Chapter 20
When I woke up the next morning, after spending the remainder of the evening setting the rest of the pleats in Corgi’s kilt, I discovered that I’d missed a series of texts.
Julie expressed interest in my cryptic message that I had new and exciting information about Margaret Oliphant to share with her. She suggested I stop by the Tremington Museum at 4:45, just before closing, so I could get in and we could have time together uninterrupted by patrons or other staff. Morris Hart sent a dozen or more texts expressing delight that I’d contacted him and interest in my mysterious news as well. I decided to have him join me at the Tremington, so I could tell the two of them at once. Plus, Hart wanted to see Margaret’s diary and wedding dress, which required Julie’s participation. Perfect.
There were also a few texts from Corgi, saying he was glad the kilt was coming along, and could we meet at ten, and then another suggesting nine thirty instead, and finally a text saying he could come over first thing but was busy from ten onward. I called him to say he could come on over. I was pretty sure I woke him up.
I fixed a nice breakfast and a big cup of coffee, realizing Corgi was coming off the same gig with the Twisted Armpits that had kept Aileen up past midnight, at any rate. Well, if he wanted his kilt rushed, he was going to have to put in some time on the project as well.
It was ten minutes to ten before the doorbell rang. I let Corgi in and took him straight to my fitting room.
“Sorry I’m late, Daria. It was a late night last night, and then my alarm clock never went off.” He grinned sheepishly. “It never does. I should get a new one.” He glanced at his watch. “Thing is, I have to be on site at ten. Can we do this fast?”
I handed him the kilt. “Just slip off your pants and hold this around you so I can get a true fit on your waist.” I motioned to the curtained-off area in the corner.
The vast majority of my clients were women, so it was just a little awkward to have Corgi standing there with his bare legs hanging out of the kilt I was fitting to his waist. I reminded myself that I was a professional and placed my pins as quickly as possible. “I should be able to get the waistband on and the lining set in by the end of the day, but I don’t know if everything will be done by tomorrow.” I steered him to the changing area again. “It would take a miracle.”
Corgi popped his head out from behind the curtain. “That’s what you’re all about, isn’t it?” He gave me a funny grin so full of hope that I hated to disappoint him.
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”
He ducked out from behind the curtain and handed me the kilt. “How about if you forget about the inside until later? Just do whatever it takes to make it look good on the outside for me to wear it to Valley Forge tomorrow. Then you can add the lining or whatever later.” He headed for the door as he spoke.
“I don’t want you to wear it before it’s stabilized if that might mess up all the pleats. I’ll see how it looks throughout the day.” I scooted him out the door and gathered up the kilt with both hands. I had my work cut out for me for today.
I took the kilt upstairs and spent the next two hours stitching down all the pleats, which were miraculously in the perfect spots so that none of them needed to be adjusted. Maybe I was a miracle worker after all. A finely made kilt would have all the pleats sewed by hand, but I was sure Corgi would prefer me to sew them discreetly by machine and get the thing done in a timely fashion.
I took a break for lunch, shaking out my hands and running them under warm water to work out the cramps. Then I plugged in the iron for an afternoon of pressing.
I started with Breanna’s gown, which only needed a few touch-ups to bring it to perfection. I took it downstairs and hung it back up, ready for her final fitting at 3:30.
Then I set the iron for wool and carefully steamed and pressed the pleats into place. Everything I had read about kilt-making stressed the importance of this step, so I resolved not to take any shortcuts.
After a while, the quiet of the house started to wear on me, and I paused to put on some music. Without even thinking about it, I put on the Royal Pains’ CD.
I wasn’t a big fan of country music, but the blend of Ladd and Aileen’s voices was a pleasant mix to give me something to focus on other than the endless ironing. But I was only up to the second song on the album when Aileen blasted out of her bedroom and into my workroom across the hall.
“What the hell are you listening to?”
