The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  Eva set down her sewing, pressing her burning eyes closed. Miss Grove’s request to embellish her old gown had seemed more feasible than making a whole new dress, so she had agreed. But now, she feared, even this project was beyond her. The temptation to give up rose, but she resisted it. She would not be the one to rain on Mercy’s big day.

  Her father’s troupe had returned to pick up their stored belongings and would be leaving Ivy Hill for good the next day. Eva needed to decide what to do by then—to stay, or to go with them. But first to finish this dress . . . Mercy had come to pick it up a few days earlier, but Eva had to apologize and ask for more time. Kind Miss Grove had not complained.

  Determined to stay up all night if need be, Eva stretched her neck side to side, forward and back, then bent to her sewing once more.

  A knock on her door startled her. It was past regular business hours. Might it be a potential customer? She doubted it. Especially not on the evening the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society met. For a moment, she considered ignoring the knock. But perhaps it was Hetty or her father. Or Mrs. Mennell come with more mending or news. She hoped Mrs. Hornebolt’s cold had not worsened.

  She rose, but before she could reach the door, Jane Locke and Lady Brockwell briskly entered the shop, clearly bent on some officious purpose. Eva steeled herself. Had they been sent by the other women to ask her to leave Ivy Hill?

  “Good evening, Eva,” Jane said. “Did you know Rachel here is an excellent seamstress? Very skilled with embroidery and fancy work.”

  “Perhaps,” Rachel demurred, “but I have never made something as complicated as a formal gown.” She turned to her ladies’ maid behind her. “So I’ve asked Jemima to join us. She is a dab-hand with a needle.”

  Eva blinked in confusion. Were the women suggesting they take over the shop? Replace her? They no doubt could.

  The Miss Cooks came in next, armed with lace and needles.

  Judith said, “I think this piece would look lovely across the neckline of Mercy’s gown.”

  Eva stammered, “But . . . there is no place for such a piece.”

  “Oh, you mistake us,” Charlotte said, gesturing to Mercy’s old gown. “Judy wasn’t suggesting adding it to that hodgepodge.”

  Jane added more gently, “We’re here to help you make a new gown.”

  Eva hesitated. Clearly the ladies had caught wind of Mercy’s economical plans for her wedding dress and decided they could do better.

  “By tomorrow? You must be mad,” Eva said. “Even with the six of us, it would take too long. Have any of you constructed a formal gown from start to finish before?”

  Around the room, heads shook no.

  A voice from behind called out, “Well, I have. Hundreds of times.”

  Eva whirled. In the doorway stood Louise Shabner, the former dressmaker of Ivy Hill.

  Eva raised her hands. “But when I hinted I needed help with Justina Brockwell’s gown, you refused. Insisted you were retired.”

  “True. This, however, is for our dear Mercy.”

  “How did you even know to come here tonight?”

  Mrs. Shabner gestured across the street. “Matilda borrowed The Bell’s fly and rode over to fetch me. She dropped me off and is returning the horse and carriage now.”

  Seeing the dressmaker, an idea struck Eva. She hurried to her workroom and brought forth the gown she’d begun for Justina Brockwell. The ivory underdress had proved too large and long for the young woman, but it was beautiful material.

  “Might this give us a starting point?” Eva produced her drawings and the netting and trimmings as well.

  They put the gown on a dress form and Mrs. Shabner studied it. “The center line is off. The darts, the seams . . .”

  Mortification singed Eva’s face.

  Then Mrs. Shabner turned her attention to the design and detail drawings.

  “But these are excellent. Lots of potential here.”

  Eva held up a veiled bonnet. “I made over this bonnet from an old one of her mother’s.”

  “Lovely,” Mrs. Shabner breathed, and passed it around for the others to see.

  The door opened again, and the elder Miss Grove came huffing and puffing inside. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No,” Rachel said. “You’re just in time.”

  Soon lamps were lit, and the women set to work.

