My Collection, Inside Out: The 1874 Kate Pendergast Dress

Turning Coats and Staring at the Seams

The interiors of antique garments are somewhat of a mystery, yet the hidden innards of a piece are the secret behind its good looks. For the majority of the population (including me, often times), antique garment construction is an alien science.  Museums and auction houses take many beautiful pictures of the outside of garments, but there is nary a shot of the lining. No matter how enchanting the outside, the real magic is found on the inside.

I own a tiny, personal collection of antique and vintage garments dating from the mid-19th century to mid-20th century. They’ve opened up a whole new world to explore when it comes to understanding shape, fabric, and sewing techniques. I am by no means an expert on sewing, but being able to examine the inner workings of a dress is an enormous help in understanding the hows and whys of historical silhouettes.

Here, for example, is my New Year’s project, the Kate Pendergast Dress. This post is going to be a doozy because we’ve got a whole dress (bodice/skirt combo) to cover!


The Kate Pendergast Dress, circa 1874

Bust: 32.5 inches
Waist: 26 inches


Back of the Kate Pendergast Dress, circa 1874

This dress is made for tan silk as the main color. The brown is only slightly faded on the bodice, but is otherwise in immaculate condition!Fashion details (the stuff outside) include dark brown silk buttons, a lace collar and cuffs, and a slight “peplum” that flares out to cover the top of the skirt. The sleeves are classic mid-Victorian and cut with a slight curve (similar to an 18th century men’s waistcoat).


This is about as close as I could get to an accurate color portrayal. My camera drowned a while ago and has never been the same since. So the wild variance in color is due to the fact that I am using a zombie camera to take pictures…  

I do not have an 1870s bustle, so this dress is displayed over an improvised device made from a broomstick skirt and a 1970s couch pillow embroidered with frolicking kittens. The dress should flare more at the hem and is missing it signature element: the overskirt bustle. So, bear that in mind when checking out the shape.


The lace collar, like most, is only basted in place so it could be changed or washed.

Detail of the collar showing the pin-holes left behind from using a brooch to close the top of the bodice. Almost all Victorian ladies owned at least one small throat pin. (Here is a photograph of Princess Maria Antonietta modeling such a pin on her 1870s bodice.)
Since I took these pictures, I have repaired the broken, missing top button and sewn it back in place!


Side view: Kate Pendergast Dress, circa 1874

The dress is missing its overskirt. Since it is missing it’s overskirt, the skirt’s glazed cotton lining is revealed before even turning it inside out. It was quite common to save precious, expensive fashion fabric by leaving plain the portion of the underskirt usually covered by the bustle. I am currently working on finding a suitable silk or silk-like fabric in the right shade of brown to replace the MIA overskirt.


Gotta love $1.50 lace bargains!

However, I was fortunate enough to find some passable matching lace which, after a light dye bath, I can add to the edges of the (theoretical) overskirt to tie the look together!


Cotton Tape Label reading “Kate Pendergast 1874”

When I purchased this dress off of eBay, besides missing the overskirt, it was listed with minimal details and a note that it was “possibly 1880s” in style. I was so excited when I finally received it and discovered that the inside is labeled with the name Kate Pendergast and dated 1874! I do not know if this label is referring to the original owner or if it is a “stage label” for a theatrical production (it’s not unusual to find period pieces that have been used later for plays). I like to think that it is the former. This dress is very much 1870s in style: the underskirt still has lots of volume, the bodice shape is rounded with a short waist and the sleeves are shaped, but not tightly fitted. Before I show you more of the inside, here’s a brief comparison between fashions in 1874 and ten years later in 1884:

June fashions by The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, circa 1874

This fashion plate is from the same year as the Kate dress! Notice how “fluffy” everything is. 1870s dresses fit more loosely, echoing the idea that they were once crinoline skirts that were gathered up at the back instead of poofed out all the way. They usually involve only 2 or 3 colors/patterns maximum. Fashion advice columns and magazines of the day frowned on the use of too many variances in color and texture, but encouraged ladies to use self and contrasted fabrics in a plethora of ingenious ways. If you love to color-coordinate, the 1870s is your era! Notice the rounded-yet-triangular shape of the waist and how it sits right in the middle of the torso, near most folks’ natural waists. The Kate dress would look very similar in shape to these idealized dresses if it still had its flouncy overskirt (I’m working on it, promise!).