She was casually dressed in a zebra-striped pair of leggings and a purple sequined tank top that exposed her midriff. Her hair was slicked back into an ordinary ponytail that contrasted with her habitual black makeup. I couldn’t help marveling at how comfortable she was with her exotic style, so that she wasn’t afraid to mix in some ordinary elements as well.
But I only had a moment to think about that.
Aileen stomped over to my CD player and popped the disc out of the machine. She lifted it high to smash it on my desk, but I snatched it out of her hands before it was reduced to shards.
“That’s not mine,” I gasped, holding the CD behind my back. “I have to give it back to Herman Tisdale.” Not entirely true, but I didn’t want her destroying the CD.
“Fine! Give it back. Just don’t let me hear it playing in my house.”
I bristled at her characterization of the house as hers but decided not to go there. “I didn’t think you were listening. Sorry. You probably don’t believe me, but the group is really good.”
She snorted, and then sat down abruptly on my desk chair. “It makes me sick to hear the old songs. The sad thing is, we were good. If Ladd hadn’t been so toxic, we could have hit the big time. I could have been on stage in Nashville, instead of playing in bars in the dinky town of Laurel Springs, Pennsylvania.”
I slipped the CD into a desk drawer and picked up my iron again. “True. But even if he hadn’t gotten caught up in gambling, he would have messed up something else. You would have been miserable sticking with him all these years. Plus, you wouldn’t have met me or my brother, your favorite moron.”
She raised her eyes to my face, for once neither sardonic nor caustic. “That’s right. My life has been better without linking myself to that scumbag.” She flashed me a grin. “Good for you too. If I was headlining in Nashville there would be no Twisted Armpits, and you wouldn’t be ironing a kilt at this very moment.”
“It’s hard to imagine life without the Twisted Armpits.” I said it with a smile, but in a deeper sense, it was really true. Life takes twists and turns, some of them planned, and some you have no control over. In my own life, if my fiancé hadn’t left me before the wedding, I would have married him and probably been miserable the rest of my life. And I wouldn’t have met McCarthy, who was by far the better man. I hadn’t thought about the debt I owed to Randall for ditching me. Maybe one day I could bring myself to thank him.
I looked over at Aileen, sitting on my desk chair with both feet tucked up as if she planned to stay a while. “Speaking of Pete, what’s the deal with you two?” I said. “All that romance business took me by surprise.”
She hugged her knees to her chest. “For a woman who loves poking her nose into other people’s business, you do show a lack of attention to what’s going on at home.”
“Well, you always call him Moron. What was I supposed to think?”
Her smile held a hint of tenderness that would warm Pete’s heart if he saw it. “He didn’t care, even the first time I called him that. How often do you meet someone like that?”
“So what, you like him because he doesn’t mind that you call him a moron?”
She picked up a stray piece of fabric from my desk and threw it at me. “Don’t be ridiculous! You know your brother pretty well. He’s a great guy. He’s kind, and funny, and he comes to my gigs and enjoys the music I play. He’s worked so hard to stay out of jail, bu
t he’s not afraid to go there with me, even when he has no idea if I’m going to tear the place down. He makes me want to be a better person. Plus, he’s damned attractive.” She winked at me wickedly.
I threw the fabric back at her. “He’s a sweetheart. Just don’t break his heart, that’s all I ask.”
I expected an explosion, or a flippant “Whatever,” but Aileen surprised me, like always. She picked up the piece of fabric and twisted it around her ring finger with a serious look on her face. “That’s what I’m afraid of. I excel at breaking things. It’s my strongest quality.”
I bit back a smile because I knew she was serious. “Pete’s pretty tough. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
She threw down the fabric and flashed me a grin. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.” She unfolded herself from the chair and ducked out of my room before I had a chance to respond.
I was touched. I hadn’t expected her to seek my approval before dating my brother.
I hummed and ironed and hoped Pete and Aileen would be happy together. I closed my eyes, picturing my sensible, responsible brother with the volatile, passionate, take-no-prisoners Aileen. It wasn’t a bad picture.
