown was more than twenty years old, the fabric would have yellowed a bit, the tulle would have decayed. This gown looked like it was made . . . yesterday.
Charlotte’s fingers ran over a bit of raised stitching on the back of the skirt, halfway up the seam. She lifted the hem for a better look.
TH
She sat back. TH? The initials didn’t spark any recognition. Charlotte couldn’t think of one wedding gown designer in the past fifty years with those initials. She’d studied them all when she thought she wanted to design instead of sell.
“Did you find something? There was nothing in the bag, but maybe”—Tim knelt beside the trunk—“there’s more in the trunk.” He felt around the cedar panels, knocking, cocking his head to the sound. “Sometimes trunks have secret panels.”
He lifted away the last of the tissue paper and came up with a sachet. He examined it with his fingers.
“Nothing.” He tossed it to the bed.
“Oh no, Tim. Not nothing. This is something. Something incredible. This gown is supposedly a hundred years old and it looks as if it’s never been worn.” Charlotte lowered the hem and smoothed her hand over the skirt, an electric sensation gliding up her arm and settling in her heart.
Chapter Eleven
Emily
My dear, it’s simply beautiful. Even better than I imagined. Mrs. Caruthers, this gown is divine.” Mother walked around Emily, hands pressed to her flushed cheeks, eyes glistening.
“I added a bit more material to the skirt than was called for in the Goody’s pattern.” Mrs. Caruthers puffed out her chest, seemingly pleased with herself. “I always add a bit of my own style and design to each dress.”
Standing on the stool in the middle of the room, muted October daylight falling across the floor from the window, Emily wanted to scream at her reflection. She looked puffy and round, nothing like herself.
The tight bodice required an even tighter corset. She couldn’t draw a thimble’s worth of air into her lungs. The high choke collar squeezed her throat. Her neck seemed to bear the entire weight of the heavy, winter-white satin skirt and cathedral train.
This was enough gown for two brides. Perhaps three.
The top puff of the sleeves almost reached her cheeks, and the elbows were so gripping Emily found it impossible to bend her arms.
She looked like one of Howard Jr.’s tin soldiers.
She closed her eyes, pressing down a roiling scream and the urge to run from the room, ripping the dress away from her.
She stepped off the stool and went to the window. Shoving it open, she leaned out as far as she could into the Birmingham day, taking in the cool fall air in short, gasping breaths.
“Emily, do come in from there. Do you want the city to see you hanging out the window in your wedding gown?” Mother touched Emily’s arm. “What do you think, dear? Isn’t it lovely?”
“It’s hideous,” she whispered to Mother, one eye on the door, anticipating Mrs. Caruthers returning with a proper pair of matching shoes.
“Emily, what’s gotten into you? It is not hideous. It’s beautiful. Now you watch your words or you’ll insult Mrs. Caruthers and we have a whole trousseau for her to sew.”
“She needs to be insulted, Mother.” Emily slipped her finger between her throat and the choking, lacy collar. “I cannot wear this gown. How she thinks it’s suitable and proper for a spring wedding is beyond me. It’s so restricting, I can’t move. I can’t breathe.”
“I shall ask her to modify the neckline, loosen the waistline a bit, but otherwise, the gown is stunning, Emily. Simply stunning.”
“The neckline, the waist, and the sleeves, Mother.” Emily demonstrated her stiff arms
. “The sleeves.”
If she didn’t fear fainting from lack of air, Emily might have continued arguing with her mother. But she was smothered in lace and satin, smothered in the memory of her conversation with Phillip last night. She’d finally worked up the courage to speak to him about Emmeline. The whole ordeal left her feeling like one of Father’s hobbled horses.
“Is she or is she not your mistress?”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re accusing me of an affair before we’re even married? At least give me the courtesy of being a married man first.”
“Here we are.” Mrs. Caruthers set a pair of white leather high heels at Emily’s feet.
Emily sat in the chair but was unable to bend over to remove her shoes. Mother had to unlace them for her. She’d not enjoy one moment of her wedding in . . . in this straitjacket.
Mrs. Caruthers finagled Emily’s feet into the shoes, the sides gripping her stockings and pinching her toes. When Emily stood, she wobbled.
