Confederates Don't Wear Couture

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

prologue

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

suggestions for further reading

acknowledgments

credits

About the Author

Copyright © 2013 by Stephanie Kate Strohm

 

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Graphia, an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

 

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

 

Graphia and the Graphia logo are trademarks of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

 

www.hmhbooks.com

 

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Strohm, Stephanie Kate.

Confederates don't wear couture / by Stephanie Kate Strohm.

p. cm.

Sequel to: Pilgrims don't wear pink.

Summary: While touring with a group of Confederate Civil War re-enactors for a summer internship, Libby and Dev attempt to design and sell Southern Confederate costumes for a ball, investigate haunted battle grounds, and seek handsome Southern soldier boys.

ISBN 978-0-547-97258-9

[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Historical reenactments—Fiction. 4. Clothing and dress—History—19th century—Fiction. 5. Haunted places—Fiction. 6. Internship programs—Fiction. 7. Confederate States of America—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Confederates don't wear couture.

PZ7.S9188Con 2013

[Fic]—dc23 ISBN 978-0-547-97258-9

 

eISBN 978-0-544-03429-7
v1.0613

 

 

 

 

For Max—you are the Darcy to my Elizabeth, the Rhett to my Scarlett, and the Emmett to my Elle.

“Ah! Mr. Yankee!” I read. “If you want to know what an excited girl can do, just call and let me show you the use of a small seven-shooter and a large carving-knife which vibrate between my belt and my pocket, always ready for emergencies.”

Whoa. This Sarah Morgan Dawson was no simpering Southern belle. I tucked a few blond curls behind my ear and kept reading. I couldn't believe I'd stumbled upon this treasure trove of nineteenth-century Southern diaries. The University of North Carolina had digitized them, and they felt like my own personal window to the past, just a few clicks away.

A cloud of Gucci Pour Homme so thick I could almost see it swirled into the library, heralding the arrival of my favorite person at St. Paul Academy: my best friend, Dev.

“
Who's
the cutest girl in the library?” Dev boomed as he flung his skinny frame into the seat across from me, propping his chunky black motorcycle boots up on the wooden table. “Only Mother Nature can do highlights like these, people!”

He may have been a totally genius fashion designer and the best BFF a girl could ever ask for, but he still hadn't mastered the concept of the inside voice.

“Okay, one, feet off the table—that's just rude.” I tapped his boot with my pink glittery gel pen until he removed it. “Two, I just found this
amazing
Civil War diary online, and I do not want to be distracted right now; three, this is a library, so shhh,” I admonished Dev. “And, four,” I concluded, “what on earth are you doing in here? I've never seen you in the library. Not once. Not ever. Not since you were stopped at the door freshman year for having a contraband iced caramel macchiato. So what on earth could possibly bring you in here?”

“That's how you
know
it's important. Because only something serious could bring me back to this iced-coffee desert of freakish silence,” he insisted. “Hey, you're wearing the kilt I made you!” he noticed excitedly.

In addition to supplementing my school uniforms, Dev had turned exploiting the loopholes in the St. Paul Academy dress code into an art form. Sure, they said boys had to wear black or gray pants, but they never said they couldn't be suede. Today he wore a distressed black blazer over a sheer white shirt tucked into skintight leather pants; his striped uniform tie hung loosely around his neck.

“You look kind of like a preppy rock 'n' roll pirate,” I told him.

“Libby!” Dev clapped his hands together with glee. “You just
get
me. Skirt looks great, btw. And speaking of exquisite tailoring,” he continued, “you remember the jaw-droppingly chic ensembles I pulled together for your little shindig last summer?”

“Of course,” I said, nodding. “How could I forget?”

They had been truly magnificent. Last summer, when I worked as an intern at Camden Harbor's Museum of Maine and the Sea, Dev had made the most beautiful historical costumes imaginable for the end-of-the-season costume ball. It was a total dream come true: I'd finally felt like I'd jumped back in time, like I'd been able to really live history. Sure, not everyone dreams of cast-iron cookware and corsetry, but it had been the perfect summer for me.

“So, naturally, I've been thinking about the success of my colonial couture,” he said, stroking his chin, “and while I had never intended to be a historical fashion designer, I must admit, there are certain advantages. Some of it is very appealing: Exaggerated silhouettes. Huge skirts. Over-the-top fabulousness. I mean, hello!” He sat up very straight. “I am over-the-top fabulous!”

“That you are,” I agreed.

“So, naturally, it was a very small step from colonial couture to . . .” He held up two flailing jazz hands. “Confederate Couture! Ta-da!”

“Ta-what-now?” I asked, confused.

“Confederate Couture!” he repeated, more enthusiastically.

“Do Confederates even
wear
couture?” I asked skeptically. “And I'm really trying to read right now.”

“Ba baaaaaaaaaaa ba baaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” he sang grandly, to the tune of the theme song from
Gone with the Wind.
“We're goooooooooooooooooing sooooooooooouth.”

“Shhh!”
A very angry girl in oversize hipster headphones looked up from her computer and tried to incinerate us with a glare.

“Can we sing along later?” I asked. “This diary
I'm reading is
really
cool! I promise. Seriously. Listen.” I
had
to read him what I'd found. I was always trying to get Dev more interested in history, and this might just be dramatic enough to spark his interest.

“What did you say it was—some girl's diary? Snooze.”

