Genre Fiction
![Jennifer Ryan - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_jennifer_ryan.jpg)
The Wedding Dress Sewing Circle: A Novel
Three plucky women lift the spirits of home-front brides in wartime Britain, where clothes rationing leaves little opportunity for pomp or celebration-even at weddings-in this heartwarming novel based on true events, from the bestselling author of The Chilbury Ladies' Choir.
After renowned fashion designer Cressida Westcott loses both her home and her design house in the London Blitz, she has nowhere to go but the family manor house she fled decades ago. Praying that her niece and nephew will be more hospitable than her brother had been, she arrives with nothing but the clothes she stands in, at a loss as to how to rebuild her business while staying in a quaint country village.
Her niece, Violet Westcott, is thrilled that her famous aunt is coming to stay-the village has been interminably dull with all the men off fighting. But just as Cressida arrives, so does Violet's conscription letter. It couldn't have come at a worse time; how will she ever find a suitably aristocratic husband if she has to spend her days wearing a frumpy uniform and doing war work?
Meanwhile, the local vicar's daughter, Grace Carlisle, is trying in vain to repair her mother's gown, her only chance of a white wedding. When Cressida Westcott appears at the local Sewing Circle meeting, Grace asks for her help-but Cressida has much more to teach the ladies than just simple sewing skills.
Before long, Cressida's spirit and ambition galvanizes the village group into action, and they find themselves mending wedding dresses not only for local brides, but for brides across the country. And as the women dedicate themselves to helping others celebrate love, they might even manage to find it for themselves.
After renowned fashion designer Cressida Westcott loses both her home and her design house in the London Blitz, she has nowhere to go but the family manor house she fled decades ago. Praying that her niece and nephew will be more hospitable than her brother had been, she arrives with nothing but the clothes she stands in, at a loss as to how to rebuild her business while staying in a quaint country village.
Her niece, Violet Westcott, is thrilled that her famous aunt is coming to stay-the village has been interminably dull with all the men off fighting. But just as Cressida arrives, so does Violet's conscription letter. It couldn't have come at a worse time; how will she ever find a suitably aristocratic husband if she has to spend her days wearing a frumpy uniform and doing war work?
Meanwhile, the local vicar's daughter, Grace Carlisle, is trying in vain to repair her mother's gown, her only chance of a white wedding. When Cressida Westcott appears at the local Sewing Circle meeting, Grace asks for her help-but Cressida has much more to teach the ladies than just simple sewing skills.
Before long, Cressida's spirit and ambition galvanizes the village group into action, and they find themselves mending wedding dresses not only for local brides, but for brides across the country. And as the women dedicate themselves to helping others celebrate love, they might even manage to find it for themselves.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for The Kitchen Front
"A charming tale that will satiate a lot of different tastes . . . This story had me so hooked, I literally couldn't put it down to cook."-NPR
"World War II–era England wasn't a happy place, but one can always find joy in cake and tea. . . . Four women, who have different reasons for competing, take solace in one another as they create recipes out of rationed ingredients. It's like re-watching old episodes of The Great British Baking Show."-The Washington Post
"A positively uplifting read that is as soothing as a warm cup of Earl Grey on a gloomy morning."-Booklist
Praise for The Spies of Shilling Lane
"This tale swept me away!"-First for Women
"[A] quick and delightful mystery . . . Ryan's subtlety shines in her acknowledgment of the importance of remembering the people who pass through our lives and in her descriptions of how war and conflict can teach empathy and change people for the better."-The New York Times Book Review
Praise for The Chilbury Ladies' Choir
"A delightful debut."-People
"There's so much happening in Chilbury: intrigue, romance and an unforgettable cast of characters who aren't always as they appear. The Chilbury Ladies' Choir is a charming slice of English wartime life that warms the soul like a hot toddy."-Martha Hall Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of Lilac Girls
"A charming tale that will satiate a lot of different tastes . . . This story had me so hooked, I literally couldn't put it down to cook."-NPR
"World War II–era England wasn't a happy place, but one can always find joy in cake and tea. . . . Four women, who have different reasons for competing, take solace in one another as they create recipes out of rationed ingredients. It's like re-watching old episodes of The Great British Baking Show."-The Washington Post
"A positively uplifting read that is as soothing as a warm cup of Earl Grey on a gloomy morning."-Booklist
Praise for The Spies of Shilling Lane
"This tale swept me away!"-First for Women
"[A] quick and delightful mystery . . . Ryan's subtlety shines in her acknowledgment of the importance of remembering the people who pass through our lives and in her descriptions of how war and conflict can teach empathy and change people for the better."-The New York Times Book Review
Praise for The Chilbury Ladies' Choir
"A delightful debut."-People
"There's so much happening in Chilbury: intrigue, romance and an unforgettable cast of characters who aren't always as they appear. The Chilbury Ladies' Choir is a charming slice of English wartime life that warms the soul like a hot toddy."-Martha Hall Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of Lilac Girls
Short Excerpt Teaser
GRACE CARLISLE
The Vicarage, Aldhurst Village, England
January 1942
"I found it!" the Reverend Ben Carlisle's voice called from the attic. Grace felt her breath catch as she dashed across the vicarage landing to see him come down, a long, flat box held ceremoniously in his arms, a bittersweet smile on his face.