  Mrs. Shabner took the lead on reconstructing the underdress, then creating the netting overlay, working from Mercy’s old dress for size. She delegated the simpler but time-consuming seams to the less skilled among them, like Jane and Eva. While the finer needlewomen like Rachel, Jemima, and the Miss Cooks helped with the embroidery.

  A few hours later, however, Eva could see the women’s initial enthusiasm waning. There was a great deal to do, and progress was slow. The workroom table was covered with material in various stages of pinning and cutting. And the floor was littered with scraps of satin, netting, and cambric. Mrs. Shabner had decreed Mercy would also need a new gored petticoat to support the shape of the dress.

  The Miss Cooks were the first to beg off. Judith said, “I am sorry, my dears, but our old eyes and old bones can’t continue. I cannot remember the last time we were awake at midnight.”

  Louise scowled. “Well, go if you’re going, you two. Don’t stand around distracting the rest of us. We still have a great deal to do.”

  When the Miss Cooks departed, Rachel showed Eva how to embroider the embellishments. Eva sat down to work, though far more slowly than did Lady Brockwell.

  An hour later, Miss Matty fell asleep on the shop’s sofa, half buried under a heap of fabric remnants that served as her blanket. They let her sleep. A short while later, Eva found Mrs. Shabner, head down on folded arms over the workroom table.

  “Mrs. Shabner,” Eva whispered gently. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest in my bed for a little while? It will do you a world of good.”

  She rose and yawned. “Very well. But only for half an hour or so. Then wake me and I’ll help with the trimming.”

  “I shall.”

  Eva returned to her chair beside Jane, Rachel, and Jemima and resumed her work. Her eyes had been burning before the ladies had even arrived, and now the inside of her lids were on fire. They began to water, blurring her vision too much to see the tiny stitches. She set her work in her lap and decided to close her eyes, just for a few minutes.

  Early in the morning, Mercy walked down Potters Lane toward the High Street to pick up her dress. She had spent the night in Ivy Cottage with her parents. How astounded they had been to learn about the Fairmont and plans for the school. However, Mercy had been disappointed not to spend the evening with her aunt, who had gone to Wishford to visit Louise Shabner for some reason.

  Mercy would have liked to pick up her dress a few days earlier, but when she’d called in, a harried-looking Miss Victor had apologized and said she was still working on it. She prayed it was ready now.

  Reaching the shop, Mercy knocked softly and tentatively opened the door. The interior was dim, the shutters and curtain still closed, the lamps gone out.

  “I’m sorry. I must be early,” she whispered. She paused just over the threshold, her eyes adjusting to the faint light. Inside the shop, she was surprised to see several ladies in various postures of repose, asleep, surrounded by mounds of material spread all over the room. There was Jane, Rachel, her maid, and Miss Victor. And . . . was that Aunt Matty asleep on the sofa?

  “My goodness,” Mercy said quietly. “What are all of you doing here?”

  Eva blinked awake and straightened. “Oh heavens. I did not mean to fall asleep.”

  Rachel rubbed her eyes. “Nor the rest of us, I imagine. It’s all right. We’re nearly finished.”

  “You kept working after I fell asleep?” the dressmaker lamented. “I feel terrible.”

  “No need. It was my pleasure,” Rachel said. “I enjoy sewing.”

  Mercy looked from woman to woman, confused. “I know my old dress was not
fashionable, but . . . all of you had to help? It must have been in worse condition than I thought.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Jane began. “But—”

  From above came the sound of loud snoring.

  Mercy looked up the narrow stairs, perplexed. “Um . . . Eva? Is that a man I hear upstairs?”

  Eva chuckled. “No, that is Mrs. Shabner. I sent her up to my bed for a few hours sleep.”

  “She helped as well?”

  “Yes, and the Miss Cooks, and your aunt. They were at it until the wee hours.”

  “Gracious.”

  Rachel rose, smiling. “Come, Mercy. Let’s try on the dress. That way, if we need to take it in a bit more, we’ll still have time to do so.”

  Miss Victor searched for her watch pin. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eight.”

