by Jane Steen
“Thank you,” I said fervently. “I really do think you are the only man in existence who would truly allow me to be me, if you understand what I mean. And it’s quite possible that in five years—or seven or ten—Thea will be the sort of woman for whom matrimony is not only conceivable, it’s a happy expedient. She’s so young. Perhaps my rebelliousness was caused by Mama’s project to see me settled at an early age, with a declared fiancé if not a husband. I know she was sure she had my best interests at heart, but,” I felt my shoulders slump, “being the stubborn person I was—am—I declare it had the opposite effect.”
“So you propose to catch this particular fly with the sugar of freedom rather than the vinegar of constraint.”
“Something like that.” I couldn’t help letting a grin escape at Martin’s words, but then I sobered. “Mama probably guessed that her time on this earth was short. It was a blessing she lived to know her granddaughter, even under such inauspicious circumstances. Catherine didn’t get that blessing.” A lump rose in my throat at the thought.
“Ah, Nellie.” Martin felt under the rug for my hand, which I’d slipped under it for warmth. “Your emotions are well and truly involved, aren’t they?” His large hand enclosed mine. “You couldn’t be impartial if you wanted to. I intend to just state the facts to Teddy and leave the decision to him, as the man of the family—but I hope he decides to let the matter rest. I agree Thea has done nothing wrong, in my eyes at least. Perhaps stepped a little off the path Teddy would prefer, but at her age we might expect a lot worse. Maybe this is the point at which we must begin to trust her.”
31
Game of life
“Thea wins again!” Sarah, as good-natured about losing games as I had been, watched as the teetotum stopped spinning and Thea advanced her Checkered Game of Life counter to “Happy Old Age.” She turned to me with a smile. “May I be excused, Mama? I’d like to read my new book.”
I nodded, and Sarah slid down from her seat, more slowly than she’d used to. Now that she was nearly eight, her skirts reached well below her knee. She skipped away neatly, festive in her gray-blue silk and plaid trimmings; the red cravat I’d added and her red stockings made a striking contrast with her hair, but I was learning to be more daring regarding colors.
“Would you like a little cherry cordial, Thea?” I lifted the tiny jug in invitation; it had been placed there by Beatrice just moments before, and by some miracle Sarah had been too full to beg for some of the dainty cookies that accompanied it. Either that or she had her eye on some better sweetmeat.
But it was Christmas, and so far it had been a remarkably harmonious one. The only jarring note was that when Tess had learned that Thea would be present, she had decided to visit her parents for Christmas. She would return for our evening meal once Thea had left for home.
“A mere drop, please, Mrs. Rutherford. Oh, that’s quite enough.” Thea held up a slim hand as the level of the amber liquid in the crystal glass reached an inch. “Miss Dardenne says that a lady should imbibe the smallest amount compatible with politeness.”
“Does she now?” I said, filling my own tiny glass with one-and-a-quarter inches of the sweet mixture. It was one of the few forms of alcohol I enjoyed; Grandmama and Mama had always served cordial on special occasions. “Well, I quite agree. It doesn’t become a woman to drink.”
Martin made a face. “Better nothing at all than that nasty sickly stuff. You women.”
“I’d ring for whiskey, only I’m sure you won’t want it in mixed company.” I handed Thea her glass, explaining, “Martin will take a whiskey when he’s in the company of other men. He makes it last for hours.”
“You seem to think a lot of Miss Dardenne’s advice.” Martin regarded Thea as she sipped her cordial. “Do you spend much time with her?”
“She visits me sometimes when I have a free afternoon or evening.” Thea sounded carefree. “It’s nice of her to take an interest. She’s so sophisticated.”
That’s what I’m afraid of was written right across Martin’s face, but he merely said, “She’s much older than you.”
“Oh yes.” Thea nibbled on one of the almond-flavored cookies. “She’s almost thirty. But I do like mature women when they’re sympathetic, and Miss Dardenne is so unaffected—she has the heart of someone much younger. I enjoy having a woman friend who never patronizes me for being young and yet who is a real woman, not a girl.”
