mother of of pearl buttons



Finely tailored navy silk with short sleeve bodice having jewel neck and princess seams, four oversized mother of pearl buttons, set-in waist with a near circle eight panel skirt, button-on white linen pilgrim collar and two pair cuffs all with navy embroidered scallop and dot border, narrow self belt, side zipper.

mel-loves-all  asked:

Four Word Prompts: Sherlolly: "Is that my shirt?"

Oh, thank you, Mel!! This one was a bit of fun!

Something’s going on here, Greg observed. Sherlock was eyeing Molly very closely, looking her up and down almost… sexually, as she went over her initial findings about the murder victim in front of her.

“… never actually seen anything quite like it,” she said as she moved to the other side of the slab, next to the Consulting Detective. “It’s almost as if…”

“Is that my shirt?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

“It is, Molly. That’s my Tuesday shirt!”

Her eyes darted to Greg nervously. “Of course it’s not, Sherlock. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a plain white oxford. Lots of people have plain white oxford shirts.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he squared on her. “You own a Gold-fit Dolce & Gabbana men’s shirt with mother of pearl buttons? That shirt costs more than seven hundred pounds, Molly,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

She gasped. “You spent… I did an autopsy in this!” Once again, she cut her eyes towards Greg, then she smiled. “Could you excuse us for a moment?”

He just nodded.

The pathologist dragged Sherlock out the door, into the hallway. Greg moved closer to the door, trying to hear their conversation. Because… WHAT?

“… wanted to go home last night,” Molly said in a hissed whisper. “You…”

“I didn’t prevent that, Molly, simply… encouraged you to stay.”

“Encouraged? That was a bit more than encouragement, you berk! And what about keeping it out of Barts? This is supposed to be a secret! Greg is going to figure out…”

“He knows nothing. Calm down, woman!”

“How else would I have gotten your shirt?”

“A myriad of ways, Molly, as you just explained. Do keep up.”

His voice was full of mischief. Greg could almost see the pompous pricks face as he teased the poor woman. What an arse! How does she put up with him?

“You just said…”

“Never mind that. How ‘bout a kiss before we go back in? You were quite sexy as you explained bullet trajectory and blood loss. I’m about half hard here…”

“Sherlock! You… stop! Anyone could… Mmmm.”

Greg stepped away from the door; he’d heard enough. Bloody hell, it’s about time.

Five minutes later the pair came back in. Sherlock looked satisfied; Molly looked flustered.

“All right, Garfield. I think we have everything, don’t you?”

“Ah, I suppose,” Greg answered.

The counseling antagonizer turned to the pathologist, an insufferably smug look on his face. “Thank you so much, Molly.” Bending closer to her he whispered, “Wear that tonight, if you don’t mind, and nothing else.” He winked before swaggering back out the door.

“Yeah, thanks, Molls.” Greg started to leave, but paused and turned back to her. “You should, um… button up… ah…” He gestured to his own shirt.

Molly looked down, realising that Sherlock had managed to unbutton the top three buttons of her (his) shirt. “Oh… how’d that…”

“It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.” He smiled. “You might also want to know you have a love bite on your neck.”

“Damnit, Sherlock!” he heard her growl as he exited the room.

HEHEH… thanks! ~Lil~

Clarence Hall- Planting (1)

Summary:  Y/N has hit a dead-end in her life. Desperate to get away from her controlling mother, she takes a job as a nanny, working at an English country house caring for the Countess’ six foster children- alongside Steve Rogers and James Barnes. As the weeks pass, Y/N realises she’s beginning to find her place, and even happiness, in the chaos and laughter of Clarence Hall: but that summer something happens that turns all of their lives upside down.

Originally posted by tana-the-dreamchaser

Pairing: Bucky X Reader (Female pronouns)

Chapter 1/?: Planting

Word count: 5022

Warnings: None! (Unless you count verbose descriptions and terrible puns)

*rubs hands together gleefully* Let’s go! Looking for a story about chosen family, romance, gardening and the mad antics of children? Come on in! I am very much looking forward to sharing this all with you <3 This is very slow burn- a ‘proper novel plot’, as it were, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to sit back and enjoy!

You see the sign first. Lashed to the left-hand pillar of the gates, rectangular, waist-high. You slow your battered Volkswagen to take in the cartoonish drawings, the childish letters.


DEAD SLOW please

& frail elderly

The ‘puppy’ in question looks more like a dog, with a round body, flappy ears and comical grin. The pensioner is of indeterminate gender and clutches a stick in one hand, the small of their back with the other. You would guess that the ‘please’ and the ‘& frail elderly’ were added by a different hand, but you can’t be sure.

This has to be the right place. You crunch back into first and pull off the road.

