“AT ASHEVILLE!—For two days past the Iron Horse had made his regular trip to Asheville depot…, It is a great event, this opening of railway facilities to the heart of the mountain region.”

The Farmer and Mechanic

The dressmaker probably saw every kind of bride—joyful, nervous, excited, even frightened, yet rarely two sisters on the same day and seldom ones of our advanced age. At thirty years old, I’d long since abandoned the idea of marriage. The War had ended when I was thirteen and with battlefields turned to cemeteries, the marriage prospects in the South had dimmed considerably. I didn’t favor the title spinster, but I valued my independence. Especially now, as it slipped from my grasp.

“Shorter, Miss Harris?” Miss Shackton asked. “You might wear it after the wedding.” 

“Yes, thank you. It’ll make a fine church dress.” My cheeks warmed at the suggestion for thrift. My thoughts thundered over my family’s losses. A hastily arranged marriage to a man I barely knew was my only option.

While Miss Shackton circled to pin the dress’s hem, my eyes swept the neatly kept shop. It was narrow, not two wagons’ breadth across, with a front counter crafted from a rich, dark slab of wood laid on top of postmaster shelving. The many nooks and crannies held the dressmaker’s tools of the trade: threads, spools, pin cushions, bolts of fabric, scissors, and more. The orderliness soothed me.

“I’m almost finished here. Be with you in a minute,” Miss Shackton announced to my sister. 

Jennie slumped on a faded settee and dabbed her eyes with a damp handkerchief. She’d always been delicate and our rushed marriages, and that of our two sisters, Louise and Ina, didn’t help. From my earliest years, I’d taken care of Jennie and my other siblings, filling in where our mother and father had fallen short. Who would look after my sister? The shop’s mirror reflected my sour expression.

 Jennie twisted her kerchief. “It’s getting late. I could come back another day.”

The dressmaker opened her mouth to reply, but my words stabbed the space between us. 

“There’s no getting around it, Jennie. Best get it done.” My eyes prickled. I exhaled long and hard. 

A fire in the corner wood stove pushed away the late winter draft seeping under the front door. The shop’s exposed brick walls held no adornment, not a picture nor sign nor frame, which told me more about the seamstress than the organized tools. The storefront faced Asheville’s Main Street, and I watched passersby through the wide front window embellished with Custom Tailoring, Elizabeth Shackton, Proprietress.

I’d never met a woman with her own business. How liberating it must be to earn one’s own way, to not depend on a man to provide. The young seamstress circled the fabric, billowing against the wooden floorboards with deliberate, efficient movements. She was girlish with her curly golden hair and a modest dress of blue-striped cotton. Her only decoration was the various pins and needles poking out of a wrist cushion. 

The bell jingled as the shop door swung open, drawing in the smell of the livery stable across the road, the noises of the street traffic, and a composed young woman. Her pale, smooth hands held a stack of papers. I clutched my rough, sun-worn hands behind my back.

“Good day, Miss Elizabeth. I’ve brought the flyers for the meeting.”

“Good day as well, Miss Margaret,” Elizabeth said. “You might put them on the counter. I’ll get them out this evening.” She stood and smoothed her skirt. 

Margaret’s peculiar dialect piqued my curiosity. I glanced between the dressmaker and her acquaintance until Elizabeth put her work aside and introduced us.

“Miss Alice Harris and Miss Jennie Harris, Miss Margaret Petersen of Boston, Massachusetts.” We exchanged curtsies and smiles.

“Shall I read it to you?” Margaret asked.

The sudden coloring of Elizabeth’s cheeks startled me. Many didn’t know their letters, but I expected a woman in business to read.

“The Women’s Home Missionary Society Meeting, Wednesday, seven o’clock at the Methodist Church. Come support efforts to fund public schools.” Margaret Petersen looked at me. “Are you a supporter, Miss Harris?”

I’d scarcely thought about promoting public education. The War had curtailed my schooling. In those years when I should have walked the red-earth road to the country schoolhouse, I kept our household together and our inn running—until I couldn’t. At the end of the War, with the schoolhouse burned down and our family scraping by, my father’s concern for our education had gone by the wayside. Our hardship forced Jennie and me on a singular path toward financial security—marriage. With a better education, we’d have had more choices.

“I support your efforts, Miss Petersen.” I also welcomed a diversion from our wedding preparations. “Jennie, we must attend the meeting.”

“Thank you, Miss Petersen, for the invitation,” Jennie said. “Alice, we’d best speak with family before we commit.” My sister clasped her trembling hands behind her back.

“Cousin Mary will be asleep not long after dessert,” I said. “We are two engaged women in each other’s company. I shall chaperone you and you me.” I accepted a flyer from Miss Petersen. “We’ll meet you there at seven tomorrow evening.”

Jennie’s eyebrows rose in response. I recalled her reproachful words three days ago, when we’d left our home for Asheville.

Jennie had jutted out her chin. “Honestly, Alice, you’re only four years older than me.”

“And?”

