The Wedding Dress(93)

And she wore the gown.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s part of the Ludlow Foundation’s history, Charlotte. This dress has been lost for decades. I asked her once where it was, but she was nearly ninety and she wasn’t quite sure what I was talking about. Or so she pretended. Knowing her, she probably was faking.” Cleo knelt, turning over the hem of the dress, running her finger along the seams. “My goodness, here it is.”

Charlotte bent to confirm the seamstress’s initials. “Do you know what TH stands for? Dixie and I couldn’t figure it out.”

“Taffy Hayes. She was a black seamstress in Birmingham. Born into slavery but freed when she was a baby. Emily wanted her wedding gown made by Taffy, but mercy, her parents and her groom resisted. Her mother had hired a well-known white seamstress, Mrs. Caroline Caruthers. She made the dress we have in the wedding portrait at the estate, but then about five years ago, I found this picture among some old things up in the attic. That’s Daniel’s arm she’s holding on to. The caption says ‘Emily Canton Leaves Church after Wedding.’”

“I’ve heard of Taffy Hayes,” Charlotte said, studying the newsprint. Emily Canton wore the gown. She was the bride the purple man referenced. “She was well-known for her wedding dresses, but only in the black community.”

“Emily was the first white woman to wear a wedding gown sewn by a black designer. There were black washerwomen and seamstresses, but Taffy was a designer. She made this dress especially for Emily. It was scandalous in 1912.” Cleo walked around the gown, fascination rising in her eyes. “We’ve been looking for this gown for a long time.”

“Then why’d you sell the trunk?” Charlotte kept her back to Tim and his shaking head, though his soap and cologne fragrance made his presence known.

“I didn’t sell it, Charlotte. The trunk is not even listed in our inventory.” Cleo tucked the picture back into her attaché. “Can you help me carry the dress down to my car, Tim? Charlotte, I’ll compensate you for the purchase price.”

“Whoa, whoa. Carry the dress down to your car?” Charlotte fanned out her arms and stood between the gown and Cleo. “This gown isn’t going anywhere.”

Now the purple man’s visit made sense. The dress belongs to you.

“I’m afraid it is. That trunk, wherever it came from, was not to be sold at the auction.”

Tim stood beside Charlotte. “Cleo, you didn’t even have the trunk listed in the auction inventory. If I hadn’t come up there today, you’d have never known.”

“But you did come up and now I know.”

“Cleo, I bought the trunk, and its contents, fair and square. It didn’t belong to you before and it doesn’t belong to you now.”

“You’re right, the trunk never belonged to the estate. But this dress belongs to the Emily Ludlow Foundation and the Civil Rights Institute.”

“It belongs to me.” A royal purple wash splashed Charlotte’s heart.

“City ordinance dictates that historical items found on-site belong to the estate. If they are not found on-site but are proven to belong to an historical estate, site, or registry, the item’s ownership reverts to the estate or site.” Cleo fussed with her attaché, producing a collection of papers. “And if none of those strike your fancy, Charlotte, the dress belongs to Birmingham’s Civil Rights Institute for Emily’s groundbreaking move to wear a wedding gown designed and sewn by an African American woman.”

“Come on, Cleo. You’re leaving something out,” Tim said. “The ordinance dictates that historical items revert to the site or to an heir.”

“There is no Ludlow heir, Tim.” Cleo crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “What is your point?”

“Your researchers should’ve done a better job.” Tim nodded, aiming his rakish smile on Charlotte. “There is a living Ludlow heir. And I’m looking right at her.”



Tim

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte peered at him like he’d lost his mind. “I’m not related to anyone. Remember me? The one with one branch on her family tree? I’m especially not kin to the Ludlows.” She flipped her hands in the air without aim, her body swelling with big breaths. “I think you knocked the last bit of sense out of yourself when you crashed your bike.”

“Crashing my bike is what gave me a moment to think about all of this.” He went back to his folder and passed over the picture of Charlotte and her mom. “I called Monte Fillmore to see if he had anything of yours or your mom’s among Gert’s things.”

“Why would you do that, Tim?” Charlotte stared at the picture. “I haven’t seen this in twenty years. Where’d you get it?”

“Monte brought me a box of your mom’s things. From her office. He meant to give it to you, but forgot and . . . anyway, Charlotte, this picture was in it. It was also filled with Ludlow newspaper clippings. Which I found odd until I saw this.”

Tim passed over the FSU picture. Circumstantial evidence for sure, but it was all he had to make his case. To keep Cleo from walking out of here with the dress. He’d wanted to get to Charlotte before she did.

He’d brought the folder over, thinking he’d invite Charlotte to dinner, warm the waters of their relationship, then tell her Colby Ludlow was her father.