“What a lovely garden,” said a now familiar voice behind her.
She whipped around to see her lunchtime companions had also come to peer in through the iron gate.
Sandra nodded. “I bet it will be pretty as a picture in the summer,” she added.
Xanthe turned back to look again. The woman had gone. As had all the blooms and summer abundance. Once again the garden was bare and slumbering. She felt her grip on the gate tighten as she heard the unmistakable high-pitched humming of a found thing singing to her. The wedding dress was calling to her, and it had to be connected to the vision she had just glimpsed. Connected to the lone figure with her vulnerable openness to strangers, and the dark, somber warning of blood that had been spilled.
3
As Xanthe had hoped, Flora approved of her finds and was excited about setting to work on them. Together they shifted things around in the workshop to make way for the new projects, conjuring up space where none had been before, taking care to allow Flora to work, as her crutches meant she required extra elbow room. They decided she would prioritize the smaller pieces, which could be quickly done and then moved into the shop. The costume jewelry would not turn much of a profit, but it had been bought at a low price and a little bit of bling went a long way to brightening up displays. The velvet cushions needed careful cleaning and would then sit nicely on the Victorian chairs Flora had already repaired. She was particularly impressed with the silver jug, happy to rise to the challenge of painstakingly knocking out the dent to restore it to its former glory.
“Excellent selections, Xanthe, love. I should let you go off on your own more often. Lovely things, and all within budget.”
“See, I am to be trusted.”
“Yes, well, I wonder what would have happened if the bidding had gone mad on that wedding dress, hmmm?” her mother teased.
“It will be the perfect feature for our vintage clothing display, Mum, and…”
“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand, “you don’t have to convince me. I know the drill. You keep the object until it stops singing to you and then it goes on sale with everything else. I actually think you got it for a bit of a bargain, so it will more than wash its face. Eventually.”
She smiled at her mother’s use of the phrase so well known in the antiques trade, meant to suggest that a sale item would at least cover its costs and turn a modest profit.
Xanthe had planned to sort through the box of jewelry when she was manning the shop through the remainder of the afternoon, but instead she was kept busy with customers.
“Don’t complain about that,” he mother laughed when they finally turned the CLOSED sign on the door. “It’s great that business is picking up so soon after the winter lull. Must mean our reputation is spreading. And it’s a surer sign of spring than any amount of cuckoos calling. Come on, time to knock off. I’ll be kind to you and let you cook.”
She gave her a wry smile. “Supper will have to wait a bit. I need to get this lot sorted and priced up,” she said, indicating the box of strung beads, jet brooches, paste bracelets, and assorted rings. “And I really want to take a closer look at that wedding dress.”
Her mother looked at her knowingly. “OK, new plan. Give me that,” she insisted, taking the box of jewelry from her and tucking it under one arm in the awkward but effective way she had of carrying such a thing while using her sticks. “I’ll sit upstairs and sift through it for half an hour, then I’m ordering pizza. When it arrives, you have to stop and come up and eat it. Deal?”
“Deal. Thanks, Mum.”
Xanthe needed no further prompting to hurry into the second room of the shop. As soon as she stepped over the threshold she could hear the gown singing to her. She took it from the box in which the auction staff had expertly packed it, and slowly removed the layers of tissue paper encasing it. The light in the little room had yet to be perfected, and dusk had already descended outside, but even so, the tiny silver and translucent beads on the dress seemed to glint and gleam. With great care, she unfolded the precious garment, aware of it almost trembling as she held it up. She thought it to be around a British size ten, made for someone with slim shoulders and long legs. It was thrilling to think of a bride walking down the aisle in it, and she was greatly relieved that there wasn’t the heavy sadness attached to it that she felt with some of her found things. She found a padded hanger and slipped the dress onto it before hooking it onto the top of the door. She stood back to take it all in. There was a fairly high neckline, modest and trimmed with lace, with sleeves set to sit on the points of the shoulders. The sleeves themselves were long enough to cover the backs of the hands and made of very sheer fabric, possibly some manner of voile, embroidered with tiny roses here and there. The bodice of the dress was richly worked with the beautiful beads that she now realized were also stitched to form patterns of tiny tumbling roses. The dress was cinched in tightly below the bust, a broad ribbon of doubled lace forming the shape, and then the skirts fell in a beautiful, flowing sweep to the floor. It occurred to Xanthe that there were signs the dress had been altered in places. Could these have been repairs or adjustments made to accommodate a second bride who chose to wear the dress? Perhaps more than one daughter in the lofty Wilcox family had been married in it. She reached out and touched the delicate fabric of the sleeves, listening to the high notes only she could hear, wondering what it was the dress had to tell her. As she did so the sound shifted and then became bells ringing, clear and bold. She gasped as a realization came to her.
“Those bells,” she muttered to herself, remembering again how she had heard pealing the other evening as she had left The Feathers. Even then, even at that distance, the dress had been calling to her, drawing her closer, waiting for her to find it. She had longed for something to call her back to the past, and now she had something with a particularly powerful connection emanating from it.
Excitement mounting, she renewed her examination of the beautiful object. The style did seem to be Edwardian, but there was something unusual about the neckline, and the way the bodice was attached to the skirt. She tried to recall what she knew about fashions in that time but could picture only leg of mutton sleeves and high collars. She recalled the Queen Mother’s wedding dress, and could see similarities. The intricate lacework. The slender silhouette. It struck her then how different wedding dresses of the day were to what people were wearing in general. In fact, they seemed to hark back to the style at the beginning of the previous century, with its elegant Empire lines. She was aware that the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 1800s drew upon medieval styles and shapes for its inspiration. But that didn’t seem to fit with this garment either. At least, not quite.
She leaned closer, searching for clues. Could it be that part of the dress was in fact older than the rest of it? The lace of the bodice, she decided, was the thing that didn’t seem to quite fall easily into a style she could put a date to. It was then, when she was at her closest to the thing, that she became aware of a wonderful scent. She inhaled carefully, trying to place it, wondering if it were possible that perfume could stay in the fabric for over a hundred years. Of course she knew it could not. The glorious scent of roses that she was now experiencing was simply another way of the treasure calling to her, provoking her senses, trying to connect with her. She thought of the girl she had glimpsed in the walled garden of Corsham Hall standing in the rose beds, and felt with a fierce certainty that this dress and that young woman were indeed inextricably linked.