The advertisement had made Clarence Hall sound like a polished, perfect idyll: the sort of place that existed in Enid Blyton novels. Wanted, it had read, an extra pair of hands to help with our six charming foster children in the beautiful setting of an English country house. Generous salary; accommodation provided. Ever since you had secured the position, you’d been picturing neatly manicured lawns of emerald green, flowerbeds tamed and cultivated, maybe even topiary. When you pass through the gateway, though, you find that your imaginings couldn’t be further from the truth.

It’s a field. Well, perhaps that’s a little harsh. It’s more of a meadow: summer grasses waving in the stiff breeze, wildflowers (and weeds, you notice) adding splashes of colour amongst the bleached out green. In the distance, there’s a line of trees, crowding up against the line of the outer walls. The drive is less of a drive and more of a dirt track, rutted in places and with its own line of vegetation encroaching up the middle. Your car makes a particularly unhappy noise as you hit a pothole with a little more speed than it can handle. Cursing, you slow down even more and peer through the windscreen, searching for the house.

It appears suddenly, creeping out from behind a line of conifers that might once have been constrained to a neat formation. To your surprise, the roof is not falling in, nor are the windows boarded over. On the contrary, as you draw closer, you are struck by its beauty: Clarence Hall was constructed in the early nineteenth century, and has all the self-assured symmetry and honey-coloured stone of every period drama, and has clearly received all the care the garden so conspicuously lacks. There’s no sign of life.

You leave your bags in the car and climb the handful of steps to the enormous door. A button that look suspiciously like mother-of-pearl sits in an ornate setting carved into the stone: you steel yourself and jam your thumb on the doorbell, and a clanging chime echoes somewhere inside.

In an instant, a volley of deep-throated barks boom outwards from behind the thick wood, and you flashback, once more, to the advert. Must be energetic, enthusiastic, and unafraid of large dogs. You’d helped out with a shelter and your friend’s Labrador when you were in high-school: apparently, it had been enough to pass muster. Thirty seconds later, and a muffled voice issues from inside.

“Bead! Circe! Knock it off-” And the door is dragged open.

To your surprise, you aren’t instantly knocked to the floor by a pair of wolves. Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of a hefty guy with sandy hair and an apologetic expression.

“Sorry about that. I wanted to be here to meet you, but the curtains in the east drawing room decided to come down- I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“Steve,” You say, and stick out your hand. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

His grip is dry and warm. “You, too. Come in.” He steps back and yells over his shoulder. “Buck! Y/N is here!”

You step over the threshold and look around. The entrance hall is nothing short of cavernous. The mahogany stairway dominates the space, central zone covered with a dusty looking patterned carpet, bannister polished and ripe for sliding down. Your gaze follows the line of the walls, taking in the gold-rimmed portraits of stern-faced men and delicate-looking ladies, the light streaming in from upper windows, the ostentatious chandelier. When you look back down, you realise there are doors leading off on all sides. Footsteps sound beyond one. A beat later, and it flings open to reveal a dark-haired man, draped from head to foot in swathes of magenta pink.

“Fetching, huh?” He says, and a nervous laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. Steve slaps a palm over his eyes.

“Bucky, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Bucky. I swear he’s not usually this…”

“No.” A grin pulls at one side of Bucky’s mouth. “I’m usually worse.”

Keep reading


Commemorative child’s dress, 1863,

Burgundy velvet with ivory satin piping, mother of pearl buttons, and taffeta waist sash, the tails printed with the Prince of Wales plumes, ‘Ich Dien’ and 'Albert and Alexandra,’

The Prince of Wales, Albert Edward, married Danish Princess Alexandra on the 10th March 1863 at St George’s Chapel, Windsor. He was 21, and she 18. Their marriage was popular and promoted in the British press as a love match. Presumably this dress was made to wear at a celebratory party. 

Kerry Taylor Auctions


Mary Lincoln’s purple velvet skirt with daytime bodice is believed to have been made by African American dressmaker Elizabeth Keckly. The first lady wore the gown during the Washington winter social season in 1861–62. Both pieces are piped with white satin, and the bodice is trimmed with mother-of pearl buttons. An evening bodice was included with the ensemble. The lace collar is of the period, but not original to the dress.

After Abraham Lincoln’s death, Mary went into mourning and remained in widow’s clothes until her own death in 1882. She gave some of her White House finery to family members. Her cousin, Elizabeth Todd Grimsley, received this purple velvet ensemble. In 1916 Grimsley’s son, John, sold the ensemble to Mrs. Julian James for the Smithsonian’s First Ladies Collection.

