Confederates Don't Wear Couture by Stephanie Kate Strohm

time,” I countered, eyeing him suspiciously. “You know that, right?”
    â€œI’m just saying—what happens in 1861
stays
in 1861.”

two
    Unlike Dev, I still believed my boyfriend existed. Even if he hadn’t answered his phone last night. Or this morning. I’d sneaked out early, hiding behind the tent in nothing but my pantalets and chemise, because that was all I could put on unassisted. But even after a good fifteen minutes of frantically, furtively dialing, there was still no response.
    Last night Beau had moved our small trunks into the tent, before putting our suitcases and the boxes of clothes Dev had shipped to Alabama in the back of his truck. After hugging us goodbye, Tammy had left us in Beau’s capable hands. He seemed nice enough, if a bit shy, as he showed us around the camp and into our tent. We’d only unpacked enough stuff to last us for the day, as we’d be leaving the instruction camp for our first battle, and our first selling opportunity, almost immediately. Everything else stayed in the truck. Cars seemed to be the major repositories of anything non-period around here. Well, and the Confederate Memorial Park Visitors Center, of course, which held the major non-period item I was interested in: the bathroom. Everyone else seemed perfectly content to pee in the woods, and while I’d been on enough family camping trips that I didn’t have a problem with that, if there was an actual flushing toilet, I was going to use it. However, I had yet to discover a shower anywhere, a situation that was far more troubling.
    The camp was a little village of white pup tents, small canvas structures weather-beaten by the sun. Most of the tents were only wide enough for each soldier to place a pallet on the floor, but ours was one of the more luxurious ones, like the officers had. It was big enough to fit two narrow cots with a stack of small trunks containing our day-to-day personal items and clothing between them. Tammy had been kind enough to make sure we had quilts, instead of the scratchy woolen army blankets; two lumpy cotton pillows (another luxury); and a tin pitcher and basin for washing up, which were balanced on top of the stack of trunks. When it was time to go into business, Beau had explained, we’d set up a bigger awning in front of our sleeping tent to display our wares.
    â€œCoffee,” Dev moaned, as I slipped back into the tent, sitting up in his cot. “Coffee!” He rubbed his temples.
    â€œHelp me get dressed, and we’ll go get some.” I picked up my corset and held it out to him.
    â€œUh-uh,” he grunted as he got out of bed and stumbled toward me. “Coffee first.” He stumbled straight past me and out of the tent, clad in nothing but his cream-colored union suit.
    I held my corset under my armpits in the ready position, waiting impatiently. Dev might have been fine wandering around camp in his long underwear, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to prance around in front of strangers in nineteenth-century lingerie.
    Dev returned a few minutes later, clutching a tin cup. He took a sip, then immediately spat it out, spraying me with a fine mist.
    â€œEeuw, Dev, gross!” I tried to shield myself from getting coffee on my corset.
    â€œWhat . . . the hell . . . is that,” he said tersely.
    â€œI don’t know—coffee?” I brushed little brown drops off my arms. “Oh, gross, gross, gross.”
    â€œThat”—he pointed an accusing finger at the cup—“is
not
coffee.”
    â€œFine, fine, it’s not coffee.” I hopped closer, putting my back directly in front of him. “Please help me clothe myself, and we’ll figure it out, okay?”
    â€œOkay.” Dev nodded, seemingly galvanized into action. “Okay.” He put the cup down on top of his trunk. “You stay there, Satan’s brew,” he instructed the cup, and hurriedly laced me up. I was