I frowned, considering. Stolen from whom? And by whom? And why would Meemaw keep these gowns on the down low, hiding them, even from me? Unless they were valuable… I inspected them more closely. They looked like they’d been made around the same time, and the quality—both of the fabrics and the workmanship—was excellent. From the perfect spacing and straight lines, I was sure the backstitching had been done by machine, but I felt sure that on an original 1800s dress, it would have been done by hand. “No, I don’t think they’re originals.”
Gracie carefully took the pale green silk gown from the satin-covered hanger and held it up to herself.
Will gave a low whistle. “You’d make a stunning debutante, Daughter.”
Gracie blushed. “Why thank you, Father.” She fanned out the folds of the skirt and twirled around like a fairy princess.
Will folded his arms across his chest. “Um, listen, Gracie. I know you said you didn’t want to be part of the pageant, but are you sure?”
She stopped, gazing up at her father. “You can’t just say you want to be a Margaret, Dad. It’s, like, invitation only. Holly was invited ages ago. You have to, like, train.”
Will looked at me for confirmation. “Oh?”
“I heard Mrs. James say the girls have been practicing since last September,” I said with an apologetic shrug.
Gracie hung the dress over her arm, looking a little disappointed. I cleared my throat. “I’ve got an in with a society member,” I said. “I could ask…”
They both turned to look at me. Gracie’s eyes opened wide, a grin playing on her lips. “Really? You’d do that? Like, ask one of those society ladies?”
I nodded. Mrs. James had been part of the Margaret Society since her debut—the same pageant Nana had participated in. Being a central figure in the society must mean you could influence who was chosen as the year’s Margarets.
Mrs. James had told me that the minute her granddaughter Libby was born, she’d contracted Trudy and Fern Lafayette to make the dress. It was planned sixteen years in advance, but she’d since had a big falling-out with the sisters when the Margaret Society elected her president. The Lafayette sisters had been in charge of the pageant and ball for years and years, and they had not liked having control of the festivities wrested from their hands.
The last nail in the coffin was when Mrs. James hired me, instead of the Lafayette sisters, to make her granddaughter’s dress. Now Trudy and Fern Lafayette were in a full-on feud with Zinnia James.
“You don’t think it’s too late?” Will asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said, although more than a smidgen of doubt had seized me. My business arrangement with Mrs. James didn’t mean she owed me anything—more like I owed her something—but I could ask.
Gracie’s face lit up and I knew I would promise Mrs. James just about anything if she’d let her be a Margaret.
As she held the dress back up, an imperfection in the fabric of the bodice caught my eye. I leaned closer, the pad of my finger brushing against it.
“Maybe I could wear this?” she asked, but she saw my expression and frowned in response. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a tear here,” I said, pointing at the inch-and-a-half-long gash in the fabric. “Like someone grabbed hold and ripped it apart, all the way through to the boning.” I leaned closer, noticing something else. “And look, the edges are frayed. This wasn’t a clean tear.”
Will bent down next to me to get a better look, his fresh soapy scent overpowered by the mothball smell wafting from the armoire. “No?”
I took the dress from Gracie, noticing another tear at the armhole. I brought it closer to get a better look and fingered the ripped fabric for a moment, then flipped the bodice down to see the underside.
A little jolt went through me, and a sudden flash of emotions. Anger. Betrayal. Lies. “No,” I said. “This dress has history.” But what it was, I had no idea.
Chapter 3
“Hello?” A singsong voice drifted up the stairs, through my bedroom, and into the attic. “Anyone home?”
“Up here,” I called, pushing my curiosity aside for now.
A door slammed downstairs and I heard the muffled conversation of two female voices.
“Harlow Cassidy, where are you? I brought Libby in for her fitting.”
Speak of the devil. Mrs. Zinnia James. “Coming!” A knot of guilt formed in my gut, like I was keeping a secret. She’d left me a message, asking why I hadn’t shown for our meeting at the golf club, but I’d been a chicken and hadn’t called back yet. I didn’t want to fess up that I’d overheard the ugly argument between her and the golf pro. Another ping of anxiety flitted through me. And now I had to ask her if she could pull some strings so Gracie could be a Margaret. A sudden vision of me on my knees, hands clasped, begging her, flashed through my mind.
I’d do whatever it took to make it happen. Despite not knowing each other very long, Gracie had a special place in my heart. It might take a year for most girls to train to be a debutante, but Gracie would be a quick study. I just knew it.
I left Will and Gracie in the attic and hurried to the landing, throwing down a quick greeting. Mrs. James stood at the base of the staircase, her silvery hair shimmering like a halo.
“So sorry I wasn’t able to meet you earlier,” I said, the lie heavy on my tongue. I hurried on. “I’m not quite ready to fit Libby again, but I’ll show you the gown.” I skipped down the stairs, meeting them at the bottom. The dresses flitted back into my mind. Considering that she’d been the one to tell me that my grandmother, Coleta Cassidy, had been a Margaret, she’d appreciate the discovery and maybe she’d know something about them. “I was going through some of Meemaw’s things in the attic. You’ll never guess what I found,” I said brightly.
“In Loretta Mae’s attic?” She held a perfectly French-manicured finger to her lips, thinking. “Knowing your great-grandmother and her penchant for fine fabrics and collecting, I’d say you found her collection of antique lace.”
Libby looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here. She meandered over to the rack of ready-to-wear clothing at the far end of the room and perused the garments leftover from my stint at Maximilian Designs in New York, along with my own experimental pieces, and the few samples I’d managed to make over the long, hot summer.
It was true. Meemaw did love fine fabrics, along with her abundant collection of buttons and trims, but I hadn’t rediscovered the lace yet. “No, no fabrics yet, but I’m sure you’re right. There are probably stacks and stacks of them buried in there somewhere. No,” I said, rubbing my hands together excitedly as I led her back into the main room of Buttons & Bows. It had been Meemaw’s living room and still contained her old olive green and gold paisley damask sofa and love seat, her freestanding oval mirror, and a few other pieces from my childhood, but the rest I’d brought in. Together, it worked perfectly, creating a comfortable and warm blend of the past and the present. “There’s an old armoire up there. Inside it, we found three period dresses. I think they might be Margaret dresses.”
Her brow furrowed. “Three? Well, doesn’t that just take the cake? Being in the pageant was the last thing Coleta wanted to do. I wouldn’t have thought she’d have kept her dress all these years.”
My thought exactly. Waltzes at a debutante ball weren’t my grandmother’s style. She loved her farm and her goats. Right now, she was fully entrenched in a new venture: making body butter with goat milk. “Why did she do the pageant?” I asked.
“Dalton, of course,” Mrs. James said without even a nanosecond of hesitation.