A burn on my finger from the iron pulled me out of my reverie. I plowed through the last few pleats and shook out the fully pressed kilt. If I quickly attached the lining and sewed on some buckles, maybe Corgi really could wear the kilt tomorrow. I rousted out some heavy cotton duck cloth and cut the amount I needed for the lining.
I had just enough time to get it pinned in before Breanna arrived for her fitting.
She breezed in and tossed her purse down on the hall window bench with a flourish. Her lovely red hair was pinned up so that it cascaded down her back in a wave of curls. “I’ve just come from the hairdresser,” she told me when I complimented her on it. “I told her I wanted to see how the curls looked while wearing the dress.” She held out both hands in reverence to receive her dress, and then scooted behind the curtain to try it on. When she emerged, I almost applauded. She looked absolutely lovely. The crisp white satin shone under the ceiling lights, the princess bodice fit perfectly, and the tartan sash provided a splash of color that complemented her beautiful red hair. When I adjusted the headdress with its tiny tartan bows and sprig of heather, she could have been a Scottish bride straight from the Highlands.
She admired herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to take it all in. Everything was just right. “Thank you so much, Daria. This gown is just beautiful.” She handed me her phone to take some pictures as she continued to gush over the gown. Finally, she turned around so I could unbutton the back. She slipped behind the curtain and emerged a few minutes later in her everyday clothes. The magical moment was over for now.
“You’ll be coming to the ceremony, right?” Breanna sounded like a preschooler giving out birthday party invitations. “I hope everything goes all right. I’m a little worried about the dancers. Ryan King grounded Gillian for a whole week. I don’t know if he’ll forbid her from dancing or not. It doesn’t seem right to punish me for Gillian’s misdeeds.”
“Of course I’ll be there.” I pulled the plastic covering over her gown. “I didn’t know Gillian was grounded. What did she do?”
Breanna rolled her eyes. “She stayed out after curfew or talked back to her dad or something. There’s always something with her. Sad thing is, with all her issues, she’s far and away the best dancer I’ve got. I really want her to be there.”
I handed her the gown and accepted the check she gave me. “Maybe you should talk to Ryan—ask for an exception for the ceremony or something. You could tell him he can take her home as soon as the dancing is finished without getting any cake, or something like that.”
She laughed. “Maybe that would do the trick.” She waved a cheery goodbye. “See you next week!”
I closed the door firmly behind her. I always felt a complex mixture of accomplishment and letdown when I sent a bride off with her gown. I loved to see the finished product, especially when it was as beautiful as Breanna’s gown. But at the same time, I put my heart and soul into my work, so I knew I would miss the gown when it was gone. I always took photos to keep in my portfolio. Clients smiled when I showed them pictures of all the gowns I’d made because I always spoke of them as if they were old friends in a high-school yearbook.
I tidied up my fitting room and checked the time. I’d arranged to meet Morris Hart at the Tremington Museum, and it was almost time to head out for the bus. I ran upstairs to change. I picked out a swingy floral skirt I’d made and a blue cotton blouse to match. A few quick brushes reinforced my conviction that my thick hair had a will of its own. I popped in a couple of barrettes and called it good. It wasn’t a date with Hart, I told myself, just a chance to share a fascinating historical mystery.
The bus was crowded with commuters on their way home from work, so I had to stand. I held on to the strap and swayed around the corners, thinking about Margaret Oliphant coming to the New Country knowing she was carrying the child of a royal Stuart. Surely she also knew she would never see him again. That was a lot to put on a seventeen-year-old. I thought about the fifteen-year-old Gillian, hoping she would never have to face an unmarried pregnancy like that. I knew she wasn’t ready for the kind of responsibility and heartbreak Margaret had endured.
Hart was waiting for me when I got off the bus. He sat on a bench at the entrance of the Tremington, eating an ice cream cone. He waved as I walked over. “Hey, Catherine! So nice of you to get in touch with me.”
