Cynthia glanced at her husband, a troubled look on her face as if to express her continued concern over the departing woman. However, she said nothing in deference to Edith Shipton's son who remained engrossed with his puzzle. Cynthia took Edith's place on the sofa and began folding the ancient underwear. "I hope the Boston sisters find some use for theses awful things. The dress is pretty but I can't imagine having to wear these undies!"
"'I dreamed I married a minister in my-.'"
"Be nice," Cynthia cautioned, cutting off her husband.
Dean thought of a few more snappy comebacks but kept the rest of his thoughts to himself in front of Donnie. He just smiled at Cynthia, who could read his mind. He began helping her by handing her the clothes. "What's this thing-a-ma-jig called?" he asked, picking up one of the items.
"It's a chemise," Cynthia answered, folding yet another article. "This is a camisole. And I think you best keep your thoughts to yourself."
"It's enough to make Victoria really keep a secret."
"Gentlemen don't stare at ladies' unmentionables."
"I'm only interested in the historical implications," he said.
Fred left the room and returned with a pencil and pad. "I best make an inventory of this stuff before I turn it over to the ladies. That way, when they see how many items they're getting, they'll realize what a bargain I'm giving 'em."
"Right," said Dean, with a wink to his wife.
"Didn't the Boston ladies have any interest in the other items you're donating to the museum?" Cynthia asked, picking up the brush.
"I didn't offer 'em. But I'll show the stuff to them, seeing as it all belonged to their Auntie." Then he added, "I've got to stay on the good side of them museum folks. They're a big help in my business."
"You can say that again," Dean said, and added, "if they found a couple of live ones willing to pay for this junk!" He raised what looked like a pantaloon. "These ought to be a real crowd pleaser." Then he noticed something. "Hey, she has her name in it!" In the top seam, faded but legible, was written Annie in very small print. Both Fred and Cynthia looked over Dean's shoulder and agreed. They examined the rest of the garments and each, upon careful observation, was identified in a like fashion, although some of the markings were so faded they were no longer legible.
"Why would a woman write her name in her underwear?" Dean asked. "Was she afraid her hubby might wear her drawers by mistake?"
Cynthia looked perplexed. "All I can think of is perhaps she sent her clothes out to a laundry and didn't want them mixed up."