by Jane Steen
I surveyed the velvet-lined drawers. “That,” I said, pointing to a circle of square-cut emeralds within circular diamonds.
Joe looked. “Trust you to choose the expensive piece.” The lines bracketing his mouth deepened into a smile as he unhooked the necklace from the pins holding it straight and handed it to me. It was surprisingly heavy. “Each of those stones is worth more than I could expect to earn in a year. The diamonds are nothing compared to them, although they’re costly jewels in themselves. We must take out extra insurance if you intend to use that one.”
“It has the right look.” I gave the necklace back to Joe. “I must make some alterations because of the diamonds, but I think the idea I’ve just had will enhance the design.”
Joe was replacing the necklace so it sat perfectly on its black velvet setting. “The way you see things is quite remarkable,” he said. “You never hesitate.”
“Oh, I do, but sometimes I’m just sure what’s right. I would prefer a darker gold for the setting, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Perhaps you can commission pieces next time,” Joe suggested. “If this first trial is a success. What’s next on your list?”
A half hour passed quickly as we reviewed various combinations of precious and semiprecious gems. I had to admit that having such jewels at my disposal was a heady experience. I said as much to Joe as he busied himself putting the last few drawers back into their places.
“I will also confess I enjoy looking at them.” Joe straightened up, smiling. “Leah likes jewels—we’d never aspire to some of the pieces you’ve seen, but I’ve been able to make her as happy as a duchess occasionally. It helps when you can buy at cost. Haven’t you seen anything you’d like for yourself?”
“I was never overfond of jewelry.” I looked at the rings on my hands. “I’m getting used to it now. Martin loves giving me things. He gave me a rather splendid pendant for Christmas.”
“The crystal piece.” Joe nodded. “Quite unique. Martin has excellent taste, and he understands you completely.”
“He’s known me since I was three. Does he come down here and look through the assorted riches? It’s like Aladdin’s cave.”
Joe’s smile was a little tight. “He selects from a few pieces I have brought up to him.”
“You mean he never comes down here.”
“Can you blame him?” Joe nodded at the bars that presumably protected us from a daylight raid. “We both remember only too well how he felt about being behind bars. And he’s far more sensitive than he lets on.”
“Does he know that you know?” I didn’t have to elaborate further.
“Of course not. I keep up the pretense that he’s far too grand to bother with coming down here. Now, Mrs. Rutherford, I’m going to ask you to step outside while I set the time locks.”
I looked at the shiny silver box, chased with designs of peacock feathers, which held two complicated dials, like arcane clocks with strange hour and minute hands. “How does it work?”
“Do you imagine I’d tell you?” Joe looked steadily at me. “Even Martin’s in the dark, although he and I came up with the formula for setting the opening and closing times. They vary daily—and you’d laugh if we told you how we did it.” He turned a key to unlock the bars, sliding them into their recess. “Certain employees, not the obvious ones, are privy to the secret. People who have earned the trust we put in them.”
“You’re risking your life for this, aren’t you?” I suddenly realized.
“No, I don’t think so.” Joe paused with his hand on the time lock box as I stepped outside the vault. “The days when criminals would kidnap employees from their beds and torture them until they revealed a combination are pretty much over, thanks to these time locks. I doubt they’re as infallible as their manufacturers claim, but they do help.” He looked at the vault’s concrete ceiling. “They could use dynamite, I suppose, but they’d still have difficulty—there are steel bars all around us, encased in concrete mixed with metal shavings.”
I sat in an armchair in the small antechamber as Joe pulled the bars across again. He was out of my sight for about three minutes, adjusting the locking mechanism, before he stepped outside and swung the massive outer door shut, setting the combination carefully. I heard a series of clicks.