“Um, hello, no snooze at all.” I read him the quote I'd found, and from the moment I read “Mr. Yankee,” he did seem to perk up considerably. “See? Cool, right? There are actually a lot of misconceptions about women in the antebellum South. Lots of them went hunting and fishing, participating in what we think of as stereotypically masculine pursuits. I mean, look at what a badass Sarah Morgan was! They weren't all sitting around, flirting and fluttering their fans.”

“Nothing wrong with flirting. But my belt
could
use a carving knife,” Dev said contemplatively. “Why are you so into this diary, anyway?”

“Well, this is the closest I'll ever get to experiencing the Civil War, right? To really understanding what it would have been like for a girl my age to live through that.”

“Hmmm.” Dev stroked his chin methodically, the fluorescent lights glinting off his perfectly buffed nails. “What if there was a way for you to
actually
live through the Civil War?”

“Keep talking.”

“This is what I've been
trying
to tell you, Libby!” he said, sighing with exasperation. “Have you heard of this Civil War reenactment thing? You know, like in
Sweet Home Alabama
?”

“Of course I've heard of it. I've even met some people who do it.”

“Eeuw, really?” Dev made a disgusted face. “Super lame. It's, like, almost as bad as LARP-ing.
People running around, having fake battles, and pretending to be soldiers. Wearing uniforms they never wash and eating something called ‘hardtack,' which is not as much fun as the name might first lead you to believe.”

“It's really not that lame! It's cool,” I countered. “People take these reenactments very seriously. This is about as close to total historical accuracy as you can get.”

“Total historical accuracy: the Libby Kelting dream,” he said, smirking. “Hence,
we
are going south. I've already rented a sutler's tent with the Fifteenth Alabama Volunteer Infantry!”

“What's a sutler?”

“Oh, Libby, I'm disappointed.” He shook his head. “Who's the history nerd now? A sutler is a civilian merchant who sells provisions to an army in the field, in camp, or in quarters.” He smiled like the cat that had just caught the canary.

“I don't know everything.” I blushed.

“I know that you don't know everything. I just never thought I'd get you to admit it.” He grinned. “Anyhoo, sutlers set up tents at reenactments and sell stuff—hats, clothing, canteens, what have you. And let me tell you, these reenactors are
super
specific about their uniforms.” He rolled his eyes. “Beyond boring! No creative license! Everything has to be exactly the same as it was back then, down to the thread count and button holes. So naturally, I decided to cater to the ladies—because even civilian reenactors deserve to look fabulous! So we'll be selling ball gowns, tea dresses, day dresses galore! All at Dev's Confederate Couture. I scored us a super-sweet gig, following around the Fifteenth Alabama, giving them a
very
minor percentage of the profits in exchange for transportation to the battlefields and a tent.”

“Let me get this straight: You want to go to Civil War reenactments and sell nineteenth-century women's costumes.” I gave him my best skeptical look. “Do you
have
nineteenth-century women's costumes?”

“I have something better,” he said smugly. “Connections. You remember my uncle Raza?”

“The one you stayed with in New York last summer?”

“Yes! He has a sari store in Murray Hill and mad connections in the Garment District. So he's gonna hook us up! Bargain prices on top-quality fabrics. We'll make a few samples, take measurements, and have our clients fill out order forms. Easy-peasy. I'll sew 'em when we get back. Custom Confederate Couture. So pack your bags! We are ready to go, baby!”

“I don't know if I'm ready to go,” I said doubtfully.

“Libby, you're my model. I neeeeed you,” he whined. “To model my fashions. Did you not hear what I just said about specializing in women's wear? Plus, you can deal with all the boring nerd stuff. Lend me some nice historical accuracy. Cute sticker,” he said, tapping the pink cupcake on the back of my computer.

“Oh, Dev, I don't know. I—”

“Stop protesting. I have a beyond-perfect business model. What are your concerns?”

“Your mom's okay with this?” I asked skeptically. “With you rolling around Alabama totally unsupervised?” Dev's parents were pretty strict, and Dev could find a way to get into trouble at a maximum-security prison run by nuns.

“Libby, we're mere
months
away from college. To put it plainly, our lives are basically no longer supervisable. It's time for us wee baby birds to fly from the nest. Besides, both my parents applauded my ingenuity and economic ambition,” he said, preening. “And your mom's fine with it too.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Duh, I called her. You know I always enjoy a good chat with Mrs. K. And she gave you the go-ahead. I only had to
slightly
exaggerate the adult supervision factor.” He flashed me a thumbs-up. “All the mommies are onboard. We're ready to roll.”

“Wait a minute, I'm still not—”

“Don't even pretend you don't want to go.” He picked up a pen and starting doodling stars in my margins. “You were waxing rhapsodic about the charms of olden times like two seconds ago.”

“Well, yes, I mean, it would be amazing to go,” I said somewhat wistfully. “But . . . I had planned to spend the summer with Garrett and—”

“Don't play the boyfriend card,” he interrupted. “Don't you dare. First of all, I'm not even sure someone who lives six states away even qualifies as a boyfriend.”

“Hey!” I protested. “That's so not fair. We talk every day!”

“Okay, you have an electronic pen pal that you made out with a couple times.” Dev rolled his eyes. “Congratulations.”

“Just because you don't believe in long-distance relationships—or relationships, for that matter,” I amended, as Dev glared, “doesn't mean they can't work out.”