Confederates Don't Wear Couture (5 page)

“A spinning wheel?” I propped myself up on my elbows to shoot him an incredulous look.

“I don't know what you history types go for!” He shrugged. “It just popped into my head.”

“Well, I could get a really nice stand mixer,” I thought suddenly. “I've never had one, and Martha Stewart uses one for
everything,
so it could really take my pastry up a notch—”

“I liked you better lying down than discussing kitchen appliances,” he interrupted. I frowned at him and plopped back down on the bed. Ah, bliss. “Take a nap while I change, Sleeping Beauty, and then I'll help you get dressed.”

“Mmm,” I agreed, eyes already falling closed.

Far too soon, Dev shook me awake. He was in his shirtsleeves, wearing a herringbone vest over a snowy cotton shirt, a casually tied silk cravat, and pants tucked into boots that reminded me of my time horseback riding at Girl Scout Camp Shingobee Timbers in the Chippewa National Forest. I saw a navy blue frock coat draped over the camellia chair, waiting for him.

“Come on, lazy,” he reprimanded, as he shook me again. “Time to get dressed.”

Groggily, I sat up. “What time is it?” I wondered. “Is it tomorrow?”

“It's twelve minutes later.” He rolled his eyes. “Stand.” I did. “Here,” he said, handing me a pile of white things. “Put these on, and then I'll corset you. Go on, behind the screen.” He shooed me away. “Better start getting into character now. Modesty and all that.”

Obediently, I marched behind the curved wooden panels of the white Victorian dressing screen. Okay, things were looking good. I pulled on a white cotton off-the-shoulder chemise and a pair of lace-trimmed pantaloons. I was impressed with Dev's historical accuracy. He'd chosen not to sew the crotch seam, but to use a ribbon to tie the pantaloons together in back, like they would have done in the 1860s so ladies could relieve themselves more easily. I decided to keep my polka dot underwear on. It felt a little too drafty, otherwise. And then . . .

“Stockings?! No. Not cool. In this heat? You've got to be kidding me.”

“Not kidding. I'm wearing pants, princess. Pull 'em on,” Dev ordered. “And they're cotton, anyway. It won't be that bad. 'Bama belles wore cotton stockings all summer long in the 1860s. You can do it too.”

I picked up the two elastic garters that had fallen out of the pile and secured the stockings above my knees. Now dressed head to toe in white, I skipped out from behind the screen.

“‘Here comes Suzy Snowflake, dressed in a snow-white gown,'” I sang merrily.

“What the eff are you singing?” Dev asked.

“It was my solo at the Eunice Norton Elementary Holiday Concert in fifth grade . . . never mind . . .” I said, trailing off. I blushed.

“I'm never sure if I love you in spite of the fact that you're so effin' weird, or because of it,” he said fondly. “And now”—he held up a strapless white cotton twill corset—“it's go time.”

The corset was not nearly as soft as my other cotton underthings, with its steel boning to mold my waist into the appropriate hourglass shape. A series of brass grommets marched up the front to where the corset ended, just high enough to not be considered indecent exposure but low enough that I couldn't wear it in public without blushing. Standing behind me, Dev was gaily tugging away at the strings that were lacing up my back over my chemise.

“Tight enough, don't you think?” I gasped.

“Not by a long shot,” he grunted. “Hold that pole.”

Just like Scarlett O'Hara, I took ahold of the canopy's bedpost, pulling my shoulder blades together to get the proper silhouette. Wow, that was tight. The corset dug into my ribs, causing my breath to come in quick, shallow gasps. Last summer, when I'd worn eighteenth-century stays, they weren't nearly this tight. Back in the 1700s, the main function of stays was to provide support. But by the 1840s and '50s, after stays had transformed into corsets, “tightlacing” became popular—that is, lacing the corset so tightly in order to have the smallest waist possible. In the 1860s, waist minimization was the name of the game—a game I currently felt I was losing.

“Miss Libby, you keep eatin' them French fries, you ain't never gonna have no eighteen-inch waist again,” Dev barked.

“I never had an eighteen-inch waist to begin with! I'm not a mutant freak!” I protested. “And French fries are delicious.”

“One more big pull,” he said. “There!” He tied the laces in a knot, panting. “Perfect.”

Slightly dizzy, I let Dev lead me over to the full-length mirror. I'll give the corset this much—it worked. My waist looked infinitesimally tiny. Especially in comparison to the enormity of my cleavage.