Dinner Dresses, circa 1883-86

Shoot forward ten years, and you encounter the bustle again, but this time the emphasis is less on color and more on structure and texture. Trim explodes everywhere and color combinations, while not fully incongruous, are not as matchy-matchy as the 1870s. Instead of using the same fabrics to trim self-trim, fashionable ladies would use an material that coordinated with their color scheme. Asymmetry came into play as well, while 1870s gowns were usually more symmetrical. The biggest difference is fit. Notice how much tighter fitting the 1880s dress is. The smallest part of the waist is just above the hips instead of in the center of the torso. High, stiffened collars replaced the looser ruffle collars of the decade before. Instead of beginning at the direct back of the dress like a gathered train, the bustle in 1884 was specifically shaped into a shelf-like construction. Many 1870s gowns were actually re-fashioned into the newer shape since the yardage was already there. Because of this, it’s such a treat to find an 1870s gown in this condition without any major alterations!

Anyway, back to 1874 and its construction secrets!


Inside out: the front of the 1874 Kate Pendergast Dress

This shot shows the entire dress turned inside out. The whole piece is lined in that ubiquitous brown glazed cotton except for the bodice torso, which is made from solid brown broadcloth. The selvedge edges of the silk fashion fabric are turned inside. The bottom edge is faux-piped.


Inside front of the 1874 Dress Bodice

Notice the how little boning there is in this bodice compared to the 1890s red bodice. There are very few bones in this piece: only 4 total on the front, none on the back. The front is held tightly against the body by a panel of five hooks and eyes. This set-up allows for a little wiggle room when it comes to fitting the dress. It wouldn’t be too hard to add an extra half-inch or take it in a smidge without disrupting the outside too much. I love this closure because it is much easier to make and hook close than later full-length lining panels that became popular in the 1880s.


Inside back of the Kate Pendergast Dress, circa 1874

Here is the back of the dress, showing off the sheer amount of polished cotton that went into making this dress. It takes yards and yards of fabric to make a skirt like this. Making one out of all silk would be very expensive indeed! Instead, Victorian ladies saved money by using polished cotton, a cheap, sturdy alternative. Sadly, the chemical treatments on this glazed, polished cotton only made it sturdy for a while, but now the fabric has become very brittle and shreds similarly to weighted silk. Polished cotton, while common, wasn’t the only material available for lining. If you want to make a Victorian reproduction dress, I recommend forgoing the polished cotton and using broadcloth instead.


Inside left of the 1874 skirt

The skirt has a length of elastic wrapped around the back half in order to control the volume of the skirt and keep it from moving forward. It’s brittle and stretched out now, but it once would have helped further form the poof from underneath.


Along the back of the dress are six rings (one is missing). Those mysterious brass rings help hold and form the overskirt into the flouncy bustle shape and keep it from sliding around unattractively. Without them, the overskirt would just float over the underskirt, twisting, deflating, and generally being more of a nuisance than just a bustle alone. These rings were just method to help form the bustle. Other methods include using tapes or attaching it directly to the underskirt. You can see Jennifer Rosbrugh make a tape-gathered bustle in this fabulous YouTube video:

Besides the bustle rings, you can see that the bodice is  hand sewn except for the major shaping seams. All the finishing and most of the hem work was done by hand. Also, notice the remains of a black waistband tape on the bodice. When it was whole, it would have fit around the waist like a belt, but inside the dress rather than outside. The waistband tape kept the bodice from riding up.


The skirt closes in front, not in the rear. The dress has been let out slightly–almost invisibly–about one inch. The place this is most visible is the skirt. The button has been moved and an extra piece of cloth indelicately added to take the circumference from 24.5 inches to 25.5 inches. The button has also been replaced with a much later plastic button from the 1930s or 1940s. This button threw me for a loop because I am unsure if the alterations are period and someone just lost the original button, or if this dress was used as a costume and had to be let out to fit the wearer.

