“We have five days. Mother.”
“An hour won’t make any difference one way or the other. And I’m making you herbal tea. You’re getting too cranky,” Mary said smartly.
“No honey,” Susan said.
“You’re too thin already,” Mary overruled her. “You’ll have honey and cake. I’m your mother and I still have some rights.”
“Yes, Mother,” Susan said meekly.
The box was in the hallway where he’d left it. It was fiat and rectangular, covered with crumpled brown paper, tied with string, looking rather as if it had been through the wars and back. Susan hefted it, surprised at how light it was.
“What do you suppose it could be?” She carried it into the living room of her mother’s neat little house and sat on the floor with it One of the first things Susan planned on doing after her marriage was to move her mother to better, more elegant surroundings, preferably the sprawling faux Tudor mansion that Edward had bought for them. She didn’t expect to run into any opposition from her new husband—Edward was in awe of his delicate, future mother-in-law, and he was as practical about their marriage as Susan was. The house was huge—there was no reason why they couldn’t share it.
“Something interesting, I have no doubt,” Mary said, handing her a pair of scissors.
It took Susan less than a minute to rip off the layers of wrapping to expose the box beneath it. It was a dressmaker’s box, very old, with a card taped on top of it. Even though she’d never met her legendary godmother, Susan recognized her handwriting.
She opened the note. “A token of your family’s past, my dear. Despite what they tell you, good things happen to those who wear this.”
“Cryptic as ever,” Maty said, reading it over her shoulder. “Let’s see what she’s sent you. Probably some East Indian shroud of some sort.”
Susan opened the box, pushing away the layers of tissue paper to expose yards and yards of creamy white satin.
“Oh, my heavens,” Mary cried, and sank into a nearby chair.
Susan cast a curious glance at her mother as she pulled the dress out It was a wedding dress made of rich, glossy satin, cut like a gown for a medieval princess, with laced-up sleeves and bodice and a long sweep of skirt. It had to be the most beautiful, unsuitable dress she’d ever seen, and she loved it.
She turned to her mother. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“It’s Tallulah’s wedding dress,” Mary said in a faint voice. “I always wondered what happened to it.”
Susan rose, holding the dress up against her long body, unable to resist the impulse. It flowed against her, draping in graceful folds. “She must have been tall.”
“She was. Tallulah towered over almost everyone. She looked so beautiful in that dress.” Mary’s voice caught for a moment. “Imagine Louisa having it all this time.”
Susan stared at her reflection for a long, meditative moment. “It’s obviously a sign,” she said finally. “I’m meant to wear this dress.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Susan!” her mother protested, shocked. “You can’t possibly! It’s bad luck. There’s too much history....”
“Why? She didn’t die in the dress, did she? You told me she was killed in a train wreck on her honeymoon.”
“Her honeymoon hadn’t even started,” Mary said quietly. “They were on their way to New York to begin their trip to England. They were going to spend several months just touring Europe when it happened.”
“You mean she didn’t even have a wedding night?”
“No,” Mary said shortly.
“She died a virgin? How completely depressing!”
Her mother cast her a stern glance. “Your generation didn’t invent sex, you know.”
“You mean Aunt Tallulah did the nasty with Neddie Marsden? Hard to believe, looking at him now. I can’t believe anyone would want to sleep with him.”
“Your aunt Tallulah was an original, Susan. She always followed her own heart, and if she loved someone, she loved them wholeheartedly, without reservation,” Mary said. “She was never one to be bound by the restrictions of society.”
“Even though she was an Abbott of Connecticut?” Susan asked, running a reverent hand along the rich, creamy satin.
“Most particularly because she was an Abbott of Connecticut.”