"Where was it?" she breathed.
"It was hidden in a corner behind some boxes of books." Her father's black trousers and shirt were flecked with dust, the edge of his white vicar's collar smeared with dirt, but he still looked good for almost fifty, Grace thought, with his tall frame and his dark hair silvering at the sides.
"Bring it into my bedroom," Grace said as she raced ahead of him, tidying the small bed in the corner, smoothing down the quilt her mother had made for her. "I can't believe you found it after all these years."
He put the box onto the bed. "She always hoped you'd wear her wedding dress."
Even ten years after her death, his eyes still betrayed his grief. Grace worried about him, sitting alone in his study, distancing himself from not just his parish but the world. Already battling shell shock from the last war, her father had been brought so low in his grief after her mother's death that Grace had had to take on much of his parish work, organizing weddings and funerals, baking loaves at harvest, and setting up the nativity for Christmas. She'd also taken on his parish visits, looking after the sick or bereaved, helping the poor, fitting them around her job with Mrs. Bisgood at the village shop. The villagers were sympathetic about his seclusion, but Grace fretted over what would happen to the parish once she left for her marital home.
"Open it, then," he urged.
As she pulled off the box lid, the gleam of ivory satin shone brightly from beneath. "Oh, it's beautiful!"
"Take it out," her father said. "Let's have a look at it."
As Grace pulled the length of shining fabric from the box, a cloud of dust and particles cascaded into the air, a flurry of soft wings bursting out as a dozen moths swept around her bedroom in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight.
She let out a gasp, her gaze shifting from the whirlwind back to the dress, beholding the fitted bodice decorated with glistening pearls. "Oh goodness, it must be pure satin."
While he budged open the window in the eaves to let the moths out, her father said, "I hope they haven't eaten the whole thing."
Grace brought the dress up to hold against her tall, willowy form, walking over to see herself in the mirror.
She was speechless.
The dress was truly magnificent. A length of ivory satin swept to the floor, decorated with intricate embroidery of trailing, entwined roses, carefully stitched with tiny pearl beads, giving it the shimmering, polished look of a top couturier's design. The part above the satin bodice was covered with lace, allowing the breast bones and shoulders to be delicately visible beneath. The long sleeves too were lace, showing the color and contours of the skin beneath.
"But do I live up to it?" Grace's hand went to her thin, lank hair. With all her parish work, she never had time to set it properly, not that she could ever get it to hold a curl. "I hope Lawrence will like it."
At twenty-four, she'd almost given up hope of marriage, especially since she had such a small circle of friends and rarely left the village. She was plain, her slight, boyish frame only emphasized by her taller than average height, and she had a habit of hunching her back, of trying to make herself smaller, less conspicuous. She'd always felt that no one would ever want someone like her, and so, with every passing year, she'd plowed ever more of her energy into her work in the parish.
Until the former curate, Lawrence Fairgrave, proposed.
"He'll think you look mesmerizing; that's what I thought when I saw your mother wearing it." Her father stood back, watching her. "I never did find out how your mother came to have such a lovely gown. I suppose I was too busy in those first days of married life, and then it was packed away in the attic and I forgot all about it."
