Jennifer’s eyes convinced me.
Ever since the 1990s when she and I joined JASNA (Jane Austen Society of North America), her eyes lit like sparklers when she talked about Annual General Meetings (AGMs ). I enjoyed my friend’s enthusiasm, but didn’t share her zeal for attending a weekend conference with seven or eight hundred Janeites.
Jane Austen remained my favorite author. Jane became a way of life for Jennifer. She purchased Jane Austen Books, became the coordinator of our Ohio North Coast region, and applied to host an AGM in Cleveland. For the last three and a half years, she worked to pull together the 2020 AGM—now a week-long event for a thousand people attending from six continents. When she discussed speakers, venues, and the Regency ball, the light in her eyes changed from sparklers to a fireworks finale.
I couldn’t resist. With my friend in charge and the conference only a two and a half hour drive away, I’d go.
But what should I wear to the ball?
I peppered Jennifer with questions. Good-natured and patient, she kept the sparkle in her eyes through countless emails and during the two visits I made to her Geauga County home. She even opened the closet in her spare room to reveal a rack of Regency dresses she wore to previous AGMs.
While I oohed and aahed, my mind whirled with the choices—make a traditional neckline or bib front, tuck lace or wear a spencer jacket, fasten with drawstrings or settle for a zippered costume.
Jennifer draped several dresses over her arm, toted them to the sunny deck along the back of her house, and hung them on a rack. She separated one dress at a time, held the sides of the hem, and stretched her arms to show the width of the skirts while I took photographs.
After studying the photographs, researching patterns, and dithering over styles for a month, I made decisions—drawstring front, button back, and a moderately low neckline. I bought a pattern and fabric. I slept peacefully night after night until thunder woke me one midnight. Lightning streaked, and a realization flashed through my mind. The pattern I’d chosen didn’t require as much fabric as the out-of-stock historical pattern I couldn’t buy. The skirt for the second choice must be narrower. I panicked and, as soon as the sun rose, emailed Jennifer with more questions. “After all your help, have I been stupid and planned a historical dress that isn’t accurate? Any words of comfort for a troubled soul?”
“Well, goodness. I would not worry about that at all,” she emailed back. “‘Accuracy’ is for the nerds, and the rest of us just have fun.”
Her answer calmed me. And she answered the one question I didn’t know I needed to ask. “You won’t have to wear a corset like they did in Jane Austen’s day, but you’ll need a push-up bra so the dress fits right.”
The first push up bra I bought passed my comfort criteria but didn’t pass the seamstress’s evaluation. “Take it back. It’s pushing your breasts together not up.”
Bra shopping again? Drat.
When I related the bra dilemma to my friend Darlene on a visit to her condo in South Euclid, Ohio, she volunteered to go shopping with me. Double drat.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Darlene. She and I have been best buds since our daughters met in middle school. But I dreaded bra shopping on my own let alone with a companion.
Her “I’m coming with you” declaration in a no nonsense voice made me crumple. Besides, as a lactation consultant, is my last bra shopping trip.
We walked into Victoria’s Secret. Dim lights revealed sexy lingerie dangling off every mannequin and rack in the multi-room store with more space than my log house. Every bra, pantie, and camisole screamed young and voluptuous. I cringed. When would Jennifer’s “just have fun” kick in? With no push up bras in sight and Darlene at my side, I resigned myself for humiliation.
Taylor, a young fitting expert so short her eyes stared straight at my breasts, asked, “Do you need help?”
“I want a push up bra for a Regency dress.”
Taylor’s customer-greeting-smile twitched into a frown.
“An empire dress.” Darlene waved a hand indicating a high waist-line. “She needs a push up bra.”
Taylor’s eyes shifted left then right, but she led us to a fitting room. She whipped a measuring tape out of her slacks pocket, measured me in two places, then fetched three black bras. “Try these. I’ll be back to check on you.’
I turned away from Darlene and shoved my breasts into the cups. Great. No hands left to fasten the hooks. Maybe I could kneel beside my bed to get the contraption on—later, not now. “I need help, Darlene.”
She hooked me in.
Taylor returned.
She and Darlene stepped back as far as they could in the fitting room and shook their heads. This process repeated like Groundhog Day in the Bill Murray movie while Taylor fetched cross in front, fasten in back, B cup, C cup, 36, and 38 bras. Her face darkened from calm to cloudy in the process. “I have this super duper push up in black.” She handed me the bra and trudged out.
Darlene squinted. “That’s the best fit yet, but it isn’t right. You must be a B and a half.”
Returning, Taylor flung her hands over her head. “We might not have one that fits you.”
If Victoria’s Secret with acres of bras didn’t have one that fit, how would I ever find a push up? Desperate, I decided not to dress until I had a functioning bra. I put my fingers under the black strap. “You said you had a weird blue one in this style. May I try it?”
Looking stormy, Taylor slumped off to fetch the bra.
Darlene fastened it and stepped back. Her eyebrows raised but she didn’t say anything because Taylor, shoulders drooping, stepped in and looked at me.
She pulled her body so straight she stood an inch taller. Her face lit like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You look terrific!”
No one had ever said I looked terrific in a bra before. I bought it and prayed my seamstress would approve.
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| Embroidery Trim on Sleeve and Stole |
“That bra fits.” Catherine eyed my chest and the pink bra with its sheer blue striped covering. A writing friend and the 2019 Crawford County Grand Champion seamstress, Catherine had volunteered to sew the Regency dress.
Moji, barked and twirled on her hind feet.
