Free Shattered Silk by Barbara Michaels

were the ones Mrs. Mac had supplied, on the care of antique textiles and the history of costume. At first it was only fear of the old lady's acerbic tongue that made Karen give up her favorite mysteries and romances, but before long she became genuinely fascinated. Her ability to conquer a new subject increased her shaky self-confidence. After all, research was what she had been trained to do; the basic methods were the same for any field. But in this case she could actually touch and feel the objects of her study, and apply the methods she read about. The clothes themselves thrilled her. It was not only their beauty and their charm that moved her, but a growing sense of identification with the past. "Jumping Jack" MacDougal had showered his pretty young bride with jewels and furs and lovely gowns, the best money could buy. As she and Karen sorted the clothing, Mrs. Mac's reminiscences brought to life a world that had been as remote to Karen as ancient Greece-the last lazy summer afternoon of aristocracy before the Great War.
    Mrs. Mac had worn the chiffon-and-lace evening dress at the captain's dinner on a 1913 voyage of the
Lusitania,
two years before the luxury liner was sunk by German bombs, precipitating the United States' entrance into the war. The black lace over oyster satin had attended the first performance of
The Three-Cornered Hat,
with Leonide Massine, at London's Alhambra Theatre in 1919. (And what, Karen wondered, had Jumping Jack thought of the ballet? Had he slept through it-had he snored?) The Schiaparelli suit, with huge hand mirrors in lieu of jacket buttons, had dazzled the dignitaries at FDR's first inaugural. Karen could almost see Mrs. Roosevelt's well-bred eyebrows rise at the sight of it. She felt as if she were touching history itself.
    Not that Mrs. MacDougal wasted time mourning her lost youth. The expectation of playing one last practical joke on her son had given her a burst of demonic energy; she dashed around the house chortling and chuckling and driving her assistants wild. Karen was not one of them; her offers of help had been politely refused, and she soon realized they were unnecessary.
    Though Mrs. Mac blandly denied it, she had obviously been planning the move for months. The larger, more valuable antiques were going into storage until their owner returned. If, as she cheerfully remarked, she survived the trip, she would then select the things she wanted to keep or give away. The rest would go to Sotheby's. Since an inventory had been kept up-to-date, this part of the moving process was relatively simple.
    What wasn't simple was the question of how to dispose of the thousands of less valuable odds and ends Mrs. MacDougal had accumulated over the years. These ranged from modern pottery to Spode and Royal Prussian dinnerware, from paperback novels to first editions-and included, of course the clothing and accessories. There were enough of the latter to stock a small shop in themselves-hats, shoes, handbags, scarves, gloves, belts, costume jewelry. Karen's last compunctions about taking them vanished when she saw the piles of discarded miscellany grow to mountainous proportions.
    The clothing dated from around 1910, when Mrs. Mac had attained debutante status-and a millionaire husband. However, several of her cronies had garments that had been stored away since their mothers' and grandmothers' day, and before long Ruth's neat little house resembled a flea market. Every wardrobe was full, the bedroom furniture was heaped with fabric, and dresses hung from temporary stands. Karen was glad Pat was not there to see it, and comment on it.
    Something else happened that week to stiffen Karen's sagging spirits-the arrival of a United Parcel man with several boxes. The surgical precision of the wrapping told Karen who had packed them; the folded corners of the paper looked as if they had been measured with a ruler and pressed with a hot iron. Inside one box was a typed note. It was cool and formal,