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Tutorial: how to insert raw-edged insertion lace

I love lace insertion. There are so many ways to do it, depending on the type of lace you’re working with, and the effect you want to achieve.

When I made the Ettie Petticoat pattern I wanted to include instructions on doing them all. But a 70 page pattern is not practical! So I restrained myself to three techniques that are suitable for all types of fabric, most types of lace, and allow you to insert lace by hand or machine.

The one type of lace the pattern doesn’t cover is insertion lace with raw edges.

Embroidered and cutwork lace with raw edges was widely used in the Edwardian era. Here’s what it looks like in View C of the Ettie Petticoat:

I knew there wasn’t space to include working with raw-edged lace in the Ettie Petticoat pattern, but I can give you a tutorial on how to work with it.

Here’s how to add your own raw-edged insertion lace

The most common machine method for inserting raw-edged lace in the Edwardian era (at least according to most technique manuals and the extant garments I’ve studied) was with teeny, tiny french seams.

Let’s learn how to do that!

You’ll need:

The Ettie Petticoat pattern, all cut out and the ruffles joined in circles, ready to add insertion lace.
Insertion lace with raw edges.
Sewing cat (optional).

Part 1: Prep & Marking

Steam press all the lace you intend to use to pre-shrink it, so it doesn’t shrink and warp once you insert it.

Mark the insertion lines for the lace:

Part 2: Measuring

Yes. Maths. Sorry.

Inserting raw-edged lace involves slashing your fabric open, and inserting the lace into it. This means that you need to make sure that you either take up the same amount of fabric in the french seams that join the insertion lace to the petticoat, OR cut away the extra width.

If you don’t check the measure and cut away extra width your ruffle (or whatever you’re inserting the lace into) will end up longer or wider than intended. In the ruffle that’s an easy fix: just add an extra tuck. Extra width in a bodice would be a problem though!

To calculate what you need to cut away, measure the width of your lace, and the width of the lace ‘seam allowances’. Ideally your lace will have 1/4” seam allowances. If they are narrower your french seams will be very small. If they are wider you can make wider french seams – or cut them down.

My lace is 1/2” wide, and my lace ‘seam allowances’ are 1/4” each, which makes it really easy. All I have to do is cut open on my marked lines, and I’m ready to go.

Part 3: Cutting

Cut your pattern piece (in this case the ruffle) along your insertion lines.

If your lace is WIDER than the amount you’re sewing into the french seams, you’ll need to cut that

For example, if your lace was 3/4” wide, you’d need to cut away a 1/4” strip along each insertion line, as your french seams only take up 1/4” of fabric.

If your lace is 1” wide you’d need to cut away 1/2” etc, etc.

Part 4: French Seams (aka, the inserting)

Important: Figure out the right side and wrong side of your lace! This can be surprisingly tricky with some laces. You may even want to mark the wrong side with removable marks at intervals.

We’re going to be working with really small seam allowances, so if your machine has a foot plate with a tiny needle hole, use it. It will help keep the machine from sucking your fabric in to the needle hole.

Seams 1: Wrong sides together

WRONG sides together, sew lace to pattern pieces with a scant 1/8” seam allowance.

When you get back around to your starting point, cut the lace so it overlaps your starting point by 1 1/4”/3cm, and fold under the final 1/2”’/1cm. Lap it over your start point, and sew it down.

Joining the first edge of lace to the pattern will be easy. The second is a little tricker: the lace can stretch as you sew it, so you’ll need to mark quarter (and maybe even eighth) points, and match them as you sew. Otherwise your pieces will be misaligned, and may not fit together.

This is what your pieces should look like when you’ve joined all your panels with the first set of seams:

Now you’re ready to sew your second, final, seams, making pretty teeny-tiny french seams.

Seams 2: Right sides together

Before you sew your second seam you may need to trim off any stray bits of thread from your first seams, so they don’t stick out of the second seam.

Press your sewn fabric and insertion lace RIGHT sides together, enclosing the raw seam allowances from Seams 1. Roll the pressed fold outwards, to form a crisp edge.

Sew with a 1/8” seam allowance.

Here’s what it look’s like with one complete French seam, and one with only seam 1 sewn:

Fold, press and sew the other edge of your insertion lace:

And you’re done!

From the right side:

From the wrong side:

So pretty!

I hope you enjoyed the tutorial! I’d love to see photos if you use the method.

Image shows a piece of carnation pink silk embroidered with flowers

Rate the Dress: pink 1840s ruffles & embroidery

Published by The Dreamstress

Quite a number of commentators of last week’s dress felt that it was the perfect garment for an evil queen – or perhaps a particularly splendid and imposing fairy godmother. This week I’ve picked a pink silk frock for her victim/godchild (or perhaps this is a Discworld-esque Witches Abroad situation, where the ingenue is both?).