"How wonderful to be married in the same dress as her! It'll be as if she's here with me every step up the aisle." Grace brought the fabric to her face, smelling it for her mother's perfume, any semblance of her soft warmth. It was there, even if Grace only imagined it.
In the delight of the moment, neither of them mentioned the obvious.
The moths had eaten through large swaths of the delicate lace across the shoulders, leaving it hanging from the seams. One of the sleeves was held together only by threads, and parts of the ...
The Vicarage, Aldhurst Village, England
January 1942
"I found it!" the Reverend Ben Carlisle's voice called from the attic. Grace felt her breath catch as she dashed across the vicarage landing to see him come down, a long, flat box held ceremoniously in his arms, a bittersweet smile on his face.
"Where was it?" she breathed.
"It was hidden in a corner behind some boxes of books." Her father's black trousers and shirt were flecked with dust, the edge of his white vicar's collar smeared with dirt, but he still looked good for almost fifty, Grace thought, with his tall frame and his dark hair silvering at the sides.
"Bring it into my bedroom," Grace said as she raced ahead of him, tidying the small bed in the corner, smoothing down the quilt her mother had made for her. "I can't believe you found it after all these years."
He put the box onto the bed. "She always hoped you'd wear her wedding dress."
Even ten years after her death, his eyes still betrayed his grief. Grace worried about him, sitting alone in his study, distancing himself from not just his parish but the world. Already battling shell shock from the last war, her father had been brought so low in his grief after her mother's death that Grace had had to take on much of his parish work, organizing weddings and funerals, baking loaves at harvest, and setting up the nativity for Christmas. She'd also taken on his parish visits, looking after the sick or bereaved, helping the poor, fitting them around her job with Mrs. Bisgood at the village shop. The villagers were sympathetic about his seclusion, but Grace fretted over what would happen to the parish once she left for her marital home.
"Open it, then," he urged.
As she pulled off the box lid, the gleam of ivory satin shone brightly from beneath. "Oh, it's beautiful!"
"Take it out," her father said. "Let's have a look at it."
As Grace pulled the length of shining fabric from the box, a cloud of dust and particles cascaded into the air, a flurry of soft wings bursting out as a dozen moths swept around her bedroom in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight.
She let out a gasp, her gaze shifting from the whirlwind back to the dress, beholding the fitted bodice decorated with glistening pearls. "Oh goodness, it must be pure satin."
While he budged open the window in the eaves to let the moths out, her father said, "I hope they haven't eaten the whole thing."
Grace brought the dress up to hold against her tall, willowy form, walking over to see herself in the mirror.
She was speechless.
The dress was truly magnificent. A length of ivory satin swept to the floor, decorated with intricate embroidery of trailing, entwined roses, carefully stitched with tiny pearl beads, giving it the shimmering, polished look of a top couturier's design. The part above the satin bodice was covered with lace, allowing the breast bones and shoulders to be delicately visible beneath. The long sleeves too were lace, showing the color and contours of the skin beneath.
"But do I live up to it?" Grace's hand went to her thin, lank hair. With all her parish work, she never had time to set it properly, not that she could ever get it to hold a curl. "I hope Lawrence will like it."
At twenty-four, she'd almost given up hope of marriage, especially since she had such a small circle of friends and rarely left the village. She was plain, her slight, boyish frame only emphasized by her taller than average height, and she had a habit of hunching her back, of trying to make herself smaller, less conspicuous. She'd always felt that no one would ever want someone like her, and so, with every passing year, she'd plowed ever more of her energy into her work in the parish.
Until the former curate, Lawrence Fairgrave, proposed.
"He'll think you look mesmerizing; that's what I thought when I saw your mother wearing it." Her father stood back, watching her. "I never did find out how your mother came to have such a lovely gown. I suppose I was too busy in those first days of married life, and then it was packed away in the attic and I forgot all about it."
"How wonderful to be married in the same dress as her! It'll be as if she's here with me every step up the aisle." Grace brought the fabric to her face, smelling it for her mother's perfume, any semblance of her soft warmth. It was there, even if Grace only imagined it.
In the delight of the moment, neither of them mentioned the obvious.
The moths had eaten through large swaths of the delicate lace across the shoulders, leaving it hanging from the seams. One of the sleeves was held together only by threads, and parts of the ...
