The Wedding Dress(25)

She’d most likely have an allowance at her disposal to give to whatever projects she deemed worthy. To shop whenever and wherever she wanted, the mistress of her own manor.

“Mercy, it’s warm in here.” Mother fanned herself with her gloves, then removed the pins from her hat.

Emily set her reticule and parasol on the table just inside the door. “I’ll see if I can open the window, Mother.”

“Mercy, no. There are people walking the streets. Do you want them to see you?”

“If it means I won’t faint from heat, then yes.” Emily shoved open the window and a broad gust filled the room. Thick and muggy, the outside air was pungent with city fragrances, tinted with the gray exhaust of the mills and mines. But Charlotte preferred it to the hot, stale air of Mrs. Caruthers’s workroom.

“Mercy.” Mother pinched her nose. “We either faint of heat in here or inhale the stench of mines.”

“It’s the smell of life, Mother.” Emily drew deep. “Gasoline, horses, the sweat of men, the perfume of women.” She glanced toward the narrow door through which the dressmaker had disappeared, turned to the window, and—careful of the dust—leaned over the sill.

A Model T driver spirited his rig ahead of a slow-moving, horse-drawn delivery cart. “Mother, let’s go to Newman’s for lunch.”

“Not today, I had Molly slice the roast beef—” Mother paused when Emily sighed. Much too loud, but it was too late to retrieve. “Well, all right, it is your wedding dress day.” She gripped Emily’s arm. “Don’t hang out the window like a dance hall girl. Emily dear, just so you know.” Mother’s voice warbled and her eyes watered. “Father and I are very proud of you. He was practically bursting his buttons the day after Phillip asked for your hand. He ordered fresh cigars to pass out at the club. You’ve grown into one of the most beautiful girls in Birmingham. You’re smart and talented, educated—which I insisted on—and you have a solid, sensible head on your shoulders. You will make Phillip an outstanding man in the community. He’s done well to choose you.”

Emily came away from the window. Maybe now was the time to ask Mother the question brewing in her heart ever since Phillip proposed. “Mother, did you love Father when you married him?”

“Oh my, I believed your father made the cotton grow in the spring, I did. He was so handsome and smart, told the best stories that made us all laugh, and was the idol of all the girls in our class.”

“Grandmother and Grandfather were happy with him?”

“Your grandfather thought him a fool.” Mother made a face mimicking Grandfather’s expression and affected a deep voice. “‘The boy’s full of nonsense, Maggie. He’s all talk. What’s this about starting an exchange? He’ll lose his shirt, I tell you, lose it for sure.’” Mother laughed with an arch of her brow. “Papa is singing a different tune now.”

“No doubt he is, especially after Father bought him a touring car for his birthday.” Emily gazed out the window again, watching the life on the street, letting her thoughts drift.

She loved Phillip. Certainly she did or why would she let him caress and kiss her the way he did?

“Where is that Mrs. Caruthers?” Mother paced past the narrow, interior door. “Did she set sail to Paris for the fabric?”

Mother had tried in recent years to book Mrs. Caruthers for special gowns but was always denied. Only since the Saltonstall engagement did Mother rate an audience with the queen of seams. It didn’t sit well with Emily, but if having Mrs. Caruthers design her trousseau and wedding attire made Mother happy, then it made Emily happy.

“Sit, Mother, don’t worry. She’ll be along.” She needed Mother to settle down so she could process the nagging feeling caught in her chest.

Unlike Mother, Emily knew Phillip didn’t make cotton grow. Nor did he make her laugh with his zany stories—at least not often. Not even when they were in grammar school together. However, he did make her shiver right down to her bones when he stroked his hand down the length of her neck.

Emily peeked over her shoulder at Mother, who’d taken a rest on the settee. Did Father make Mother’s skin quiver with desire? Oh mercy . . . Emily shut her eyes and shook the very idea from her head. Even if she had the courage and brashness to ask Mother, she did not want to hear the answer.

Angling out the window, Emily drew in a deep, cleansing breath. Yes, she loved Phillip. She must.

On the corner of 3rd Avenue, Emily caught sight of a familiar figure. Tall, lean, wearing a telltale burgundy waistcoat and spats. Phillip. Her heart hopscotched. Like Father, Phillip was handsome and smart, well respected in the city, and most assuredly the desire of all the girls in their circle.

She stretched farther out the window and waved. “Phillip. Phillip Saltonstall. Man in the spats. Phillip! You’re the only man who wears them in the day.”

A hand yanked Emily back inside. “Emily Lee Canton, stop that yelling at once. Now you are behaving like a dance hall girl. Stars above, a proper gentlewoman does not lean out fourth-floor windows and yell like an uncouth at proper gentlemen. Especially a man of Phillip’s reputation and one who is her fiancé. What on earth?” Mother fidgeted with her cotton gloves, drawing them through her hand over and over.

“Mother, it’s Phillip, the man I’m going to marry. Why can’t I yell out the window to him?” After all, hadn’t she just discovered her true affections? Why not tell the world? Emily shoved the window higher still. “My dear, Phillip, I’m up here—”