If I didn’t have to stand still on the shiny hardwood floor in Catherine’s farmhouse dining room, I would have joined her Bichon Frise Schnauzer in celebration. “It’s not comfortable like the other one.” I glanced through the tall glass window at her garden under winter-gray skies. “I feel like a toothpaste tube being squeezed.”
Catherine chuckled. “The bra’s doing its job. It could be the new you.”
As if!
For half a dozen fittings in Catherine’s dining room, I stood, Moji pranced, and Catherine tugged at a bodice, sleeves, or hem. She muttered, “I’ll take an inch off here and add two inches there,” then jotted notes on a three by five card.
Though Governor Wolf ordered social distancing, I suppressed my teacher instinct to follow his directions and drove the three miles over our pothole dotted road to Catherine’s whenever she needed me.
Before cutting the Regency fabric, she sewed a prototype out of an old sheet to learn the pattern. This careful preparation had won her many blue ribbons at fairs. Her old sheet, blue with beige speckles, transformed into a dress elegant enough for a ball.
Catherine’s confident voice only wavered once during the fittings for both dresses. “I cut the band the same as I did for the prototype, but . . .”
Moji circled me.
Catherine tugged at the back of the bodice. “It overlaps here.” More tugs. “The button section is right. Why is it overlapping there?”
Neither Moji nor I had a clue. We let Catherine think.
Following her directions, I turned forward and back then raised and lowered my arms.
Her confident voice returned. “There’s an extra inch in the front part of the waistband. I’ll rip it out and reset the band.” She grinned from ear to ear.
On the last fitting to mark the hem of the Regency ball dress, Moji and I paced from the dining room to the living room for the third time.
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| Regency Dress with Accessories |
“The back’s still too long.” Catherine motioned me back, adjusted pins, and motioned me forward again. “That’s better. Now you won’t step on the hem while you’re dancing.”
I slipped out of the dress and into my clothes.
Begging for pets, Moji put her paws on my jeans.
Catherine eased the dress onto a hanger. “I’ll finish the hem tonight and drop the dress off on my way to town tomorrow.”
I stopped petting Moji. “Don’t you want to keep it for the fair?” Crawford County held its fair seven weeks before the AGM.
“You’ll want to show it to your friends. Just get it to me a week before the fair . . . if we have one this year.”
Any event attracting large crowds would be iffy in 2020, but I was almost ready. I had the push up bra, the dancing shoes I’d worn at my daughter’s Medieval wedding ceremony, two dresses, gloves, and a surprise.
The surprise had arrived in a package from Kay in Oregon. Kay, a friend since she married Spence’s elementary school buddy Eric decades ago, often sent packages after she and Eric visited us at Wells Wood. After we’d played board games, she’d sent a Bananagrams game. After she cooked several meals and raved about zucchini spaghetti, she sent a spiralizer to process Wells Wood zucchini.
I thought back to this September’s visit. She’d crocheted a capelet, a project she got from her craft of the month club. Maybe she sent a craft kit.
She’d also sat at the kitchen table with me to search the internet for Regency print fabrics. We found a flower print in blue. It was on sale for one more day. I needed to know how much fabric to buy that afternoon. “Do you mind if I drive to Joann’s in Meadville to get a pattern?”
“I’ll go with you.” Kay headed for the bedroom to get her purse. “I’m content to do whatever is happening when I visit.”
She wouldn’t send a Regency pattern or fabric.
Clueless, I cut the tape and opened the box.
A beige, hand-crocheted reticule—single stitches on the bottom, shell stitches on the sides, and four fat fringe clusters attached with gold beads—nestled inside tissue paper. I cradled the soft bag in my hands and admired the even stitches. The reticule was perfect for a Jane Austen ball.
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| Accessories and Rills |
I pitied Cinderella. She only had one fairy godmother. I had four getting me ready for the ball—Jennifer, Darlene, Catherine, and Kay. Nearly as excited as Jennifer, I gathered materials for a stole to complete my ensemble.
But Jennifer’s next email lacked excitement.
“What will the world be like in October?”
Reading the rest of her email, I didn’t need to see her face to know her eyes held concern, not sparkles.
“I’m not sure what’s going to happen to our AGM. It’s so disappointing, after those years of planning and being so excited about it, and just as everything seemed to be coming together so well. We have to still act like it's going ahead, which is hard to do because everything is so uncertain.”
Like Jennifer, I proceeded as if the 2020 AGM would happen and worked on the stole—cutting, sewing, hemming, and trimming with the embroidery flosses like Catherine had used on my dress. I only had to attach the fringe. Since I bought the same yarn Kay used to crochet the reticule, I would need to attach it one loop at a time. No worries. I had until October.
By the time I’d attached two inches of fringe on one end, an email from Liz Philosophos Cooper, president of JASNA, arrived. “With a heavy heart but a lightened conscience, I have provided notification of JASNA’s intention to cancel the 2020 Annual General Meeting . . .”
Liz made the right decision. The risk of COVID-19 spreading to Janeites would be high. My eyes, dry from staring at tiny stitches, filled and dripped like a leaky water faucet. I canceled my hotel reservation and thought of Jennifer.
After laboring years to prepare, she faced months of work to undo her arrangements. She had to be devastated,
I’m only disappointed.
When a safer time arrives, my dress and accessories will be ready for the ball. In the meanwhile, I have the memories of four friends generously pitching in to make my dream of dancing at a Jane Austen ball come true—someday.
Jennifer’s eyes convinced me it will be worth the wait.
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| Regency Dress with Mask |