“And now nobody can get back in until such a time as I have determined.” Joe offered me his arm. “Are you absolutely sure you noticed nothing you liked? Martin would cover you with diamonds if you only let him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Very well, the tourmaline bracelet with the heavy scrolled gold setting. I prefer semiprecious stones, truth be told. The others are so showy—or else one has to opt for small stones, and small stones just don’t have the same effect.” I pinched Joe’s arm in a sisterly fashion. “But not until my birthday, mind you.”
“Your wish is my command. I’ll make sure the piece is removed to Martin’s own safe. Is this ball gown demonstration going to go ahead, then? You must be quite certain about the gowns if you’re already choosing the jewelry.”
“Oh, the gowns are the straightforward part.” I sighed.
“What, Madame’s still not found ten men and ten women who can dance to her standards?”
“She’s decided to be content with six. She says that quality is better than quantity.” I grinned. “She’s thrilled with Miss Dorrian as the lead dancer. It’s a stroke of luck that quite the prettiest of the floor models turns out to be so light on her feet. She and handsome Mr. Mangan make a splendid couple on the dance floor.”
“Madame Belvoix has given me a list of items she wants in the Rose Room—potted palms and such. And a refreshment table.”
“You’ll be there, of course.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll send up the invitation list for you and Madame to peruse early next week. We’re probably going to keep it intimate, depending on who says they’ll come. If it’s a success, we’ll put the word around that people can apply for an invitation to the next one, and then perhaps we can put on more than one performance—if I may call it such.”
“If it’s a success. Martin believes it should be. I must admit I’m a little nervous.”
“About it succeeding?”
“About my own . . . performance, I suppose. After all, these are my gowns. I’m perfectly comfortable dealing with clients one at a time, but those are women who have come to me because they want a dress. This is about creating the desire to buy, and it feels different.”
Joe squeezed my arm. “Martin will take care of the selling. You know how much he enjoys that part of the job. All you will have to do is to answer questions about fit, fabrics, variations, and so on, and you have the requisite expertise. The jewelry department seniors will be there to provide information about the baubles, the shoemaker about the shoes, and of course the ladies who sell unmentionables will be in attendance. My guess is that we’re all going to enjoy ourselves.”
“I hope so.” I smiled as Joe held open the door that led to the staircase.
“Oh, please sign out some pieces of paste jewelry to use for the final rehearsals.” Joe stopped, turning to face me. “The dancers will have to get used to managing the full regalia. But please don’t tell them which pieces are being used for the real thing—let them believe it’ll all be paste. We can’t be too careful at the moment.”
33
Love
“Good morning.”
Martin got to his feet as I entered the room, stepping forward to greet me with a kiss. He smelled of the coffee he’d been drinking, and the buttery aroma of eggs rose from his half-eaten breakfast. I took a deep breath.
“You’ve missed Sarah and Tess.” Martin held out a chair for me; once I sat down, he poured my coffee. “I’ll ring for them to bring your eggs.”
“No, don’t.” I reached for a piece of toast. “This will do fine.”
“Still under the weather?” Martin gathered up a sizeable amount of food onto his fork and transfer
red it to his mouth, following up with a healthy gulp of coffee. “You’re a little white in the face. You were fast asleep when I came to bed.”
I broke off a piece of dry toast and nibbled experimentally. Finding that nothing drastic happened, I ate a little more. I pushed my untouched coffee cup as far from me as I could manage.
“They were both too hungry to wait for you.” Martin pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and opened the case, then replaced it and began eating faster. “I won’t be able to linger if you’re going to eat that slowly. You know Fassbinder’s here, and I’ve arranged for all the department managers to be in my office at eight, so I want to be there at half past seven. You don’t have to be there till eight, of course.”
I looked down unhappily at my hands, which were tearing the toast into small pieces. Above all else, I couldn’t confide in Martin about the dark cloud of misery that had settled upon me when I had realized—and I was late to breakfast because I’d been bathing my eyes in cold water so Martin wouldn’t suspect I’d been crying. I was holding myself so tensely my back ached. The discomfort was echoed by the tightness in my breasts, which tingled maddeningly under my corset. I didn’t want to say anything—but I had to, didn’t I? This was an excellent opportunity. I must try to smile.