  “The wedding is in two hours!” Eva exclaimed, gathering up spare material. “Now where is that ribbon sash . . . ?”

  Mercy said, “You are counting the hours? What about me? I am so nervous.”

  Jane squeezed her hand. “All will be well.”

  Mercy met her gaze. “If it does not rain. I almost wish now I had planned to have it at the Fairmont. But I have so long dreamt of having it on the green.”

  Rachel’s lady’s maid, Jemima, spoke up. “I will dash to Brockwell Court for the curling irons. I do hope you will let me dress your hair, Miss Grove?”

  “If you would like. Thank you.”

  Rachel smiled. “Oh, yes, Jemima. Excellent idea.”

  After the maid hurried out, the other women assisted Mercy off with her daydress and helped her step into the new half petticoat. They then positioned her before the long cheval glass.

  “Close your eyes, Mercy,” Rachel said.

  Considering her discomfort with mirrors, Mercy was happy to comply. Even so, she asked, “Why? Is the dress so altered?”

  “Just close your eyes.”

  “Very well.”

  The ladies helped Mercy step into the gown, then raised it, the fabric gliding with luxurious silkiness over her hips. They guided her arms through the sleeves and began lacing the waist and fastening the buttons.

  “Keep them closed,” Jane insisted.

  “I am, I am.”

  Someone tied a ribbon around the waist and fashioned a bow. “Wait,” Eva said. “The bonnet.”

  Mercy asked, “My mother’s old bonnet, right?”

  “Shh . . .”

  She heard whispering and rustling. Something was settled upon her head, and she felt a fluttering curtain of lace around her neck and shoulders.

  “There. All right, Mercy. Open your eyes.”

  Mercy tentatively did so, turning first to peer at the women. She noticed them looking at each other with eager, suppressed smiles. Had they pulled a joke on her? She turned toward the mirror, and the tolerant little grin she wore faded. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. She looked at her reflection in disbelief, then looked again at her friends. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Oh no,” Rachel said. “Do you not like it?”

  “I . . . This isn’t my dress. I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful for me.”

  “Nonsense,” Jane soothed. “You are beautiful, Mercy.”

  She noticed Aunt Matty sitting up, eyes alight. “I agree. Always have been and always will be, my dear. And that dress . . . It’s perfect for you.”

  The gown of fine net over ivory satin nipped in under the bosom in a waist-defining style, which emphasized Mercy’s slender torso before flaring out over her feminine, curvy backside. Exquisite embroidery ornamented the hem. The vee neckline, with an inset of fine lace, flattered her delicate collarbones and modest bosom. The lace complemented her mother’s veil flowing from a new ivory bonnet. Mercy blinked to better focus. The woman staring back at her looked elegant, graceful, and almost . . . beautiful.

  She wondered uneasily how much of her governess’s wages this gown would consume, but she said only, “This lace is lovely.”

  “The Miss Cooks’ work. And the women of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society contributed toward the new bonnet, slippers, and trimmings.”

  “Slippers!” Eva tapped her forehead in dismay. “I nearly forgot.”

  She retrieved a pair of dainty satin slippers in ivory and gold and placed them on the floor before Mercy. Mercy kicked off her old shoes and slipped into them.

  “There you are. A perfect fit.” Eva grinned and added in a French accent, “Voilà! Cendrillion.”

  Mercy grinned. “At the moment, I certainly feel like Cinderella.”

  Mrs. Shabner shuffled downstairs and stood on the bottom step, eyes misting. “Beautiful. As every bride should be on her wedding day.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Shabner.”

  The older woman nodded. “Worth coming out of retirement for, I assure you.”

  chapter

  Fifty-One

  Her aunt beside her, Mercy walked back to Ivy Cottage in her new dress, hair curled and styled. Excitement tingled her stomach—until she looked up at the grey sky. Please, God, not rain.

  Aunt Matty opened the door for her and followed her inside, dimples creasing her cheeks. “I want to be there when Catherine sees you.”

  Catherine Grove sat in the drawing room, talking to Helena. She turned as Mercy entered.

