by Jane Steen
“We took Donny in too.” Tess slapped the shining surface of the table in triumph.
“Well, yes, we did,” I conceded.
“So why should it make a difference that Thea works in the store and Donny works in the house?” Tess stuck her short nose in the air. “I say he should come to our dinner, so Sary and Aileen and goodness knows who else who wants to stick their nose in my business can be quiet. I’m going to tell him he must come.”
20
Complications
I looked around the table at my assembled guests. We had just finished giving thanks; as merchants, we did not neglect to thank God for His care of the owners and staff at Field & Leiter’s. While I had been busy arranging our Thanksgiving dinner, changing the seating plan to include an extra guest, Field’s had been burning. Martin had spent that day riding up and down State Street “like Paul Revere,” as Joe told it, helping to organize the transfer of all the rescued goods to the Exposition Building. He put all the Rutherford’s drays and any staff he could spare at Marshall Field’s service, as did other merchants; no lives were lost and a great deal of merchandise saved. Martin and I suffered only a recurrence of bad dreams on my part and a short delay in the atelier’s move to our own new premises.
Now Leah Salazar’s delicious pumpkin soup, fragrant with a hint of spice, was placed in front of the diners by our new maids and the tall young men Martin had hired to help with this large gathering. Their feet made no noise on our dining room’s deep carpet as they walked; the opening and closing of doors toward the back of the house let escape the scents of delicate white fish and roast turkey. Our new silver gleamed as our guests raised their spoons, and soon murmurs of appreciation and the beginnings of conversations mingled with the sounds of a splendid feast well begun. One high, clear voice rose above all the rest.
“What should I call you?”
Thea smiled sweetly across the table at Donny, her smile widening a fraction as the young man blushed.
“I only know you as Donny,” she continued, tipping her head to one side in an encouraging manner. “That was all very well when you were carrying my trunk or opening the carriage door, but it doesn’t seem right to call you by your first name when we’re dining at the same table, Mr.—?”
I groaned inwardly. Seating Donny had been a conundrum: not close to Sarah because she was equally prone to calling attention to Donny’s social status, not too near Tess so she couldn’t make eyes at him. So I had placed him by Mr. Parnell; Elizabeth’s parents were easygoing and democratic despite their wealth, and I could count on them to be kind to the young man. But I had also placed Thea down at that end of the table, away from Teddy and close to the Parnells and Madame so she had no opportunity to boss the children about. Clearly, I had made a tactical error.
I saw Donny’s lips move.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear that,” Thea said. “Would you speak a little louder, please?” Her own voice was audible to all present.
“Donny Clark, like Clark Street,” Donny said loudly. “I was called Clark because I was left at a house in Clark Street when I was a baby. A priest’s house. I went to find it when I came to Chicago, but it burned down in the big fire.”
“Somebody left you?” Thea’s expression was one of polite interest. “You mean you were a foundling? How interesting. Is that why you were at the Poor Farm?”
“What’s a Poor Farm?” asked little Eli Salazar, who sat between his mother and Madame on my right.
“A place where they put the poor and feebleminded, unwed mothers, and other unfortunates,” Thea explained to the small boy, smiling graciously. “My dear late mother was once the Matron of the Women’s House at the Prairie Haven Poor Farm—which is now the Prairie Haven Institute for the FeebleMinded, isn’t it, Mr. Clark?”
“That’s right.” Donny’s expression brightened at the introduction of a topic he understood. He’d been rather lost in the flow of talk before the prayers. We had covered the Indian Wars, Custer’s funeral, and a speaking machine invented in New Jersey.
Donny straightened up a little, tugging at the plain yellow waistcoat I had ordered to cover his considerable breadth of chest. I had decided against full evening dress for the dinner; knowing Mr. Parnell disliked a starched shirtfront and wing collar gave me an excellent excuse to declare the occasion a family meal and allow Donny to appear in a cutaway coat, smart striped trousers, and low-heeled boots.