I took a few more deep breaths, willing myself to remain calm. At last, I spoke.
“I think I’m with child.”
I had timed the announcement well, making sure Martin hadn’t just swallowed a mouthful of coffee or was holding anything breakable. I had expected a reaction. But the shout of joy that escaped my husband as he leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair and pulling the tablecloth askew, did at least bring an uncertain, wavering smile to my lips.
I stood and let Martin pull me into his arms, folding me close in a way that was quite different from his usual embrace. I allowed myself to melt into his warmth, closing my eyes for a few moments as broken words of delight and love babbled into my ear, accompanied by a rain of kisses on every available patch of skin.
“Is that why you’ve been so ill?” Martin asked when he came to his senses. He put a little distance between us, cupping my cheek and running his thumb over my scar. The gentleness of that gesture made me want to weep again.
“I imagine so. And I’ve been quite exhausted in the evenings, as you’re aware.”
“But that’s been for some weeks. Didn’t you say—weren’t you indisposed recently?”
“I believed I was, but I must have been mistaken.” One did not make a man, even a beloved husband, privy to matters that were grossly physical; if he were a gentleman, the murmured word “indisposed” should be enough to render him less insistent than usual. So I didn’t tell him I had bled a little, on and off, and assumed that was my monthly visitor. After all, when I had been carrying Sarah, I had never bled. But when I had been carrying Sarah, I had never been ill. I’d been sixteen—almost seventeen—in those early months, in the most robust health, bothered by nothing except an increase in appetite. Now I was twenty-five—almost twenty-six—and the intervening years obviously counted for much.
“I calculate I’m a good three months along.” I looked up at Martin. “I’ve been dreadful in the mornings. When I get out of bed, it’s as if I’m on a boat. But because I was mistaken over . . . being indisposed . . . I just assumed it was something I’d get over.” I smiled tremulously. “I’ll get over this.”
“You must rest more,” Martin said firmly. “No, don’t you dare argue. You must reduce your working hours straightaway.”
And there it was—exactly what I’d been expecting. It was when I’d been fastening my bodice, annoyed that it seemed tighter than usual, that the lightning bolt of sudden knowledge had flashed through my brain. It had immediately been followed by the realization that my life was about to change, and then by the realization that I was upset by that prospect.
The first time I’d been enceinte, I’d simply been afraid of discovery. I’d been furious at the notion I might have to marry Jack—then stubbornly determined I would not marry my cousin. This time my mind had flashed ahead to—October? What would I be doing in October? Of course, the atelier would be hard at work on gowns for the winter season. Rich materials for the wealthy women and cheerful reds and plaids for the more modestly situated. It was always such fun to choose the fabrics for a new season, to outdo last year’s creations—
But I wouldn’t be doing any of that. Perhaps it was the weakness inherent in my condition that had caused the tears to gush from my eyes. Alice had found me sobbing when she’d come in to put up my hair and help me finish dressing. She hadn’t asked a question or ventured an opinion, but she’d put a firm, competent hand on my shoulder and handed me a handkerchief, then fetched a bowl of cold water so I could bathe my eyes while she finished my hair. She must have realized, of course. She laundered my most intimate linen—how would she not realize? But she was nothing if not discreet.
“Once I’m over the worst and begin to feel better, I will work as long as I am comfortable,” I said firmly. “I don’t have a wasting disease, Martin. I have a baby. I worked up to the day I gave birth to Sarah and came to no harm.”
I saw the expression on his face and softened. “But I’ll concede that while I’m feeling so horrible, I should take a little extra rest. To be frank, I’d welcome it.”
“And we’ll have the doctor come to see you.”
“What do I need a doctor for?”
“To prescribe nourishing food and congratulate me on my good fortune.” Martin whooped in elation again. “When may I inform people? Just our closest friends, of course. Joe, certainly. And what about telling Tess and Sarah?”
