Mail Order Bride Mishap (Into the West #3)

Chapter 10

“This lace is going to be so beautiful around the skirt, Fiona.”

“Do you really think so? I’ve never worn anything so fine, and that’s the truth.”

Fiona looked up from her sewing guiltily, belatedly realizing she hadn’t meant to divulge the fact she’d been poor all her life. But the faces gazing back at her, Emmie’s, Muriel’s, Widow Brown’s, and the bank president’s wife Cecily Davis’s, showed only polite interest and not pity. She straightened her shoulders just the same.

“I bought it for Rebecca’s christening gown. Old Matthew Farley wouldn’t let me buy just a yard. ‘That’s weddin’ lace, Miz Lawson, an’ not to be wasted by cuttin’ jest a piece out o’ the middle.’”

Since Emmie’s voice sounded as thready and sharp as the mercantile owner’s, all the women giggled, needles suspended over the fine material.

“Well, Emmie, I’m much obliged that you are willing to give it to me as me weddin’ dress overlay. Maybe we should go and show old Mr. Farley we put the fabric to good use.”

Fiona glanced at the gaggle of women clustered around Emmie and Noah’s kitchen table and couldn’t believe her good fortune. Here she was, a stranger in their midst, yet they’d all volunteered to help remake one of her dresses into a wedding gown.

The dress they currently altered, though not her first preference, was still one of her better ones. She had initially chosen the taffeta that she’d arrived in for her wedding gown. Since taffeta made such a swishy noise when a woman walked, she figured it would make a great wedding gown to march down the aisle. But Emmie had strenuously vetoed it, almost before Fiona had gotten the suggestion out of her mouth. She’d cited that it looked too heavy and would wrinkle.

Slightly disappointed, but seeing the sense to her new friend’s words, Fiona selected another of her gowns, a summery organdy in a butter-yellow. Designed to be cool in the humid Boston summers, the lighter material would not be used as much out here in the cooler Pacific Northwest. So a wedding dress it became.

“If you’re marryin’ in the church, Farley’ll see it anyway,” commented the Widow Brown. Pushing sixty, the widow had lost her much older husband several years ago to a bout of pneumonia. Still holding on to her shape and mostly brunette hair color, she’d subsequently tossed her cap after several of the unmarried St. Helens pillars of society, to no avail. Now she lived fairly quietly in her house by the church, tending her garden and her neighbors’ business.

“Of course she’s marrying in the church,” Mrs. Davis, the bank president’s plump wife, said. “Edward is a very important person in the bank and the town. Everyone should be invited to his nuptials.”

Fiona looked between the women surrounding the table, unable to squelch the burst of pride erupting within at Mrs. Davis’s description of her intended. Edward’s prominence and good reputation would undoubtedly wash over her as well, if she maintained the decorum she’d so far been able to uphold.

“I didn’t get married in the church,” snapped Emmaline, eyes narrowed on the older woman. Muriel rushed into the suddenly tense conversational gap.

“Every woman should have the wedding she most prefers,” she soothed. “It’s a man’s world, but the wedding should belong to the woman.”

Here everyone’s heads began to nod, and Fiona let go the breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. With the mix of personalities, these sewing circles could get tense fast she’d discovered. Intent on continuing the smoothing of feathers, she said, “Well, the church suits me fine. Edward has made his home here in St. Helens, and he should have all his friends and acquaintances present on our big day. I have no family, but so far all of you have been incredibly welcoming.”