  “There you are, Mercy. I wondered where . . .” Her words trailed away, and she stared, mouth parted.

  “My dear, you look so beautiful.” Tears brightened her mother’s eyes, and Mercy felt answering tears fill hers. She could not remember her mother ever saying so before.

  “Your dress is exquisite,” Helena said. “Surprisingly so.”

  “Thank you,” Mercy said. “I quite agree.”

  Her mother rose and stepped forward, taking her hands. “I know I have disappointed you in many ways over the years, Mercy, but I love you, and I am proud to be your mother. Today and always.”

  “Thank you, Mamma.”

  Her mother’s voice thickened. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t. You may visit Mr. Kingsley and me whenever you like. We shall have rooms to spare at the Fairmont, if you don’t mind the noise of many children about the place.”

  Hope flared in her mother’s eyes. “Grandchildren?”

  Mercy smiled. “Hopefully those too.”

  After the women left, Eva splashed cold water on her face, put on an apron, and began to clean, determined to restore order after the chaotic late-night sewing session. She had yet to decide for sure, but if she was going to quit Ivy Hill, she wouldn’t leave the shop in disarray.

  She gathered an armful of material and carried it to the back room. Then another. Then she swept the floor. A short while later, Eva stood in the open doorway, sweeping dust outside. She paused, glancing across the street toward The Bell, hoping for a glimpse of Jack Gander on his route.

  There came the Quicksilver right on time, Jack standing on the back, proud bearing, handsome. He lifted his horn and played the arrival signal. But all too soon, she knew, he would play the signal to depart.

  Her father came striding around the corner from the direction of the tithe barn. “Good morning, Eva. You’re up bright and early.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” She chuckled to herself, as she had not yet been to bed.

  “I’ve come to ask if you’ve decided what you will do, my dear.” His brow creased into apologetic lines. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but the troupe must pull out this afternoon. We have remained too long as it is and shall have to drive through the night to reach the next stop on time.”

  Eva’s stomach sank. “I understand.” She hesitated, emotions whirling. Without intending to, her gaze returned to the mail coach. To Jack Gander.

  Her father followed the direction of her gaze to The Bell. “I can see why you’d hesitate to leave, with your dear sister right across the street, helping her husband manage the inn. And of course there’s s
weet little Betsey as well.”

  His gaze returned to her face. “So I will not presume you plan to return to the troupe, though of course a part of me wishes you would.”

  “Only a part?”

  He pursed his lips in thought. “I have missed you and your sister terribly, I don’t deny. And selfishly, I would love nothing more than the comfort of my children near me again. But I have always regretted that you girls never had a real home. When your mother was alive, wherever she was, was home. But after she died . . .”

  “I know.”

  “Seeing you and Hen here now, I think you have a home.”

  “Hen does indeed. I am still trying to find my place.”

  “Are you? You seem very at home here to me.”

  “You know, I suppose I do. It is surprising, considering I came here under false pretenses. But I have asked forgiveness of God, as well as the women here. And several have offered me their friendship. I am thankful.”

  “What did you say of yourself that was so false? Your mother was French, and you grew up eating French food and listening to scoldings in her native tongue when vexed. You were called Victorine, at least by me. And you have sewn clothes and costumes for years. You came here with good intentions—to open a shop in your mother’s and Martine’s memory. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Thank you, Papa. Not everyone takes such a charitable view of my selling Martine’s gowns as my own. Even so, I appreciate your understanding more than you know.”

  He pressed her hand. “Well. Take a little more time to consider. I will stop by again after the wedding, all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Eva returned to the shop, tidying the apartment upstairs as well as the workroom below. A knock sounded, and Eva paused in her cleaning to answer it.

  The older mantua-maker stood there, dressed for the wedding.

  “Mrs. Shabner. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “No, I imagine not.” She looked at Eva’s apron. “Not going to Mercy’s wedding?”

  “I hadn’t planned to, no.”

  The woman humphed her disapproval. “Well, I thought it was time you and I talked. In private.”