“Not just yet.” I leaned into Martin’s chest, hearing the loud, reassuring thump of his heartbeat. “I’m not ready.”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t know how I’m going to stop myself grinning from ear to ear and giving the whole game away. Perhaps I should leave you to take the carriage and ride Gentleman, just to use up some of this energy. I declare I could leap over a barn.”
“As long as you don’t come close to me smelling of horse.” My stomach lurched. “I’m sorry I have to keep turning my head away. It’s not personal; it’s the food and coffee on your breath. In fact, if you’re able to spare me from this meeting, I’d much rather stay at home. I generally improve around ten o’clock.”
By the time ten o’clock struck, I was regretting my decision not to go to work. As the nausea subsided a little, I became restless, unable to settle to anything, reluctant to set off for Rutherford’s in case Martin had told anyone and yet longing for my familiar routine.
I surprised Sarah and Miss Baker with a visit to the schoolroom and joined in a geography lesson. Miss Baker did not force Sarah to learn facts and figures by rote as I had been taught; she had managed to convey to Sarah not just the names of countries and capitals, but a genuine sense of each different land, its peoples, its languages, and its customs. At eight years old, my daughter was better informed than some of my Prairie Avenue friends. Her visit to Europe had sharpened her interest in the world outside America.
“And now our lesson is over, Mama!” Sarah left her seat and came to put her arms around my neck as I sat on the schoolroom’s comfortable settee. “Can you guess what we’re going to do next?”
I slipped an arm over my daughter’s skinny shoulders as she sat down next to me, wondering at the hardness of the muscle and the sheer vitality of the small body. “You’re going to South Park to see the sheep?” I suggested.
“Wrong!” Sarah bounced in her seat, grinning. “Our scheduled outing for today is to observe the fast driving on Lake Shore Drive. And then we’re going to the zoo, because it’s Friday and I’ve been ever so good. Mama, did you know that some little children in England grow up in nasty places called workhouses? Because they don’t have mamas and papas. And then they have to go out and work when they’re no older than I am. Supposing I had to go out and work? Do you thi
nk I could be a cash boy—or a cash girl—in Rutherford’s? I can run fast.”
“Why were you learning about workhouses?” I asked. The image of the Women’s House at the Poor Farm rose in my mind.
“We’re reading Oliver Twist together.” Miss Baker held up the green-and-gold illustrated edition she’d bought in London. “A little ambitious, perhaps, but I was sure Sarah would enjoy a story about a child. And that’s what we’re supposed to be doing now, Sarah. Up at the table with you.”
“You’re welcome to go to sleep on the settee while we’re reading, Mama.” Sarah bounded up from her place on the settee and vaulted into her chair at the schoolroom table. Given the chance, she rarely seemed to walk or sit in the normal fashion these days; she was always leaping, skipping, jumping, racing. And yet she was able to be still when it suited her, or when manners dictated that she was to be calm and not disturb the grown-ups.
“I don’t want to fall asleep.” I smiled, rising from the settee. “I’ll go sit with Tess for a while; she should be back from the market by now. Then I’ll go to the store.”
“Listen to me read first.” Sarah found the location in the book marked by a bright green ribbon. “‘In great families, when an ad-van-ta-geous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, re-ver-sion, remainder, or ex-pec-tan-cy . . .’ Merciful heavens, what does that mean? I can’t possibly go on till you tell me.”
I burst out laughing at the indignation in Sarah’s voice; Miss Baker and Sarah joined in. “I’m afraid we’re not getting on very fast with the book,” Miss Baker said. “There’s so much to explain.”
“Because Mr. Dickens forgets that he’s supposed to be telling a story,” Sarah informed me. “And he—what was it he does?”
“Editorializes.” Miss Baker looked at the page. “Fetch a slate and we’ll go over those words. It’s all about inheriting money.”