“I don’t remember the Poor Farm well,” Thea continued. “But I was only a child when we left for Kansas. Mamma used to bring us to the Poor Farm at Christmas and Easter, and we’d give gifts to the inmates. How long did you live there, Mr. Clark?”
Donny looked blank. “A long time,” he answered at last. “I don’t remember. All my life, maybe.” He smiled his beautiful, shy smile. “I remember your mother, Miss Lo—” He stopped in confusion, clearly unable to recall Thea’s surname. Since Sarah’s lesson, he was trying not to call her “Miss Thea.”
“Lombardi.” Thea brought a tiny, lace-trimmed handkerchief to the corner of her eye. “Poor, dear Mamma.”
I couldn’t help glancing at Teddy and saw the corners of his mouth tuck in. I had watched his solemn yet tranquil face during the first part of our celebration; Martin had begun the prayers and expressions of thanksgiving, and Teddy had ended them. The sincerity in his round gray eyes had been touching as he’d spoken of his absent parents and sister, thanked God for sparing his life and Thea’s, and paid a charming tribute to Martin and me for our role in helping the two of them find their feet in Chicago. Thea had been quite silent, staring at a spot somewhere in the middle of the table with an expression that hid her feelings. She was a picture of quiet splendor in her black silk gown, the sprig of jasmine in her glossy auburn hair scenting the surrounding air.
“Your mother was a real nice lady, I remember.” Donny beamed. “I didn’t see her much, but she always smiled and waved at us men and said nice things to us when we were outside working on the farm.”
“She was ever gracious.” Thea frowned. “But why did you leave the institute, Mr. Clark? Has it changed to a great degree?”
“They didn’t let us do good work like they used to.” Donny scratched at his chin, from which the wisps of fuzz that were all he seemed capable of growing had been shaven. “They acted like we was good for nothing but the easy work, the stuff they used to give to the old men and the real slow ones. I wanted real work, so I lit out and headed for Chicago.” His eyes shone as he looked down the table at me. “And then I met Miss Nell—Mrs. Rutherford, that is. Sorry, ma’am.” His gaze returned to Thea. “Was you one of the little girls we saw at Christmas?”
Thea nodded. “The other girl was my sister, Lucy.” The handkerchief came into use again. “She died in Kansas with my mother and father.”
Naturally, this remark elicited all kinds of expressions of sympathy from the diners. Eight-year-old Eli left his place to offer the flower his mother had tucked in his lapel to Thea. He craned his head when he returned to his seat to reassure himself with the sight of his own sisters, who with motherly kindness were helping Sarah to some butter. Madame Belvoix said nothing, her small, plump hands laced beneath her chin as she watched Donny pat Thea’s hand clumsily. Tess looked glum as she observed the two of them. Fortunately, Sarah was too busy enjoying the presence of the Salazar children, whom she liked, to apply her usual powers of observation.
“But I won’t spoil this lovely occasion with sadness.” Thea kept a brave smile on her face as she nodded her thanks to Mr. Parnell, who had taken over from Donny in patting her hand and offering words of condolence. “I have such beautiful memories of our time in Prairie Haven. Nonna looking after us at home, Pa in his church, and Mamma doing such wonderful work for the unfortunate inmates at the Poor Farm. It’s so strange after all these years to think there are six of us at the table who have close ties with that place. How small the world is.”
The floor swayed under my feet as tiny frowns ap
peared on our adult guests’ faces, manifestly due to the effort of working out who those six people might be. I heard a tiny “Ah” escape Madame Belvoix’s lips, just the tiniest breath of sound, and Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at me. Well, I thought, this moment had been rushing toward me since the day I invited Thea into our home. I would not be a coward—although I was craven enough to be grateful that Sarah was chattering to the Salazar girls.
“Yes, Tess and I were inmates.” I smiled as I lifted my spoon. “I worked as a seamstress. I’m most thankful for that time in my life, not least because I found the sister of my heart in Tess.”