Elizabeth had told me that Paulina Dardenne was Victor Canavan’s mistress. Even to my “worldly” ears, this did not seem like a proper friendship for a young girl. I looked at Martin, uncertain.
“I expect Teddy would think it most improper for me to be friends with an actress,” Thea said airily. “But we’re not intimate. We just sit in Mrs. Batham’s parlor, and Mrs. Batham sits with us and knits while we talk. She says it must do Miss Dardenne good to be in wholesome company for a change.”
Her gaze rested on us, her eyes lambent. “I suspect Miss Dardenne may be a sinner. Like so many of the women Mamma invited into our parlor in Kansas to talk and drink coffee. Mamma always said we mustn’t shun sinners; first because we are all sinners ourselves: ‘All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’ And then because if we turn our backs on the sinners among us, who will lift them out of their sin? Our Lord went among sinners all the time.”
I looked closely at Thea, wondering if I could detect the sly looks of the hypocrite or the crafty smile of the casuist. But her face was smooth, perfect, glorious in its youth and beauty.
“And Mr. Canavan?” I couldn’t help asking. “Does he visit you too?”
“Oh no.” Thea sounded shocked. “Mrs. Batham would never allow a gentleman to call. I only ever encounter Mr. Canavan at the store. He often stops for a minute or two at the jewelry counter to inspect a new item. He buys pieces frequently; you must know that.”
Martin nodded. “He appears to be a connoisseur,” he said to me. “A collector, even. He told me he sometimes lends a nice piece to one of his actresses for a particular part, although he often has to resort to paste when the character in question is supposed to be wearing something quite spectacular. Not that good paste is cheap. We have some paste diamond necklaces that look most convincing and are surprisingly expensive.”
“Of course, when Mr. Canavan stops by, he says hello,” Thea continued. “He’s kind to me.”
It occurred to me that Thea was being unusually forthcoming. Perhaps it was the cordial, in which case Miss Dardenne would be quite correct about avoiding it. I took another small sip from my own glass.
“He had me try on a pendant on Friday and bought it for Miss Dardenne,” Thea continued. “Mr. Canavan thinks I am quite the best frame for seeing jewels as they should be seen, gracing a woman. Mr. McCombs agreed. He was pleased to make the sale as it was a costly piece, with a large garnet and a freshwater pearl drop.”
“I remember that.” Martin nodded. “Yes, a very pretty present for Miss Dardenne.” His gaze flicked to me in sardonic amusement. “I had that one in mind for you and was disappointed to find it was gone.”
I fingered my Christmas gift, a crystal pendant inlaid with diamonds and rubies. “I don’t suppose I lost out.” I noticed the corners of Martin’s eyes crinkle and knew I hadn’t.
“So really, I did what a house model does—I showed the merchandise to best advantage, and it made the sale.” Thea sniffed. “I don’t see how there could possibly be anything wrong in that. I’ve seen the house models working sometimes when I’ve been asked to take up a bracelet or earbobs or something to the fitting rooms, and they look entirely respectable.”
“They are.” I smiled. “I admit I was a little reluctant at first, but I concede that seeing the dresses on a real woman instead of a dress form has a favorable effect on our customers. And when I saw the way the House of Worth uses its models, I was quite convinced they were a good idea.”
“I didn’t think we’d get through the entire Christmas day without talking sho
p.” Martin grinned. “So let me just adduce in evidence the increase in sales since Nell designed dresses for the Jewel Box. That is a fine example of how seeing a dress on another woman arouses the acquisitive instinct in the female of the species.” His grin widened. “I’m looking forward to each new production.”
“So you see, Teddy is quite wrong. He’s trying to decide for me based on something he knows nothing about.” Thea pouted prettily; however serious the sentiments that prompted her to speak were, her tone was lighthearted. “I hope that by the time he returns he will have to admit how sensible I’ve been and stop making a silly fuss.”