“There are my moneymakers,” he said, patting the tops of my boobs proprietarily.

“Oh, stop it.” I swatted him away. “They wouldn't be so . . . out there if you didn't lace it so tightly.”

“That's the whole point, darling.” He rolled his eyes. “I'm gonna use what your mama gave you. Buy Confederate Couture, and you, too, can be this ta-ta-licious!”

“That better not be your slogan,” I warned.

“I already put it on a promotional coffee mug,” he deadpanned, and reached for a four-tiered hoop skirt covered in white cotton that had been waiting at the foot of the bed.

“How the hell did you fit that into your carry-on?” I asked, mystified. Sure, Dev's carry-on was so big he could barely wedge it into the overhead compartment, but this seemed contrary to the laws of physics.

“Just call me Gary Poppins.” He held out the hoop as I stepped into it. “I have a magical carpetbag.”

“Seriously.” I shot him a look as he tied the hoop around my waist.

“It's collapsible,” he admitted giddily. “Plastic, collapsible hoop skirts were popular in the fifties for wearing under full dresses to give you that perfect Betty Draper look. Très
Mad Men
. I modified that idea to work with yours. Travel hoops! I think they could be
very
hot this year.”

I stood speechless as he helped me pull a very full petticoat with three ruffles over the top of the whole operation. I mean, I had always known Dev was smart, but this was just pure genius.

“No more underwear, right?” I asked as I emerged from under the petticoat. I knew that real Southern belles had worn as many as five petticoats, and even though they wore fewer petticoats in the summer, I was half-afraid Dev thought one wouldn't cut it. Despite the fact that heat stroke was a distinct possibility.

“No, no, dress time.” He held up a soft Wedgwood blue bundle dotted with bouquets of cerulean-blue and snow-white flowers. I help up my arms, and Dev pulled it over my head. The skirt cascaded over the hoop in five flounces, separated from the bodice by a cerulean-blue silk sash. The bodice was off the shoulder, with cerulean-blue bows at the sleeves and the V-neck. Both the sleeves and the neckline were framed with pleated froths of white lace. It was stunning.

“You like?” he asked. “The fabric print is called ‘Maiden's Bouquet,' and the dress is called the ‘Juliet.' I took it from a
Godey's Lady's Book
printed in 1860. What is that magazine, like, the Civil War
Cosmo
?”

“Imagine if
Better Homes and Gardens
and
Vogue
had a baby. In the nineteenth century,” I decided, admiring myself in the mirror. Goodness, my waist looked tiny. I felt like I was floating above the graceful swell of my skirt.

“It's not bad. It could use more quizzes . . .” He drifted off for a minute. “But, anyway,” he said, coming back to the present. “They took it from a Chestnut Street dressmaker in Philadelphia, and I took it from them. For you.”

“It's amazing,” I gushed. “Only . . .” I worried for a moment, thinking about what Tammy had said, about judgie-wudgie reenactors. “It's not too much?” I asked anxiously. “Too Twelve Oaks barbecue? When Mammy didn't want Scarlett to wear a dress that was too low-cut?”

“I say you can show your bosoms whenever you want,” he replied stubbornly. “And it's way after three o'clock.”

“True fact.” I winked at my reflection. I was feeling sassier already—maybe I was a natural at this Southern belle stuff.

“And it's all about first impressions,” Dev continued, as he crossed over to the dressing table to fix his hair in the mirror. He picked up a silver-backed brush and started smoothing it into a side part, as opposed to his usually spiky 'do. “This is the first taste the world will get of Confederate Couture. We need to go in there with a bang. You know me—it's ‘Go big or go home.' And thanks to your corset cleavage, we're going big.”

“Hey!” I protested.

“Good first impressions, Libby. Speaking of which. . .” He eyed me critically, hairbrush in hand. “We need to do something about that.”

“I can't help it,” I moaned, as Dev poked the helmet of frizz on my head. “It's the humidity. Please tell me you have bobby pins.”

“Please.” He rolled his eyes as he emptied his pockets, displaying bobby pins, safety pins, a tiny sewing kit, some ribbon, and what looked like a handful of smooshed Jujubes. “Who do you think you're dealing with?”