“I do believe they’re too small, Mrs. Caruthers,” she said.
“A half size, yes. But you’ll get used to it. A bride needs dainty, delicate feet.”
Emily scowled at Mother, dropping back down to her chair, her ribs crushing her lungs.
“You’re answering my question with a question, Phillip. A simple yes or no will do. Is she your mistress?”
“Emily, there’s no simple answer for a man accused of infidelity.”
“No seems simple enough. I’m puzzled as to why you can’t find that word on your tongue.”
“Because I’m trying to fathom your accusation, my dear. I’m stunned by your inquiry.”
Oh, the man drove her mad already.
“The gown is quite right for a Saltonstall wedding.” Mrs. Caruthers seemed pleased with herself. “I believe it will meet with Mrs. Saltonstall’s approval.”
“It certainly meets with Mrs. Canton’s approval,” Mother said with a bit of vim and vigor. Good for you, Mother.
“I shall faint if I don’t step out of this gown.” Emily tried to stand, but she tumbled back to the chair. She flicked the shoes from her feet. “I’ll take a pair in my proper size.” She eyed Mrs. Caruthers, then raised her arms—rather, tried to raise her arms—to unfasten the eye hook at her neck.
“Careful, you’ll rip your sleeves.” Mrs. Caruthers batted Emily’s hand down and began to work the eye hook, then the buttons.
“Mrs. Caruthers,” Mother began in her diplomatic voice. “Please let out the waist a half inch and provide ample room in the sleeves. For pity’s sake, the girl will have a bouquet in her hand as she walks down the aisle. And a reception dinner to eat. She’ll barely be able to raise her toasting glass.”
“I’ll give room in the sleeves, but I’m only letting out the waist a quarter inch and no more.”
“I daresay we’re paying you to do as we ask, Mrs. Caruthers,” Mother countered.
“I daresay you’re paying me for my expertise.” Mrs. Caruthers unhooked the last button. Emily closed her eyes as the air hit her skin. Heaven. “And my reputation.”
Stepping out of the gown, Emily begged Mother to loosen her corset strings. She needed air. Freedom. When Mother relieved her from her tight corset, Emily dressed in her black-and-white shepherd’s check suit, bid Mrs. Caruthers a good day, and hammered down the stairs, out Loveman’s front doors, and into the skirting October breeze.
Hand to her chest, nose tipped toward the sun, Emily inhaled the cool air, finally extinguishing the fire in her lungs.
“Goodness, Emily.” Mother stopped beside her gasping, pulling on her gloves. “Be upset if you will, but I’ll not have you being rude and insolent.”
“She’s the one who is rude and insolent.” Emily fitted her sailor hat on over her pinned-up hair. The wind tugged at the straight brim. “How Mr. Loveman sees fit to keep her in his employ is beyond me.”
“We’ve been over this a hundred times, Em. Mrs. Caruthers is the best dressmaker in the city and the women of Birmingham trust her.” Mother tapped the tip of her parasol on the sidewalk and raised her chin at the passing shoppers.
“I, for one, do not. Mother, please, can’t we go to Newman’s for an ice cream? I need something cool on my stomach.” Emily pressed her hand to her middle, swallowing the bile building in her throat, breathing deep so her lungs could expand.
“It’s too chilly for ice cream, Emily. How about some hot cocoa?”
“It’s never too chilly for ice cream, Mother.”
“Well, you must eat a hot lunch. A lunch of sweets will do you no good.”
“I’ll ask for hot caramel sauce. How does that sound?”
“I suppose I cannot change your mind.” Mother squeezed Emily’s hand. “You go on. I want to speak with your father. I noticed the bolts of velvet at Loveman’s, and I realized you don’t have enough velvet gowns in your trousseau. Mercy, and I’ve not ordered your trunk. I do wish you’d learn to placate Mrs. Caruthers, Emily. She is doing you a service, whether you believe it or not.” Mother stepped off the curb and onto the trolley with the river of Thursday shoppers.
Emily watched her mother go, moving to the curb, waiting for the flow of traffic to allow her to cross. She wrestled with her frustrations. Mrs. Caruthers served no one but herself, and Mother was too determined to fit into Mrs. Saltonstall’s society to see otherwise.