It’s pink, it’s frilly, it’s got a big skirt. Is it the perfect dress for feeling like a pretty pretty princess, ca. 1845, in?

Last week: a historically inspired 1890s reception gown

My goal with Rate the Dress is always to be interesting and informative – and I definitely succeeded with at least one of those last week! If there’s one thing last week’s dress was not, it was boring. Not every dress can inspired “Oh. Oh dear. No.” as one comment, and “Oh my word, YES.” as the very next one.

The Total: 8.7 out of 10

A phenomenally good rating for a dress that rated only 1 with at least one rater! The ratings might have been all over the place, but the wearer of last week’s can at least be sure that she was memorable!

This week: an pinked, pink, embroidered 1840s dress

This 1840s dress is made up in vivid carnation pink silk. This bright hue was achievable with plant based dyes, and was fashionable from at least as far back as the Middle Ages. Carnations (members of the dianthus family, also known as pinks) are actually where the colour gets its name: it’s first used as a colour name in the early 17th century.

Image shows an 1840s evening dress in carnation pink with a full skirt.

Evening dress, 1840s, Historic Deerfield Museum

The dress also features decorations based on another form of ‘pink’. Zig-zagged and scalloped cutwork is called pinking. It combines a Medieval word meaning to punch or prick, with ‘pink’: just like the frilled petals of the dianthus family which also named the colour. These days we use the word in this form in ‘pinking shears’.

The elaborately cutwork edges of the embroidered flounces of this dress were almost certainly inspired by ‘pinked’ 18th century trimmings. Late 1840s historicism may be more subtle than its late Victorian counterpart, but it influenced fashion all the same!

The frills on these dress could be left raw, or might have been finished with satin-stitch edging.

Evening dress, 1840s, Historic Deerfield Museum

The whole dress is lavishly decorated with satin stitch flowers. They wind around the waist, frame the top of the upper flounce, and are scattered along both flounces. I’d love to see the back side of the embroidery. Is it hand done, or does it take advantage of new advances in embroidery machines? 1920s dresses certainly feature similar embroidery done by machine, but I’m not sure if it was possible this early.

Evening dress, 1840s, Historic Deerfield Museum

I’d also like to see the dress displayed on a slightly taller mannequin. 1840s evening dresses weren’t often trained, and this one should sit just off the floor, with a delicate pair of flat-toed slippers peeping out from under the hem.

Although it’s always hard to tell, the proportions of this dress suggest a rather tall wearer. It makes me think of Empress Elisabeth of Austria, who was 5’8″ or 5’9″, and only a few years to0 young to have worn this.

What do you think? Is this pink frock perfect for a young heroine? Pretty and youthful without being too sweet and fussy? Or does she need a knight in shining sartorial armour to sweep in and rescue her from a dress disaster?

Rate the Dress on a Scale of 1 to 10

A reminder about rating — feel free to be critical if you don’t like a thing, but make sure that your comments aren’t actually insulting to those who do like a garment. Phrase criticism as your opinion, rather than a flat fact. Our different tastes are what make Rate the Dress so interesting. It’s no fun when a comment implies that anyone who doesn’t agree with it, or who would wear a garment, is totally lacking in taste.

As usual, nothing more complicated than a .5. I also hugely appreciate it if you only do one rating, and set it on a line at the very end of your comment.

Making an 18th century red wool cloak, thedreamstress.com

Making an 18th century ‘Red Riding Hood’ cloak

Published by The Dreamstress

Like every historical costumer ever, I’ve always wanted to make an 18th century red wool cloak. Who doesn’t want to be deliciously cozy and comfortable while dressing up as an actual fairytale!?

When my friend Theresa announced that she was taking advantage of the New Zealand-Australia travel bubble and coming over to see us – and wanted to dress up and do a photoshoot – I knew it was time for my cloak. After all, it would be midwinter in NZ and we’d need to keep warm!

Sadly, Delta popped our bubble, and Theresa’s trip was postponed. The photoshoot didn’t happen, but my friend Averil helped me with one to show off the finished cloak and my extremely exuberant Amalia ensemble.

So how did I make the cloak?

The Cloak Fabric

Extant 18th century cloaks always look so lush on their mannequins that I’d always assumed they take meters and meters of fabric.

Years ago I bought a bunch of red wool with a cloak in mind. I didn’t love the shade or the feel of the fabric, but it was extremely affordable. Lately I’ve been enjoying a slower, more purposeful sewing process, and I’ve realised that life is too short for fabric I don’t love.