John Grimsley attributed this dress to a “seamstress of exceptional ability” who “made nearly all of Mrs. Lincoln’s gowns.” Although he mistook her name as “Ann,” he most likely was referring to Elizabeth Keckly.

The Civil War made it particularly important that the ceremonial functions of the administration appear dignified and competent. This public image helped calm domestic critics and reassure foreign governments, especially England and France, which were being courted by the Confederacy. The Lincolns faced the challenge of maintaining proper decorum without appearing self-indulgent when so many were sacrificing so much. Their background made this task even more difficult, as they had to overcome eastern stereotypes of “uncultured” westerners.

Mary Lincoln took her role as first lady very seriously. Some newspapers portrayed her as “the republican queen,” elegant and admirable at public occasions. Others criticized her for conspicuous consumption in time of war and sacrifice. Although she came from a genteel Kentucky family, she was the wife of “the rail splitter,” and many people expected her to embarrass the nation with uncouth western manners.

Bequest of Mrs. Julian James, 1923

Culture: American

Date: 1861-1862

Material: Velvet, lace, satin

What girl doesn’t love a look that easily transitions from day to night?! I did notice that the color of the dress in the photos taken by The Smithsonian look a little off so I went digging. 

It is more of a rich purple than that heinous electric color, we won’t blame the dress, no one looks good in such intense light. Also, it hurts my heart that the sleeves on the afternoon bodice are very noticeably replacements. 

Commercial Top Shell
(Tectus niloticus)

- Large species of sea snail
- Grows about up to 15 cm
- Commercially exploited to make mother of pearl buttons, beads and pendants
- It occurs in the Indo-Pacific Ocean

ghostocelot  asked:

Josephine worrying about everyones health when winter comes, getting them all garrish sweaters and baubly knitted hats and fur boots for going outdoors and fluffy slippers for indoors (because how dare they dirty up the floor with their boots! And holy maker Lavellan, aren't your toes cold?!) , and those gloves that are just one finger and a thumb. Leliana takes everything in stride and Bull is really into it for some reason. Dorian secretly likes it but refused to admit it.

The hat had holes for his horns. Holes. For his horns.

It even had handy little buttons so he didn’t have to finagle it around their massive breadth. He just snapped it on in the mornings and, voila! No more cold scalp. He had no idea where it had come from, who had given it to him, but he appreciated them more than he could say. There was a matching scarf, too, and fingerless gloves, all knit from the softest, warmest woolen fibers he’d ever encountered. They were patterned with red made to mimic the geometric vitaar patterns worn by Qunari soldiers, perhaps not entirely accurate, but, damn, did he appreciate the thought.

He wore them shamelessly whenever he stepped outside, and he’d never felt so snug and warm. If only he knew who they were from so he could thank them properly. He didn’t often receive gifts, but when he did, he liked to show his appreciation.

It confounded him for days (several warm, cozy days of bundling up in the mornings and being able to stand the cold for once), and over those few days, he saw others bearing the mystery knitter’s work:

Keep reading

N’coppa a Posillipo, white background, brown stripes shirt

Cotton/linen shirt beloved by the Neapolitan gentleman. Soft spread collar to be worn with a solaro suit.

Pure mother-of-pearl buttons are sewn using the crow’s foot technique.

A peculiar detail is the sleeve stitching, that is not in line with the side seam because the sleeve is sewn only after the side has been closed. This step is unique and can be done only by the skilled hands of our artisans. Finally, the ironing and the folding are made by hand too.



For every ten or so modern pieces I find, there is always one or two vintage pieces. Very rarely however do I find something that is of significant age (over 70 years). Even rarer still is for the piece to fit me. Last week, while scouring one of my favourite locations, I came upon this beautiful green wool work shirt by local Hamilton clothing manufacturer Grafton & Co. Now a part of the Tip Top Tailors brand, the company began in 1858 in Dundas, Ontario and played an integral role in the area before being sold in 1960 to its parent company. Judging from the condition and construction, the piece seems to be from the 1910s-1920s. Finishing touches such as the very rudimentary mother-of-pearl buttons and a mixture of hand sewn and industrial edges speak of an age before heavy mechanation. This is a piece I will wear periodically because it is simply beautiful. Grail find.


Made my favorite Lu Bobby this custom ABBEYDALE dress shirt.

-  2" Mandarin Collar

- Hidden Buttons

- Navy Chambray

- Mother of Pearl Buttons

I’m still menswear only, but an exception had to be made…


I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t taken any time for myself, so I forced myself to slow down and make this little guy for my own use. It’s an inch and a half tall, and all the pages fold out for better writing area. It’s bound in silk bookcloth with hand spun silk thread and a mother of pearl button closure. It lives in an altoid tin with a few other little things that I like to travel with :)