The skirt has another handy addition besides a confusing plastic button: a pocket!


A very deep pocket: 12 inches! I could smuggle a bottle of wine in that thing…


The surprise pocket yielded another surprise: the missing top button! This button is original, not a later addition. A very thoughtful person stashed the wayward button after the back had fallen apart.


The button’s back fabric shank had rotted out, so I replaced it by attaching a small piece of linen with some fabric-safe adhesive and sewed the button back into place.

For more information on the actual sewing techniques and practical applications for Historical costuming, I highly recommend visiting

Historical Sewing: 19th Century Costuming by Jennifer Rosbrugh

Her blog is full of Victorian sewing techniques, pattern advice, fitting tips, and historical fashion in general.

I have a few more Inside Outs planed for the future, including a Gibson Girl business suit, so check back in the near future!

Other Inside Out Posts


1890s Red Silk Bodice

Possibly the Best Early Edwardian Color Ever

Suddenly I’m Hungry for Red Lobster…

My three great loves in life are history, fashion, and art. I love costuming because it combines all three of them into a pretty neat little package that offers infinite variety at the same time. One of my favorite aspects of fashion is the use of colors like puce, mauve, cerulean, and ecru. The names of some colors are so interesting and beyond weird! As a painter, I’ve come across many, many colors in my lifetime and had grown used to strange, creative, drab, foreign, and even obvious names, but the auction listing for these two antique dresses surprised me.

The lovely gown on the left is described as “1870s light blue,” which it very obviously is. However, the auction editor must have been feeling rather serendipitous (or hungry) that day because the gown on the left is described thus:

“1890s shrimp.”

Yes. Shrimp. It’s an apt name for the blushy-orangy-reddish tone, but really?! There are so many more flattering things that color like Salmon (okay, not much more flattering, but much more common), Coral, Warm Blush, French Rose, Deep Carnation, or even just…Pink.

This is what I picture when someone says “1890s shrimp.”

 However, it is a highly entertaining, memorable description. The gown itself is a classic 1890s silhouette: fussy, fluffy top with balloon sleeves and a long, trained skirt (you can find a similar, but less seafood-inspired pink morning dress in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s collections).
Both dresses are full of ruffles and lace and are made of fine wool fabric. Morning dresses were for home wear, considered somewhere between a robe and a dress. They are loosely cut in comparison to other Victorian fashions and were often worn to breakfast with a loosely-laced corset or none at all. Some designers created more couture morning gowns for wealthy clients, but most morning dresses were made at home. Since a 19th century lady needed multiple changes of clothes for social functions, a woman used comfortable odds and ends to make her morning gowns since no one outside the home would ever see it. It was a great use for a fabric you loved but was a little too plain or “out-there” to use on a more visible dress. So we find dresses in crazy colors like shrimp or more mundane colors like classic cream.

I hate to tell you this, Florence, but perhaps you should have saved that fabric for a dressing gown…

Ladies weren’t the only ones who had to change clothes throughout the day. Victorian men had a less rigorous, but still influential set of rules governing their attire. A morning jacket for a man was one of his most relaxed jackets, considered fine for informal events, but not at all suitable for formal dinners, meetings, or parties. Morning dress has come to refer more to a man’s formal suit with light grey pants and a dark jacket rather than a loosely fitted lady’s dress. You’ll hear the term most often used to describe a wedding suit or other formal outfits like this:

Click the pic for a great article about the evolution of morning dress for men!

So what began as some of the most informal clothes for men in the Victorian and Edwardian eras have turned into the most formal clothes in our modern Internet Age!

Anyway, kind of got off-topic talking about colors and fabric and social norms. Women’s morning dresses were loose, colorful, somewhat fussy affairs while men’s morning dress was dull grey and black. I think someone should break that mold! Can anyone say: “1890’s shrimp morning dress jacket?”

Close enough.

For more about morning gowns and to see one with a very similar pattern to the 1890s Shrimp, check out this entry on the fabulous FIDM Blog:

“Morning Gown, c. 1895”