Some Like It Scandalous

by Maya Rodale

  Her mother was shouldering the burden of planning the wedding alone with no help from Daisy, who had been occupied with other more interesting things—mixing colors, making lip paint, plotting a new commercial empire. Given that Daisy hadn’t been involved in even the choice of groom, she thought she could not be expected to care about the reception menu.

  There might not even be a wedding.

  Ever since their sham engagement began, she and Theo had plotted a half-dozen ways to call it off. Why, she even had a list somewhere on her desk. Her feelings for Theo had changed and undergone a dramatic transformation; she no longer despised him. She actually even liked him. She definitely liked the intimacies they shared and had some idea of stealing off with him to do it again. And she really liked that together, they had made her daydream real, their business a success.

  But she was so close to getting everything she ever wanted: the freedom of spinsterhood and the means to enjoy it. Especially if she could convince Theo to jilt her; then she really wouldn’t be plagued by pressure to marry. Besides, could she really turn back from her plans now?

  But occasionally in the darkest and quietest hours of the night, she gave in to the most scandalous thoughts of all: actually marrying him. It was no longer the worst possible fate she could ever imagine. Perhaps not even in the top ten most horrible ways to spend the rest of her life.

  But really—was one night of making love supposed to just undo the past twelve years? It couldn’t possibly.

  Any person of sense knew that a conversation was in order. Yet actually broaching this subject with him was downright terrifying. After all, Theodore Prescott the Third had once altered the course of her existence with just a few throwaway words. Ugly Duck indeed. Was she really going to risk that happening again? He was already in a position to hurt her terribly and irreparably.

  She knew he was capable of it; he’d done it before.

  And now the stakes were higher.

  Which was why she thought maybe they might just . . . get swept along with all the wedding plans and let the cards fall where they may.

  The clock was ticking on the big day.

  There was an increasing sense of urgency.

  Something would have to be done about her. And him. Together.

  And the dress.

  Something definitely had to be done about the dress.

  Daisy arrived at the House of Adeline and was welcomed by Rose and Rachel, Adeline’s two longtime friends and fellow seamstresses. They showed Daisy to a private chamber, hidden by thick velvet curtains.

  It was not empty.

  There was a gown draped and pinned to a fabric mannequin. It was just a muslin version, made of cheap fabric to confirm the drape, the seams, the cut, the measurements before one made a real commitment with expensive satin, that extraordinary lace.

  Nevertheless, it was clear that this was a gorgeous gown.

  The kind of gown that took your breath away.

  The kind of gown that made you feel so righteously beautiful and confident in your own body that you could conquer even the most daunting challenge. Maybe even marriage in front of no fewer than seven hundred members of Manhattan high society.

  Things started to feel very, very real all of a sudden.

  Between the lovemaking, their business, and now the dress, there was a distinct possibility that the wedding would actually happen. There was a distinct possibility that this dress alone had her considering it.

  Before Daisy could suffer some attack of the nerves, Adeline appeared with a slightly apologetic smile.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me but I made a muslin version for your dress.”

  “The dress we had agreed not to make?”

  “Yes, that one,” Adeline confirmed and Daisy nodded. She couldn’t wrench her gaze away.

  “Now, it could always catch fire, or be left outside during a storm, or flung down an elevator shaft at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. These things happen,” Adeline said.

  “It’s terribly dangerous out there for a dress,” Daisy murmured her agreement.

  “I just had an idea of a gown for you and for your wedding, in particular. And then I had some free time—” This was a lie; the wait time for a House of Adeline dress was significant. “So I pulled this together. Just try it on. Just see.”

  Obviously, Daisy had to try it on.

  It would be rude not to. Adeline was her friend.

  It was just a muslin. It wasn’t the real dress. It was just pretend. Like the color on her lips and the pink on her cheeks. Like her engagement.

  Against her better judgment, Daisy tried it on.

  It was immediately clear that this dress was nothing less than a work of art. It was not a gown that could be subjected to arson, neglect, or the perils of an elevator shaft, coal bin, or railroad track, or any other hideous fates one might imagine.

  Adeline had ignored Mrs. Swan’s dictates about more and also even more! Instead, she had created a gown that highlighted the best of Daisy herself. Every stitch and seam was placed to enhance and support, to create a gown that she could move freely in—as much as one could, given the fashions of the day.

  “The lace will go here, on the bodice, and on the skirts. But any embellishments will be kept to a minimum. You have a strong face, Daisy. You mustn’t try to hide behind ruffles and other distractions. A simple cut will suit you best.”

  “It’s beautiful. And this is just the muslin.”

  “A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman.”

  “You don’t have to . . .”

  “Shhh. Look.” Adeline pointed Daisy’s attention to the mirror. She was riveted by her reflection. She felt beautiful in this dress and it showed in the light of her eyes, in the head held high. It wasn’t just the dress though. She loved the color on her lips, the hint of pink across her cheeks. She loved what those things symbolized to her: daring for more, daring to make her dream come true, daring to show the world that she was worthy of adornment.

  “It will have pockets, of course.” Adeline’s signature design feature was pockets in dresses. For love letters, for handkerchiefs, for lip paint. For a train ticket and coin if she needed to run away. Because she had always planned on doing whatever it took to stay unwed.

