goodness knows how I’ll feel about my wardrobe in the autumn; I might choose to remain in black, and then again I might not. Can’t scarcely tell.
Her small tender laugh, the laugh he loved, but coming seldom nowadays.
Well, child, you can’t wear silk daily.
Oh, about the house I don’t mind—I’ve plenty of fixings for home use, unless we have callers. But when callers appear, or going to church, or just going to Americus— Now, I’ve the blue figured poplin I could dye; I’ve two cottons for summer wear which I’m sure would take it well—the blue sprigged on white, and the pink patterned walking gown we had made when I was at the Female Institute. You may remember it: all the girls were required to have them alike, and I surely never did like being all alike.
Ah. And now the uniform turns to black. For Georgians.
Father and daughter stood regarding each other mutely, and Lucy had paled at this observation which escaped him whether he wished it or no. She shrugged wearily, and he bent to kiss her on her high smooth forehead. I suppose there must be a great deal of black in other States. And at the North also, Poppy, she said in her soft voice.
Yes, yes. I’ve thought of that. He added hastily, Lucy child, I’d recommend the pink walking gown for the dye-vat, since it has an unhappy connotation of seminary days. I remember how miserable you were, forever begging to return home.
And at last you let me, like a dear sweet Poppy, and over Mother’s protestations. I regret it deeply, but I never could keep up that old French, and I promised faithfully.
You’re a dear good child, and you don’t need French. All you need is to go on being Lucy.
Thank you, sir. And I’ll take your advice about that little walking gown.
But who can do the trick for you? Ninny, Pet or Extra? Or does Naomi—?
Oh, you’ve forgotten what a remarkable dye-woman I did become in my very early youth. Before old Ruth died I learned heaps from her. I used to watch her by the hour—just plain fascinated by all the colors and the way things dripped. I wrote down some of her receipts on the blank leaves of Grandmamma’s cook book. I’ve explored carefully: we’ve all the necessaries for black. I’ll take Extra to do the dipping and fire-making; she’s mighty slow, but she doesn’t talk a body’s arm off like the other wenches. I just never can compel Ninny to remain quiet.
Three pounds of sumac, lime water, half a pound of copperas, two and one-half pounds of logwood . . . Lucy assembled her materials. She ordered Extra to prepare kettles and tubs under shade of the wash shed and to build up fires there. She needed blue vitriol also, for the silk, and bichromate of potash for both dresses; she knit her brows above the scales as she weighed the portions with care.
Lucy’s hair was not so fair as her mother’s, it was nearer the color of honey in the comb, and of fine texture. Rob Lamar used to insist that it was not a natural growth, that no hair could be so fine, that Lucy had ordered it from a shop maybe in Paris, France, and then had it sewn to her scalp. She could cry no longer, no tears were left to her to expend on Rob and her brothers. Now Rob had been dead for some fourteen months; his wide-jawed face and merry straight gaze and pomaded hair were beginning to be confused, to fade in recollection. When she thought of him, which was at least hourly, he seemed always to be mounted and riding rapidly away from her—she could see his back, she could not see his face, he did not turn around to wave in the saddle, he kept riding.
She wore her delicate hair drawn straight up from her brows, and coiled high, knotted with narrow black velvet ribbons. She had not curled her hair for over a year, and wondered whether she should ever curl it again. Her brows were slightly darker than her hair, and they arched in high bent bows, and were luxuriant, as were her dark lashes. She was the only one in the family with brown eyes
Her small tender laugh, the laugh he loved, but coming seldom nowadays.
Well, child, you can’t wear silk daily.
Oh, about the house I don’t mind—I’ve plenty of fixings for home use, unless we have callers. But when callers appear, or going to church, or just going to Americus— Now, I’ve the blue figured poplin I could dye; I’ve two cottons for summer wear which I’m sure would take it well—the blue sprigged on white, and the pink patterned walking gown we had made when I was at the Female Institute. You may remember it: all the girls were required to have them alike, and I surely never did like being all alike.
Ah. And now the uniform turns to black. For Georgians.
Father and daughter stood regarding each other mutely, and Lucy had paled at this observation which escaped him whether he wished it or no. She shrugged wearily, and he bent to kiss her on her high smooth forehead. I suppose there must be a great deal of black in other States. And at the North also, Poppy, she said in her soft voice.
Yes, yes. I’ve thought of that. He added hastily, Lucy child, I’d recommend the pink walking gown for the dye-vat, since it has an unhappy connotation of seminary days. I remember how miserable you were, forever begging to return home.
And at last you let me, like a dear sweet Poppy, and over Mother’s protestations. I regret it deeply, but I never could keep up that old French, and I promised faithfully.
You’re a dear good child, and you don’t need French. All you need is to go on being Lucy.
Thank you, sir. And I’ll take your advice about that little walking gown.
But who can do the trick for you? Ninny, Pet or Extra? Or does Naomi—?
Oh, you’ve forgotten what a remarkable dye-woman I did become in my very early youth. Before old Ruth died I learned heaps from her. I used to watch her by the hour—just plain fascinated by all the colors and the way things dripped. I wrote down some of her receipts on the blank leaves of Grandmamma’s cook book. I’ve explored carefully: we’ve all the necessaries for black. I’ll take Extra to do the dipping and fire-making; she’s mighty slow, but she doesn’t talk a body’s arm off like the other wenches. I just never can compel Ninny to remain quiet.
Three pounds of sumac, lime water, half a pound of copperas, two and one-half pounds of logwood . . . Lucy assembled her materials. She ordered Extra to prepare kettles and tubs under shade of the wash shed and to build up fires there. She needed blue vitriol also, for the silk, and bichromate of potash for both dresses; she knit her brows above the scales as she weighed the portions with care.
Lucy’s hair was not so fair as her mother’s, it was nearer the color of honey in the comb, and of fine texture. Rob Lamar used to insist that it was not a natural growth, that no hair could be so fine, that Lucy had ordered it from a shop maybe in Paris, France, and then had it sewn to her scalp. She could cry no longer, no tears were left to her to expend on Rob and her brothers. Now Rob had been dead for some fourteen months; his wide-jawed face and merry straight gaze and pomaded hair were beginning to be confused, to fade in recollection. When she thought of him, which was at least hourly, he seemed always to be mounted and riding rapidly away from her—she could see his back, she could not see his face, he did not turn around to wave in the saddle, he kept riding.
She wore her delicate hair drawn straight up from her brows, and coiled high, knotted with narrow black velvet ribbons. She had not curled her hair for over a year, and wondered whether she should ever curl it again. Her brows were slightly darker than her hair, and they arched in high bent bows, and were luxuriant, as were her dark lashes. She was the only one in the family with brown eyes
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