Confession time: I’ve always wanted a Regency gown.
Even while falling for Colin Firth’s Darcy, I couldn’t help coveting all of Elizabeth’s outfits. The fabrics! The spencers! I swooned over those just as much as I swooned over wet-shirted Darcy. But given that my books aren’t set in the Regency, I never could find a good excuse why I should have my own gown.
Until last fall, while registering for this year’s Historical Novel Society North American conference, I noticed this announcement in the schedule:
"After the Saturday banquet, the party continues with a Regency Masquerade Ball…"
And a Regency Masquerade Ball seemed the perfect excuse to acquire a gown.
I was sorting through my options when, in January—right around my birthday, as it happens—I went onto the Ruby Lane site to look for examples of early 18th century pocket watches, as one does. For a writer like me, Ruby Lane is a wonderful resource because it gathers together physical historical objects in a neatly searchable site, so even though I may not be able to put down the $18,600 needed to buy a 17th century silver skull pomander pendant, if I want to know what one looks like, I can access the photos to my heart’s content.
Anyhow, on this particular day in January, by some chance or other, I came across a listing for “6.5 yards of Georgian unused silk moire fabric” with a photo so pretty it stopped me in my tracks.
Duck egg blue is just one of those colours that has this effect on me.
“This,” said the listing, “was clearly bought and never made up. Perfect condition. Enough to make a perfect re-enactment dress.”
The shop selling the fabric was near Swindon, in Wiltshire, England, very close to where I’d set my novel Mariana, so I chose to take this as a Sign.
Reader, I purchased it. (For less than I spend on groceries each week).
And over the next month I had a terrific time sourcing out ribbons and buttons and feathers and other antique bits and pieces on Etsy, and finding a pattern (Laughing Moon Mercantile's Pattern #126).
I also ordered a shift and short stays from the woman who’d made my much loved 18th century gown, at Fashions Revisited (Many thanks to my friend Elizabeth Boyle for taking this blackmail-grade photo of me in my undies…)
Then I took the whole kit and caboodle downtown here, to the people who had years ago reworked my mother’s wedding dress so I could wear it for my own wedding. And Emily, my seamstress fairy godmother, made me my gown.
It turns out that she, too, had fallen in love with Elizabeth Bennet's wardrobe, and had always wanted to make a Regency gown. She made me two, in fact, because before she felt confident enough to cut into the Georgian silk she first made a full practice gown out of linen (I got to keep that one, too).
Here she is working on the real thing (if you look closely you can see the photos from the Bath Museum that we used as a guide in designing the fancier parts of my gown).
We also referred to fashion plates of the time, which were not only useful but also absolutely charming.
Because the unknown woman who originally bought “my” duck egg blue silk back in the early 1800s was probably much less round than I am, we ended up having a very small section at the back that needed to be filled in with new silk instead, and thanks to the fashion plates Emily had the idea to make me a bit of a train so the new-blue-almost-but-not-quite-matching silk wouldn’t stand out so sharply from the old, but would instead look as if it was meant to be a little different.
The end result was more than I had hoped for.
Here I am at the ball, in the company of the lovely Anna Michels, who edits for my American publisher Sourcebooks. (I made the turban hat myself, to hide my very un-Regency hair). No Mr. Darcy in sight, but he wasn’t missed. I had my very own Regency gown, and I found that sufficiently swoon-worthy.
Does anyone else have a thing for old clothing? Any favourite time periods or styles?