I eagerly snatched up the bobby pins and started to wrangle my hair into manageable curls, with the front pieces held back with jaunty little blue bows. Thanks to an epically humid Kelting family vacation to Fort Lauderdale a few years ago, I'd learned the best way to tame the beast.

“It's a little more of a 1930s conception of the 1860s than actually 1860s,” Dev commented, wincing once I'd finished. He was right—it was not totally dissimilar to Vivien Leigh's hair for most of
Gone with the Wind.
“But I think you did the best you could, given the circumstances. Attempting anything more elaborate might have angered the curl monsters.”

“It is
humid.
” I swatted him playfully. “And it's not monstrous—it's . . . um . . . voluminous.”

“Just keep telling yourself that.” He held out his elbow. “Shall we? I hear talk of sweet tea in the parlor,” he drawled.

“Land sakes,” I said, as I took his arm, “do go on.”

We navigated our way out of the Camellia Room, Dev stopping to pick up his carpetbag as I turned sideways and tilted my hoops to fit through the door frame.

“Well, look at you!” Tammy was standing at the foot of the stairs, camera in hand, snapping away. I had a sudden flashback to junior prom. Only this time my dress was a lot bigger, and I was pretty sure my date wouldn't try to get to second base in the Embassy Suites parking lot. “This is one for the refrigerator!” she continued, a one-woman paparazzi corps. I could feel Dev vogueing behind me. “That's it! Work it, baby! Whoo!” She put down her camera as we stepped off the last stairs onto the hall floor. “Goodness, your clothes are even more amazing in person. Now, come on, thisaway.” She walked into the parlor. “I'm so happy I get to pop your sweet tea cherry!”

Dev giggled.

“Is sweet tea different from regular iced tea?” I asked as I attempted to sit on a pink floral sofa. It took me three tries to arrange my hoops in a manner that allowed me to sit behind the mahogany coffee table. A tray laden with a big pitcher of tea, three glasses, and a plate of cookies lay on top of it. Dev perched gingerly at the edge of the couch, as close to the cookies as possible.

“Mmm-hmm.” Tammy picked up the pitcher and began pouring glasses. “I'll just let it speak for itself.” She handed us each a glass. I took a gulp.

“Whoa!” I exclaimed involuntarily. It was really,
really
sweet.

“Mmm-mmm.” Dev smacked his lips. “This might be even better than iced coffee!” he exclaimed, and drained his glass. I wasn't surprised. Dev had yet to meet a caffeinated beverage he didn't like. Or anything that was ever too sweet.

“Come back in a couple years, and I'll make you a pitcher of Alabama Slammers,” Tammy said, refilling his glass. “That's
really
better than iced coffee.”

“‘Alabama Slammers'?” Dev cocked an eyebrow at me. “Sounds like my cup of tea. Or, uh, glass of tea.” He took a giant gulp.

“Here, doll, try the coconut pecan shortbread.” Tammy nodded toward the plate of cookies.

“Don't mind if I do.” Dev gleefully picked up a wedge of shortbread. I demurred, the thought of eating anything in the corset squashed out of me as surely as my capacity for taking deep breaths.

“So . . .” Tammy picked up a cookie, settling in. “Have y'all thought about your story yet?”

“Story?” I asked.

“Pudding, you can't show up unchaperoned, staying with a strange man,” Tammy answered, sipping her tea. “It'll ruin your reputation. Well, you'll be fine with most of the reenactors, who acknowledge that they are reenactin', but some of them are real hard-core about it. We've got reenactors who stay in character the whole time, and they won't stand for that. Not one bit.”

Dev and I exchanged glances.

“Don't worry about this one's reputation. She's already ruined,” Dev said balefully. I elbowed him in the ribs.

“Seriously, what do I do?” I asked.

“Well, you have two options.” Tammy munched contemplatively. “One, y'all pretend to be married.”

“PFFFF!” Dev snarfed sweet tea out his nose and started laughing uproariously.

“Hey!” I elbowed him again. “You could do a lot worse!”

“Two,” Tammy continued, ignoring our squabbling, “y'all pretend to be brother and sister.”

“Me and Albino McPasty?” Dev looked skeptical.

“Doesn't matter.” Tammy waved around her cookie unconcernedly, before I could object to the pasty comment. “It's all pretend, isn't it? You wanna show up and be the Queen of Sheba, as long as it's the Queen of Sheba in 1861, you're fine. Y'all can be brother and sister if you want to.”