So when a reason for the cloak came up, I thought I’d see if my luck was in at the local fabric shops. Oh, was it ever!

Did The Fabric Warehouse have any pure wool in red? No… But…they had a silk-cashmere plush in the most divine red! They had got it from a stash clearance from a woman with extremely good taste in fabric.

But…only 2.2m. But piecing is period! And it was such beautiful fabric I was sure I could make it work, directional plush and all.

So I bought the lot, chucked the stuff I’d originally bought up on Trademe, and ended up even, but with fabric I loved.

To face the cloak and line the hood I found the red silk taffeta I’d originally planned to make my Regency Janeway spencer out of.

It matched like searched a 100 fabric stores to find the perfect shade!

The Cloak Pattern

I based my cloak on the one in Costume Close up, using their pattern and construction details, but adapting it to the width of my fabric. I also studied all of Jean Hunniset’s cloak patterns, and her notes on them.

The cloak is basically an elongated half circle, with a full width of fabric down the centre of the cloak, and then two half widths forming the points of the circle.

The original cloak was made from 140cm wide fabric. Mine was 160cm.

Some historical costumers like to cut their fabric down to match the width of the original garments, but I prefer to use width the fabric is woven to. In my mind, using the full width and the selvedges is more accurate than artificially cutting a narrower width. It’s certainly what period sewist would have done if given the same fabric. This is why we can never be truly historically accurate – and there’s no exact science to determining accuracy!

By very careful cutting, and a little judicious piecing, I was able to get a 108cm cloak out of my fabric – just like the original.

(all together now: piecing is period!)

My hood is a little bigger than the original, to accomodate higher 1780s hair (and because I have a big head). I had to piece the hood as well.

The Cloak Construction

To save my hands, which always suffer in winter, I machine sewed the cloak seams. I risked it, and indulged myself by handsewing the rest.

Since I wasn’t stressing about stitch accuracy, I herringboned down my seams. Whipstitches might be more accurate, but herringboning made me happier.

The silk hood linings and front facing did get whipstitched down though.

It took me a bit to decide on the hood construction.

The pleats themselves weren’t hard. It just took figuring out the right number of pleats, and gathering them in with cartridge pleating.

However, I wasn’t sure how the pleats and lining should interact. Should the outer and lining be pleated in separately, and caught together? Or should the lining be joined to the outer, and then the lining and outer pleated together?

I settled on the latter:

I whipstitched the lining to the outer, gathered in both, and then used an extra line of gathering stitches to hold the back pleating stable.

I’m rather pleased with how it turned out!

The body of the cloak was gathered with cartridge stitches in the neck, and pulled in to fit the hood. I backstitched the hood to the body, and then whipstitched the selvedges up into the hood.

The the whole thing got covered by the hood lining.

For the photoshoot I tied the cloak closed, but decided that was an extremely annoying way to fasten a cloak.

I’ve since replaced it with a hook and thread loop.

The hem of the cloak, just like the originals, is left raw. Three cheers for tightly woven and fulled wool!

Overall I am utterly thrilled with my cloak, and it’s utterly delightful to wear, and everything I hoped it will be.

Well, almost everything. I did make one mistake. The original cloak had a silk taffeta facing, and a lightweight silk hood lining. My taffeta fit so perfectly and matched so perfectly that of course I used it in my hood. Hoods are one place you don’t want your fabric to scroop! The hood is distractingly noisy when I wear it.

However, that very clever fabric usage does mean that the cloak qualifies for the HSM Challenge #11 for 2021: Zero Waste. There wasn’t a scrap of either of my fabrics left!

The Historical Sew Monthly 2021 Challenge #11: Zero Waste

What the item is: An 18th century cloak

How it fits the challenge: The clever construction of 18th century cloaks mean that they use fabric very efficiently, with no leftover scraps.

Material: Silk-cashmere plush, with silk taffeta facings and hood lining.

Pattern: Based on the one in Costume Close Up.

Year: ca. 1785 – these cloaks were worn from at least 1750-1810, but my hood size was specifically made to accomodate 1780s hair.

Notions: cotton thread, a brass hook.

How historically accurate is it? Due to physical constraints it’s partly machine sewn. My research suggests that the silk-cashmere plush was an accurate 18th c fabric, but I’m not absolutely certain it would have been used for a cloak like this.Maybe 80%.

Hours to complete: 10ish hours of happy handsewing, 30 minutes of machine sewing, and a couple more hours of patternmaking and cutting out.

First worn: Early August to celebrate the first of the magnolias.

Total cost: $70-ish. I intend to get plenty of use of this to make it well worth it!