Thea’s beautiful hazel eyes glowed. “And Sarah—”
“Ah, the reminiscences of our younger days.” Madame’s throaty French accent cut across Thea’s words. “How wonderful my own recollections of my youth in Alsace—its mountains, its rivers, its vineyards!” She took a dainty spoonful of soup in a way that somehow barely interrupted her speech. “The happy memory of my arrival in Paris, my apprenticeship at Gagelin—and above all, Worth. Ah, the dear empress was such a sight to see in her splendid gowns, never the same one twice and all of her ladies almost as magnificent. They laugh at the crinoline now, Mrs. Fletcher,” she lifted a finger playfully as she addressed Elizabeth, “but I can tell you that in those dresses the women floated like thistledown.”
“Oh, I’m not so young that I can’t remember Mother in gowns she could hardly get through the doorway,” Elizabeth laughed.
The conversation became animated. There was nothing people, particularly females, liked more than poking fun at, or defending, outdated fashions; even the men were soon drawn into the web of words. Which, I realized, was entirely controlled by Madame, who directed the succession of topics with such adroitness that I had little to do to fulfill my role as hostess.
Above all, Thea did not get another chance to introduce the topic of Sarah’s birth. If she made any attempt to steer the flow of talk toward any subject other than the most anodyne, Madame swiftly cut her off—without ever seeming to, and oddly enough without producing any of those barbs of sugarcoated prickliness with which Thea generally reacted to not getting her own way. In a word, Madame managed her—and our Thanksgiving dinner proceeded swimmingly.
“Well!”
It was the day after Thanksgiving. Elizabeth Fletcher lowered herself with her accustomed straight-backed poise onto my settee, blue eyes alight and a mischievous smile on her face.
I sat down too. I had a good idea what thoughts were behind that “Well!” but the smile reassured me. As had the warm thanks, the perhaps more fervent than usual presses of the hand from the Parnells and Salazars, and David Fletcher’s cheerful farewell the night before. If Thea had thought to ruin me socially, she had not picked the right circle to begin with. She left in the same hired carriage as Madame, a fact which did much to calm Martin’s temper.
“Well?” I asked in response, trying not to sound defensive.
“That was a most interesting Thanksgiving, Nell. I’ve come to thank you in person; so much nicer than a note, and besides, I haven’t talked to you in private for ages. And you’ll show me all around your splendid home, won’t you? It’s so elegant and yet comfortable at the same time. Mother and Father couldn’t stop exclaiming over how nice it is. It was wonderful to see people from such different walks of life at the table too—far less boring than the usual talk about the same old people, the same old clubs, the same old parties. Father said he hadn’t enjoyed himself so well in a month of Sundays.”
“Because of the interesting revelation?” I asked. “That was a bit of a disaster, wasn’t it?”
“It might have been had you reacted otherwise, but you did just the right thing—and Madame Belvoix was magnificent.”
“She was, rather. I wish she’d been able to stop Thea before the cat popped its head out of the bag though.”
“Father said Thea should be thrashed. Martin almost looked ready to do the deed—you weren’t close enough to see, I suppose. It was fortunate for everyone’s sake that Madame intervened.”
We interrupted our conversation as Beatrice, one of our new housemaids, arrived with tea and petits fours. To my surprise, Elizabeth declined the sweet cakes and didn’t even put sugar in her tea.
“You were all quite magnificent,” I said with a sigh when I’d taken a few sips of the hot brew. “I don’t deserve such friends.”
“Don’t be silly—of course you do. Besides, I already knew about Sarah, Mother guessed a long time ago, Father is imperturbable where such things are concerned—he’d have to cut half his male acquaintances if he cared—and David, bless him, said he’d always liked you and Martin and he wouldn’t stop liking you because a malicious little girl told tales.” Dimples appeared in her cheeks. “I hope one day you’ll tell me about the Poor Farm though. What an adventure!”
“I must make sure I never invite Thea to a dinner where the Prairie Avenue set are present,” I said ruefully. “I can just imagine all the ‘rich ladies,’ as Tess calls them, snubbing me and refusing to purchase my dresses.”
“Then you’d just have to sell your gowns to those women who would buy them, and to the deuce with the rest. I don’t think it’d be long before they’d be back anyway. What woman puts morality above wearing the best-cut clothes in Chicago?”