“And it means you expect to have your way, whether seeing to the packing, scheduling our trip, or getting the first pick of our grooms.” Jennie had crossed her arms and refused to talk to me for the rest of the carriage ride. I’d ignored the outburst, knowing time and distance soothed her best. Clearly, she was bitter about marrying the older of the two men.

The dressmaker’s suggestion brought me back to the invitation at hand. “You might come for the last fitting at six o’clock, then we’d go to the meeting together,” she said. 

“We’d be delighted, Miss Shackton.” I excused myself to the curtained-off area to change. After Jennie had her wedding dress fitted, we left the shop arm in arm.

My sister’s exasperation didn’t last, and I chose a roundabout way to our cousin’s home. Jennie and I were free to stroll on our own under the open sky, unencumbered by wedding dresses, obligations, and demands. We sauntered over to Court Square, its stately green stretching before the Buncombe County courthouse and the heart of the city. Our long hems swished across the stone paths toward a commemorative plaque announcing Israel Baird’s land grant to the city.

“Smell that mountain air,” a tall man in a bowler hat said to the woman on his arm.

She let out a sigh of satisfaction. “This is truly—what is that wonderful expression one hears? The land of the sky.”

I hadn’t read the novel, but I recognized the famous title the railroad used to advertise Asheville.

“Now it is,” the man stressed and dropped his voice. “It wasn’t long ago they sold slaves on those very steps.” His outstretched arm pointed toward the courthouse entry. The woman’s lips curled in distaste.

The imposing courthouse towered over the square, a focal point with its distinctive curved roofline and wrought-iron widow’s walk. I marveled at the three-arched entry and the way the masons repeated the curves atop each window. Where these visitors dwelled in the past, I glimpsed the city’s growth and bright future.

“A despicable trade.” The woman held her palm under her bosom. The couple glided away.

“I think Mr. Baird would hardly recognize Asheville.” Jennie snorted.

“Not the disapproving visitors, nor their unusual fashions.” I eyed the woman’s oversized bustle from a distance. I was glad I didn’t wear a garment emphasizing my backside. The visible boning of the woman’s corset squeezed her waistline into an unnatural smallness that pained me. I pulled in my stomach.

We wandered the stone pathways, bare and wet from the afternoon warmth after last night’s dusting of snow. Constant noise plied the busy thoroughfares, with wagons rumbling, horse hooves clopping, people chatting, vendors shouting, and shop doors jingling.

Asheville showed off sturdy brick structures built to last, planked roadways, and crowds of people dressed in their finest. In contrast, my family’s land presented falling down farm buildings, empty roads, and the pinched together necessities of our home. Asheville’s progress distracted me from the countryside’s demise, or maybe I should say, our family’s ruin. In admiring the city, I avoided considering my role in our downfall.

“I bet that woman has a lady-in-waiting and doesn’t fix her own hair or attach her own hat.”

“Alice, that’s petty.” Jennie gave me a conspiratorial smile. “But true.” 

I was determined to squeeze out these last moments with Jennie. In a fortnight, my younger sister would move with her husband to Hendersonville, several hours away from my new home in Democrat, North Carolina. She’d been my constant companion in running our household and my confidante. I would miss her terribly. Our linked arms held fast to one another.

People hurried between storefronts, ducking under the colorful awnings shading the shops’ interiors. Many windows above street level were cracked open, ventilating the upper level warehousing space or living areas.

Our time in town freed us from our cousin’s great interest in our comings and goings. I’d explained more than once, we were engaged to be married, as we had the licenses. However, our mother’s cousin, Mary, viewed us as single women needing her guardianship, since the banns hadn’t been read as they would have been in her day.

“The town is bustling,” I said.

“Yes,” Jennie murmured.

“And Miss Shackton and Miss Petersen are most interesting.”

“Hm.”

My arm tensed to keep a hold of my sister, to stop her from drifting away. Jennie’s spells came unexpectedly. No, that wasn’t right. Jennie distanced herself when I pulled too hard, pushed too much. Unfortunately, that was my nature.

Our grandmother often reminded Jennie that a lady should be quiet, not aloof. She’d taught Jennie fine stitching to keep her present in company. Without an embroidery hoop to thrust in her hand, I challenged my sister. “Oh Jennie, you’ve barely said a word since the betrothals.” 

Her words poured forth like a broken dam. “Our family is broken apart. Ina already married and gone to South Carolina. What will become of us?” Jennie choked back tears.

I pulled Jennie to a park bench and gave her my handkerchief. My sister’s light blue eyes were her best feature, both for their color and the ability to see the good in every situation. Apparently, that attribute was hard to muster today. The question she posed, I’d asked myself countless times. I’d sustained our family through the years, but I couldn’t figure out how to do so now. If I couldn’t hold my family together, how would I do so with another?

“Hendersonville is not far away from Democrat and we’ll visit one another. The beginning of new families isn't the end of our family.” I almost convinced myself. I stood and brushed off my skirt. It was an act of stoicism I believed I’d perfected. Jennie wouldn’t have noticed the tears I’d shed at night, and I pretended not to hear her quiet sobs as she wept in the darkness of our shared bed.