I stood a bit awkwardly in front of him. “It’s Daria. I knew you wanted to see Margaret Oliphant’s diary and wedding gown, and there’s something else I want to show you as well.” I glanced at his cone. “We should go on in, before the museum closes.”
He jumped up and tossed his cone in the trash. “Lead on!”
I led the way into the foyer, hoping we wouldn’t be charged admission for the last ten minutes the museum was open. I said to the docent, “We’re here to meet Julie Lombard.”
She dialed the phone and spoke for a moment, then turned to me. “Julie will come out to collect you. You may wait for her here.” She waved to a long row of bench seating and busied herself with her cash register.
I sat down next to Hart. “Have you had the chance to tour the Tremington while you’ve been in town?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been doing book signings, meeting with creative writing classes at the university, and spending all my free time promoting my book. I’ve barely had a chance to pursue my quest for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ring.” He gave me a smoldering glance. “Have you had a crack at it?”
“The search for the ring?” It was my turn to shake my head. “I’ve been working on a wedding gown and a kilt for tomorrow, so I’ve been pretty busy.”
He pulled out his phone and called up a website. He held it out for me to see. “I’ve got clues posted on my website.” He grinned like a mischievous little boy. “I don’t want to make it too easy for my fans.”
I leaned in for a closer look, to see that the clues were written in another language. “Is that Gaelic?”
He laughed and nodded. “First, you have to translate the Gaelic, then you have to solve the riddle, and then go looking. So far, no one’s found the ring.”
I looked up from his phone. “Have you?”
He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “You ask many questions, my dear Catherine.”
“It’s Daria. McCarthy calls me ‘nosy seamstress.’ I guess he’s on to something.”
Hart folded his hands in his lap and focused his attention on me. “McCarthy. That’s your photographer friend, isn’t it? He’s always on your mind, it seems.”
I shrugged in some confusion. Luckily, Julie arrived at that moment, so I didn’t have to go into detail about my relationship with McCarthy.
Julie wore a bib apron over her jeans
and checkered shirt, and her hair wisped out of its ponytail to float gently around her face. Her oversize headphones dangled around her neck, as usual. She greeted me cheerfully and showed no awe when I introduced Morris Hart, the novelist. “Come on and take a look,” she said, when I told her that Hart was interested in Margaret Oliphant’s wedding gown and diary.
Julie led us through the delightfully chaotic rows of historical artifacts on her way to the back room. “How’s the kilt-making coming?”
“It’s great. Kilts have a lot of pleats in them.” I paused at the end of an aisle and said to Hart, “You might be interested to see this kilt, which was worn by Jock Oliphant, Margaret’s father, in the Battle of Culloden.”
“I would indeed,” Hart said, his eyes lighting up. I led him to where the kilt hung on the wall, surrounded by the other artifacts from the Clan Oliphant: the chipped sword that may have also been at the Battle of Culloden, the family Bible, and the silver ring with the big red stone.
Julie plucked the kilt down off the wall and displayed the bayonet tear to a fascinated Morris Hart. I heard their conversation as if from far away as I stared at that ornate silver ring. Margaret wrote of a gift from her lover, Bonnie Prince Charlie, who gave her a book of poetry and a ring. I had seen the book of poetry with my own eyes just yesterday and had pictures of it on my phone to show Hart and Julie. What about the ring? Could it be right here in front of me, on display for all to see in the gloriously disorganized basement of the Tremington Museum?
I felt like calling out Huckle Buckle Beanstalk, from the childhood game of hide and seek, but I held my tongue. I wanted to see what Hart thought about the diary and the letter about Eddy.
Hart’s face was lit up with excitement as he examined the kilt and looked over the other items. I was almost sure he noticed the ring, but he made no comment. All he said was, “Show me this wedding dress and diary.”
Julie unlocked the door marked “No Admittance” and motioned for us to follow her. She left the door slightly ajar. “Everyone’s on their way home for the day, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.” She put on her protective gloves and lifted Margaret’s gown off the shelf and spread it out for Hart to see.
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