The Gown of Anyta
A Mothers Dress
Agnes sensed something amiss the moment she stepped over the threshold of the restaurant. The air felt too still for a Friday evening, the lighting too dim, and the waiters smile too forced. Edmund, ordinarily so composed, gripped her hand tightly.
“Your table,” the waiter gestured, and Agnes entered a small, candlelit alcove. Hundreds of flickering tapers cast dancing shadows across the snow-white linen. At the center stood an extravagant bouquet of deep red rosesher favorite. Soft music drifted from unseen corners.
“Edmund,” she breathed, “whats all this?”
Instead of answering, he sank to one knee, a ring glinting in his trembling fingers.
“Agnes Whitcombe,” he said solemnly, “Ive spent weeks trying to make this moment perfect. But I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. What matters iswill you marry me?”
She stared at his earnest face, the stubborn lock of hair falling over his brow, the hesitant smile, and felt her heart swell with unspoken tenderness.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course, yes!”
The ring slid onto her finger. Agnes nestled against Edmund, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, and thought*this* was happiness. Simple and bright as a summers day.
But their peace shattered within a week.
“What do you mean, youll handle it yourselves?” Edith Montague demanded, fussing with her hair. “This simply wont do! A wedding is serious businessit requires experience, a womans wisdom. Ive already secured a splendid venue”
“Mother,” Edmund interrupted gently, “were grateful, but we want to arrange everything ourselves.”
“Yourselves?” Edith crossed her arms. “You havent the faintest idea! My goddaughter”
Agnes watched in silence as her future mother-in-law paced the parlour. Edith spoke without pauseabout tradition, propriety, the importance of “keeping up appearances.” All the while, her sharp eyes darted about the room, as though cataloguing every flaw.
“Mother,” Edmund tried again, “weve chosen the venue. The White Jasminehave you heard of it?”
Edith winced as if struck. “*That* modern place? No, no, only The Grand Oak will do! The chandeliers, the linens! And the manageran old friend of mine”
“Mother.” Edmunds voice turned steel. “Were paying for the wedding ourselves. And well have it where *we* please.”
Edith stiffened, chin lifting. “Very well. But dont say I didnt warn you.”
She swept out, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and the promise of stormy days ahead.
“Im sorry,” Edmund murmured, pulling Agnes close. “Shes passionate.”
Agnes said nothing. A quiet voice whispered*this is only the beginning.*
And so it was.
The weeks that followed became an unending cycle of arguments, veiled criticisms, and subtle slights. Edith found fault in everythingthe floral arrangements, the seating plan, even the musicians.
“Peonies? In September?” She shook her head. “No, only white calla lilies! And the arch must be grander, more elegant. And the quartetgood heavens, surely youre not hiring amateurs? I know a splendid group from the Royal Academy”
Agnes clung to her patience. The only solace came from her own mother, Eleanor Whitcombesteady and wise.
“Dont dwell on it,” Eleanor would say whenever Agnes, drained from another clash, sought refuge in her home. “Its your day, your choice. Your future mother-in-law simply cant bear that her son has grown up.”
But the true tempest erupted over the cake.
“No, just *look*!” Edith brandished a confectioners catalogue. “Three tiers? Where are the sugar roses? The figurines?”
“Mother,” Edmund sighed, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple*?” Edith near wept. “Youd shame me before all of London? Let them whisper*the architects son serves a cake fit for a schoolhouse*?”
Agnes snapped.
“Mrs. Montague, lets be clear. This is *our* wedding. Not yours.”
Silence fell.
Edith blanched, then flushed, rising abruptly. “Well,” she muttered, “I see Im unwanted here. Do as you please!”
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled.
“Well,” Edmund exhaled, “thats that.”
Agnes said nothing. A heaviness settled in her chest.
Then, two days later, the unthinkable happened.
While at the bridal salon for her final fitting, Agnes overheard the manager on the phone:
“Yes, Mrs. Montague, your gown will be ready. Such a lovely shadeivory, almost like the brides”
Agness vision darkened. She fled the shop, forgetting her measurements, and with shaking fingers dialled her mother.
“Mum,” her voice broke, “shesshes bought a gown just like mine”
“Calm yourself,” Eleanors voice was firm. “Ill handle it.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
The line went dead.
Agnes stood in the street, despair rising. Three days remainedand she no longer wanted the wedding at all.
The morning dawned grey with rain. Agnes watched droplets streak the window, trying to still the tremor in her knees. Behind her, stylists bustled, their voices muffled as if through cotton.
“Agnes, hold still,” the hairdresser chided, wrestling an unruly curl.
Agnes froze. One thought consumed herwhat gown would Edith wear today?
“Darling!” Eleanor swept into the room. “Let me see you.”
Agnes turned. Her mother pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, my girlyoure breathtaking.”
“Mum,” Agnes caught her anxious glance, “did you?”
Eleanor only smiled mysteriously. “Trust me.”
At the registry office, Agnes barely registered the blur of music, vows, camera flashes. The ring resistedher fingers trembledbut at last, it slid home.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife!”
Their first kiss as newlyweds was distractedAgness eyes darted through the crowd, searching for an ivory gown.
But Edith was nowhere to be seen.
“Shell meet us at the restaurant,” Edmund whispered. “Said she was finishing her hair”
Agnes nodded. Dread coiled in her stomach.
The White Jasmine exceeded all expectationscrystal chandeliers, snow-white linens, cascades of blooms. For a moment, Agnes forgot her unease.
Thena black Rolls-Royce pulled up.
“Look,” Agnes clutched Edmunds arm.
Edith emerged. She wore the gownivory, beaded, nearly identical to the bridal dress.
But before she could take three steps, a waiter collided with her, a tray of dark red cherry sauce upending onto the silk.
“Oh, madam, *terribly* sorry!” He dabbed frantically. “How clumsy of me!”
Edith stood frozen, her face a portrait of thunderstruck fury. Agnes glanced at Eleanorwho was innocently adjusting a centrepiece, the barest smirk at her lips.
“Funny,” Edmund murmured suddenly. “Im almost glad it happened.”
Agnes stared.
He smiled ruefully. “Shes spent years controlling everything. Even todayshe couldnt resist outshining you.”
Agnes leaned into him.
The rain pattered softly outside, but inside, she felt a sudden, perfect calm.
Edith never returned to the reception. The newlyweds danced, laughed, embraced their joyutterly, blissfully happy.
As for the gown? Well, sometimes fate sets things right. Even if it takes a clumsy waiter, a mothers cleverness, and a splash of cherry sauce.
