Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos(26)

„Oh, is that what you have in mind for my ball gown?“ I said. „Much better than the panniers.“

„I wish,“ he said. „Ah, there's Mrs. Tranh.“

Mrs. Tranh's stern features broke into a smile when she saw us. She was standing by the costume racks with two of „the ladies,“ as she called her seamstresses. We had managed to convince Mrs. Waterston that requiring costumes of mere spectators would decimate attendance, but for certain key events that were open mostly to staff – such as her welcoming party for the crafters – Mrs. Waterston had made costumes mandatory. Just in case anyone showed up without a costume, Mrs. Tranh had brought a large rack of the rental costumes – colonial dresses in demure Williamsburg colors and a range of sizes for the women, and for the men, a collection of shirts, knee breeches, and coats. Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were there to collect the modest rental fee and help stuff the guests into costumes.

At the moment, Mrs. Tranh seemed to have her hands full.

Two men had arrived wearing Hawaiian shirts so garish that even Dad would have turned up his nose at them, over cutoffs so ragged they contained more hole than cloth. I recognized both of the men wearing these glaring anachronisms as fellow crafters – a soapmaker and a leatherworker – and would have waved if I thought I could get their attention. They were both intent on escaping to the bar. They didn't stand a chance. Mrs. Tranh's ladies routinely dealt with brides having prewedding hysterics and bridesmaids whose mood veered toward homicidal when they saw their dresses and realized the acute embarrassment and physical torture their supposed good friends were inflicting on them. Dealing with a few reluctant men would be child's play.

The clothing rack was already two-thirds full of confiscated modern garments. Normally, only a minority of my fellow crafters favored gaudy Hawaiian shirts, shorts in fluorescent colors or horse-blanket plaids, and other luridly colored garments – we were a diverse crowd, but jeans and natural fibers tended to dominate most gatherings. I suspected a plot to sabotage the period purity of the party, but Mrs. Tranh and the ladies would take care of that.

„Hello, dear,“ came my mother's voice from behind me.

„Hello, Mother,“ I said, turning. „How are – “

I stopped short, my jaw hanging open, when I saw Mother's costume. She had outdone herself, as usual. More to the point, she had outdone Mrs. Waterston, and I had no doubt it was deliberate. I glanced over at Mrs. Waterston who, luckily, was playing gracious hostess to a group of newly arrived guests. She hadn't seen Mother's costume yet, and if I ran for cover now, I might make it far enough from ground zero before she did.

Still, I couldn't help lingering long enough to compare the two. Mother's outfit went just a little bit further than Mrs.

Waterston's did, in every way I could think of. Her white powdered wig was a few inches taller, and sported a noticeably more varied collection of bows, flowers, baubles, and artificial birds. At least I hoped they were all artificial. Her waist was laced smaller, and her panniers were a few inches broader. Her overskirt seemed to have at least one more set of ruffles than Mrs. Waterston's, and her petticoat definitely had a slightly wider lace edging. About the only thing not bigger and better was the beauty mark. Although, come to think of it, I didn't remember Mrs. Waterston sporting a second beauty mark. Mother had one, perched precariously at the edge of her decolletage, which was, of course, alarmingly more extreme than Mrs. Waterston's.

Mother swept away, fanning herself with a fan ever so slightly more ornate than Mrs. Waterston's.

„Your mother looks nice,“ Michael said, in a suspiciously noncommittal tone.

„Yes, I can't wait to see your mother's reaction,“ I said.

He rolled his eyes.

„It's very odd, don't you think?“ I went on. „It's almost as if she knew exactly what your mother was wearing and deliberately set out to show her up.“

„But how could she possibly know that?“ Michael said.

I pointed to Mrs. Tranh, who, while ostensibly supervising her seamstresses, had turned her attention to the party and was glancing intently from Mother to Mrs. Waterston and back again.

„Oh, God,“ he said. „They must be feuding again. I hate it when they do that.“

Maybe the party wouldn't be so boring after all, I thought, as Michael and I approached Mrs. Tranh.

„We got your costume,“ she said. „You go in dressing room and change now.“

„I wish you hadn't gone to so much trouble,“ I said.

„I rather make ten dress for you than one of those,“ she said, indicating the blandly pretty colonial dresses on the rack.