“Martin said something similar last night.” The memory brought a faint smile to my face. “And I can’t see myself inviting that set to dinner, anyhow. Martin is adamant I shouldn’t have to do much entertaining unless I want to.”
“Except for us, I hope?” Elizabeth grinned at me. “And do invite the Salazars again. What an intelligent woman Mrs. Salazar is, so witty and well-read. It’s a shame she’ll never get a chance to shine in society, at least outside Jewish circles.”
“Yes, a crying shame. Joe is becoming a wealthy man, yet none of the clubs or societies Martin belongs to will have him because he’s a Jew.”
“And they’re a charming family—such beautiful, well-behaved children. I wondered whether it was a good idea to have the children at the table with us instead of in the nursery, but you’ve won me over. I must do the same.” Elizabeth’s cheeks, already a delicate rose-pink, deepened in color by a shade.
The self-conscious expression on my friend’s face put me on the qui vive. I felt a queer, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach but hid it to the best of my ability.
“You look as if you’re dying to tell me something,” I said. “Are you—?”
“In an interesting condition, yes.” Elizabeth placed a hand on her belly, a protective and oddly touching gesture. “Already. Mother was aching to drop a hint or two, only I made her promise not to. And you won’t tell anyone except Martin, will you? David and I want to keep the news between us and our closest friends for a little longer.”
“Thank you for counting us among your closest friends.” I rose from my chair to give Elizabeth a hug. “I’m delighted for you. If you’re happy, that is—and you are, aren’t you, despite all your earlier protestations?”
“I am.” Elizabeth shrugged. “David was so thrilled, and, well, babies are rather sweet.”
I shook my head in mock dismay. “A great loss to the Feminist cause.”
“Nonsense—I’m still a Feminist. Children make no difference to a man’s opinions. Why should being a mother change those of a woman?”
I laughed. “I won’t think up a rebuttal. It’s probably bad for the baby to argue. When is the happy event?”
“April.” Elizabeth blushed again. “Yes, nine months after the honeymoon. Far too soon, but it’s all my fault.”
“In what way? It does take two.” I sat down and picked up the teapot, stealing a quick glance at Elizabeth’s figure. Yes, her bodice was tight at the front where her breasts had increased a little in size. If I hadn’t been worrying about the Thanksgiving dinner, I would have spotted that sooner. A dressmaker always does.
“It’s my fault for not insisting we take precau
tions. All of Frances’s wonderful sisterly advice up in smoke.” Elizabeth sighed, but her eyes shone bright blue from a rosy face. “To be honest, I was having too much fun.”
“Merciful heavens, Mrs. Fletcher, another shocking admission.” I made my tone as playful as possible. “Our husbands would have conniptions if they heard us.”
“Or love us all the more.”
We continued in a similar vein, soon helpless with laughter as we surveyed the joys and annoyances of the married state. And yet—I was dismayed at the pangs of emotion that passed through me, unbidden and unwelcome, every time I allowed my busy chatter to still a little so I could truly listen to what Elizabeth was saying.
The pangs were not for me. No, they originated in knowing that, sooner or later, I would have to tell Martin that the Fletchers had conceived a child before their honeymoon was even over, while we—
Why, I wondered as I watched Elizabeth’s animated face, a smile concealing my inner turmoil, was life so complicated?
21
Shopgirl
I arrived at the store the next day knowing exactly what my first task was. I found Arlette Belvoix in her new office, a neat square chamber with a wide north-facing window. It was larger than any room I had yet seen her inhabit, with two walls lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. Yet the stacked crates into which she was peering with thoughtful eyes suggested it would soon be as overcrowded as her former lairs.
“Sixes and sevens.” Madame looked up at me, tapping the crate with a shining fingernail. “That is how you say it, no? I am at sixes and sevens, thanks to that most unfortunate fire at Field & Leiter’s. I have lost valuable time.”
“You’ve given them so much help with organizing their dress goods. Does it matter if we’re set back a few days? At least it wasn’t our fire.”