Part III
1879
32
Innovation
February 1879
Since returning to Chicago in September, I had lightened the burden of work a little. I now took the whole of Wednesday, and often Saturday afternoon, for myself and my family. I was making some of Sarah’s dresses, and I’d begun one for Tess.
It felt good to hold a needle in my hand again, to bend over a sewing machine with the absolute concentration required to sew a seam correctly. I even resumed the long-neglected hobby of fabricating delicate handkerchiefs embroidered with lacy motifs. I took the occasional lesson from an embroiderer at the store to improve my skills.
To make this extra time, I hired a secretary to help with my correspondence and administrative tasks. I now found it much easier to find the paper I needed when I needed it. Mr. Pyle always seemed to remember where things were, which saved me a great deal of searching—and I never again forgot to send a letter.
And yet the days flew by as fast as ever, with few opportunities to be a lady of leisure. I was tired again—not as badly as before, but I found myself seeking my bed earlier in the dark winter evenings. Madame had not yet noticed, which was a blessing, and my dresses seemed more sought-after by the belles of Chicago than before.
Which made Madame ambitious, apparently. With eighteen house models now at her disposal, she often asked me for new designs, especially as January became February and we began to plan for summer.
“What do you think of this?”
I held the drawing that was my morning’s work as close to the atelier window as possible, searching for the best light. A vain search; it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but a February snowstorm had blown in to cast an odd, grayish tint over the world outside our windows. Behind me, I heard the faint pops of the gasoliers being lit and murmured imprecations about the poor light from the women engaged in cutting pattern pieces. A sudden gust of wind drove a renewed flurry of snowflakes against the glass, where they melted into icy streaks and dripped sullenly downward.
“Ah, the V-shaped bodice is a nice touch.” Madame ran a small, sharp fingernail over the center of the sketch, careful not to smudge the lines. “It allows you to suggest les paniers. The eighteenth century was a far more élégant time than our own.”
“It’s a tiny suggestion of the last century.” I grinned. “I’d hate to see wide skirts come back. If the bustle returns—I know you think it will—I could reconcile myself to it because at least we can get through a doorway facing forward. Of course, a ball gown like this will give the poor woman two yards of train to worry about. I will put the loop for holding the train there.” I indicated a spot.
“Hmmm.” Madame was only half listening, tapping her lips with a finger as she stared at the whirling snow. “Do you know,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “we should hold a ball.”
“We? Who?” I asked, startled.
But Madame did not appear to hear my interruption. “The snowflakes, they put me in mind of young girls in white dresses, n’est-ce pas? What if our house models could dance?”
“Can they dance?”
“I have never inquired.” Madame frowned. “That was remiss of me. I find some of them a little wooden.”
“They’re supposed to look dignified, aren’t they?”
“A ball gown is made for movement.” Madame’s eyes, usually so sharp, held a dreamy expression. “You have given me four ball gowns—enfin, four ideas that could be adapted in many ways. You can doubtless produce more. I picture perhaps ten ladies of different ages, say six ingénues and four older women, so as not to neglect the possibility of sales to the women of thirty or forty. I see musicians, nothing too extravagant, of course.” She waved a small hand in a dismissive gesture. “A pianoforte, a violin. Let this not be just for the elite.”
“But not too rowdy a dance.” I grinned. “Although a nice lively polka would show off flounces.” I was catching my mentor’s enthusiasm, seeing a froth of pale colors—for the summer season, of course—the dancers whirling, the women’s trains held clear of the floor, their small feet hardly touching the parquet—
“A demonstration ball in the store,” I mused. “Using the house models.”
“Precisely.” Madame smiled. “The Rose Room has a good floor, does it not?”
“Well, yes. Martin meant it as a place to hold receptions if we should ever need it, and the floor is polished wood. If we took up the carpets . . .”
Madame turned to me and positively beamed. “You catch my vision, do you not? A true innovation—far more useful than the machines of which our gentlemen are so very enamored.”