But now that Emily was free and making her way toward Newman’s, her thoughts roamed freely through the other disturbance in her soul. Phillip.
Last night they argued quietly in the shadows of Father and Mother’s porch, away from the parlor windows. When they’d exhausted all words, Phillip tried to sooth her with kisses and caresses.
“Whose ring is on your finger? Whose lips are you kissing?”
“Yours.” She could barely hear him over her pulse raging in her ears.
“Whose heart do you possess one hundred percent?”
“Yours.” He’d kissed her in a sensual, intimate manner, the touch of his hand along the top of her bodice causing her desires to flame at just the memory. Phillip certainly knew how to ignite her passions.
“I do believe I’m flattered. I made the great Emily Canton jealous.”
“Don’t get used to it, Phillip, it’s disturbing. And I’m not the great Emily Canton. I’m just a girl getting married.”
“You are the great Emily Canton. And your jealousy is intoxicating. You love me that much.”
“Do you love me that much?”
“Let me show you.”
He’d backed her against the house and moved his hand over her shoulders, lowering the top of her sleeves, kissing and caressing his way along her neck.
It wasn’t the first time he’d answered her inquiries about his love with touches, kisses, and hot-breath murmurs of sharing his bed.
Emily halted her journey toward Newman’s and pulled a card from her handbag, the gusting wind tugging at her skirt. She’d asked Big Mike to bring her the card of the colored seamstress.
Taffy Hayes.
Gaston Hotel. 5th Avenue.
“It’s a fanciful day.”
Emily glanced up and into the broad face and blazing blue eyes of a man perhaps Father’s age. There was nothing exceptional about him. His hair was gray, and his tweed suit and vest were not the fashion of last year, but of the last century.
Yet the brilliant purple silk ascot at his throat spoke of something bold and regal about him. Emily felt at once a bit weak in the knees.
“Have I made your acquaintance, Mr.—?”
“Shall I escort you, miss?” The gentleman offered his arm as a courier sped past them on his bicycle.
“And how do you know where I’m going, sir?” Emily pressed Taffy’s card against her waist in case the man was sly and tried to read the address.
“For your wedding gown.” He offered his arm. “If I escort you, you’ll be safe wherever you go.”
“But I do not know you. And you do not know where
I’m going.” Emily’s fingers trembled slightly as she slipped the card back into her bag. Her heart churned. She wanted to run. Yet her legs refused to carry her away.
Again, he offered his arm. “Go on, take it. I’ll not harm you. I’m safe.”
Emily hesitated, then cuffed her hand around his elbow. He hailed a cab, which pulled over for them immediately, and instructed the driver to A. G. Gaston’s hotel.
Gooseflesh pickled along her arms and down her back. “How did you know?” He must have read her card before she protected it.
“Is it where you’re going?”
“But I didn’t tell you.” She held her hands in her lap, swaying with the cab, tuning her ears to the rhythm of the horse’s clip-clop. The driver smacked the reins and chirruped the gelding into moving around a braking motorcar.
At 4th Avenue, the cab slowed with the flow of traffic. “Have you seen the new picture at the Princess Theater?” The man rested his hands atop his cane.
“I’ve been rather busy.”
“Planning a wedding takes time. I know.” The man nodded, gazing ahead, smiling wide. “And patience.”
“Indeed, it does.” Emily ran her hand over the multiplying gooseflesh on her arms. The gentleman seemed the sort who read the society section of the news. “You’re more than a little acquainted with my business, yet we are strangers.”
“Might I inquire of you? What is it you’re searching for, Emily?”
“If you must know, a wedding gown.” She cocked her head to one side, regarding him, trying to figure his angle. If she could, she’d keep him from electrocuting her heart with his blue gaze every time he spoke.
“What about in life?”
The cab clopped and rocked past a chain gang of convict lease workers. The white guards talked and joked while the men of color swung axes and hammers against the hard concrete of the city. Emily lowered her gaze. It must be back-breaking, near impossible, to break up what had been set and hardened with time in this city.
“Freedom.” Her answer escaped her heart all on its own. As the cab passed the line of glistening black men in the October sun, Emily turned to watch.