I compressed my mouth to stop myself from grinning. I had made my peace with the stock ticker and the telephone, although the shrill bell of the latter and the monotonous clacking of the former set my teeth on edge and made me glad my office was at the end of the corridor, far away from Martin’s. Progress was progress. But Madame’s feelings were stronger and more vehement; she hated the machines with a passion.
“I see merit in the idea,” I said. “You must rehearse well, of course—and I must work on some more ball gowns.”
“First, I must ask whether any of the house models can dance, and I need to recruit some gentlemen.” Madame’s forehead creased in consternation. “That may not be so easy.”
“And ask Martin and Joe if they agree, perhaps?” I suggested.
“Hmph.” A conscious expression stole over Madame’s face. I knew her well enough by now to guess she had not intended to consult Martin or Joe until her project was so far advanced it would be hard to halt. Now I had mentioned the need for consultation, she had lost that advantage.
“I’ll speak to them,” I said and saw my mentor’s expression lighten. “After all, I’m a partner, and I agree your idea is worth considering. When would we hold this demonstration? It would have to be quite early in spring, I imagine, to fill our order books for the summer balls.”
“April.” Madame’s steely eyes held an avid gleam. “We will need time for rehearsals and for the confection of the gowns. Everything must be perfect.”
A ball would not be complete without jewels, and that was why only a month passed before I was standing with Joe in the store’s safe room.
“I hadn’t realized we carried quite so much jewelry,” I confessed as I looked around me. “Is there something in every one of those drawers?”
“Those are all empty. Room for expansion.” Joe waved his hand at the bank of cabinets on one side of the vault.
Each drawer and cupboard was numbered, the cards bearing the black-lettered designation sitting inside a brass card holder that formed part of the drawer pull. The room was about the size of a small parlor. Other than the banks of cabinets, whose brass fittings gleamed in the flare from two gaslights of plain glass, it held only a long table and two chairs. On the table sat a ledger, an inkstand with inkwell, a bottle of ink, three pens, and a lamp.
We had entered the room at eight o’clock in the morning, after the employees from the jewelry department had taken perhaps twenty items up to the sales floor under the eyes of two uniformed watchmen. Thea had been among them. Through the bars of the internal door drawn across the doorway while the massive vault door was open, I had seen her write the numbers one of the male employees called out in the ledger, which the senior assistant then si
gned. She had demurely followed the small procession of men, each carrying a stack of the shallow drawers, out of the safe room, and Joe and I had entered it in our turn.
“We’re pretty circumspect about what we take out each morning given the number of burglaries that have taken place in other stores over the last few months.” Joe pulled the inner door across the opening and locked it from the inside.
“But supposing a customer wants to view a wide range of pieces?” I asked.
Joe shrugged. “We’re not a jewelry store. We sell our pieces mainly as an adjunct to a gown, as you well know. We limit our choice to the customer deliberately; and the kind of prospect who wishes to buy this sort of jewelry rarely quibbles about prices.” His thin face split in a grin. “Our expertise brings them to us. Of course, we get casual buyers—mostly men, some women—who like to stop by the department to check what we’re displaying on any given day. It’s surprising how the idea that the piece could disappear back into this room for days, even weeks, focuses their mind on a purchase.”
“Rarity value.” I nodded.
“You can only peruse our entire stock because you’re a partner and because I’m with you. If anybody robs the jewelry department at gunpoint, they will get away with relatively little—still a fortune in the eyes of all but the very rich, but nothing that’ll break us. Now, emeralds, you say? They’d be over here.”
I flipped open the book as I moved toward Joe, seeing only dates and numbers. “Isn’t there a list of all the pieces?”
“Elsewhere in the store, under lock and key.” Joe began removing drawers and laying them on the other end of the table. “Be careful to replace each item before you pick up the next one—I’m not as familiar with the numbering system as the jewelry staff. I don’t want to get into trouble for mixing things up. There, these are all the emerald necklaces we have at present.”