  But this dress dared her to imagine that she might stay and marry Theo.

  With this gown on, Daisy could now start to picture what it would be like to walk down the aisle of Grace Church and to stand up beside him and promise to love him. And didn’t that make a real blush deepen on her cheeks. To show everyone who had thought so little of her—everyone who had quacked at her—that she was a tower of strength, beautiful if not pretty, and loved.

  In her fantasy, he loved her.

  Daisy had spent a significant portion of her time scheming and plotting how to get out of the wedding. This was the first time that she really, truly imagined actually going through with it.

  Now she had reasons to consider it, beyond the dress.

  They had made love. That mattered. They had created something—a burgeoning little business—that would bond them together anyway. Once they had stopped bringing out the worst in each other, they started bringing out the best. They were conspirators who shared kisses. Did she dare to chance that they could be more for each other?

  If they did wed, would they do so for love or because they could not agree on a scheme to get out of it? These were questions Daisy didn’t have answers for right here, right now. But if the answer was yes or I do, she wanted to be wearing this gown for the moment.

  “The wedding is in less than a month,” Daisy said. Less than a month to make up her mind to alter the course of her entire life. But the moment to decide if she wanted this dress was now. “Supposedly. Allegedly. Rumor has it.”

  “That doesn’t leave much time to make this into a gown,” Adeline said. “It will take my girls many, many hours. Twelve-hour days.”

  Daisy had put her body and reputation on the line to protest seamstresses bei
ng required to work ten-hour days.

  “If we make the dress, I hope they will be compensated accordingly.”

  Adeline smiled. A twinkle in her eye.

  “Of course. We value women’s work here.”

  “And what if I end up not needing the dress?” Daisy asked. It had to be asked. Because wanting to stand up in front of Manhattan society in a pretty dress, loved by one of their favored sons, was not a good enough reason to get married. Because one night of passion and a business entanglement were also not good enough reasons to pledge forever. Because Daisy wanted independence more than anything. Maybe even more than Theo. Definitely more than this beautiful, gorgeous, one-of-a-kind, made-for-her dress. “For who will want a jilted wedding dress, made exactly to my measurements?”

  “I can always burn it. Drown it in the East River. Shred the fabric and use it to stuff pillows.” Adeline shrugged. “But who says you won’t need the dress?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  One is prepared to support the ladies’ club movement as long as the women focus on matters that pertain to the realm of women. Anything else would be shocking, sensational, and scandalous.

  —The New York Post

  25 West Tenth Street

  It was with great optimism and a heart full of hope that Daisy climbed the stoop at Miss Harriet Burnett’s town house for the weekly meeting of the Ladies of Liberty Club. Today she had something to share.

  Something shocking.

  Something sensational.

  Something scandalous.

  Something pretty.

  It was her newly created line of Dr. Swan’s Cosmetics. Daisy was confident in her formulations, which were a blend of science and creativity that had been tested by the girls in the shop, as well as some of the actresses at the Empire Theater who had volunteered. And Theo had really outdone himself by sourcing small, stylish metal boxes labeled with the same lavender paper of all the other Dr. Swan products.

  They both had every expectation that this would mimic the success of the Midnight Miracle Cream, which was flying off the shelves. They had even expanded into the Morning Miracle Cream, a lighter version. Once a few brave women had dared to buy it publicly, once the newspapers had reported on it, once friends had discussed it, once it seemed commonplace enough, the sales took off. Daisy expected that once again, the Ladies of Liberty would be instrumental to her success.

  Daisy knocked on the door at the town house using the heavy bronze knocker cast in the shape of Medusa’s head. So very Harriet. Miss Burnett’s butler opened the door to her and gestured toward the drawing room, where Harriet, her erstwhile companion Miss Ava Lumley, and other ladies of the club had already gathered and were doing serious damage to a pot of tea and tray of sandwiches.

  There was no pretense about lady appetites at club meetings. If one was famished, one ate a sandwich. Or two.

  “Ah, Daisy! There you are!” She hoped everyone would notice the cosmetics she had applied—a soft pink tint to her lips, a similar dash of color to her cheeks. She’d taken great care in her application to achieve a look that was subtle but noticeable all the same. Then she had to wait for her mother to leave for her charity luncheon so that she could escape with her carefully made-up face intact. Her mother would have a fit if she saw it. Then Daisy would be really delayed, if not banished to her room, and she was so excited to share her newest creation.

  For the very first time, she wanted to be noticed for her face.

  But Harriet just waved her in and said, “We are discussing the issue of restaurants.”

  “Particularly the fact that women are not allowed in them without a man,” Ava added.

  “And then one is not expected to display much of an appetite when dining in the company of men, so what is even the point?” Elsie said. The clubwomen’s gazes drifted toward a tray of sandwiches and cookies that had been demolished.

  Daisy availed herself of a spot on a plush pink velvet upholstered settee and accepted a cup of tea. The satchel full of promise and products rested at her feet.

  “This rule, this expectation, is just another way in which women’s sphere is limited,” Harriet said. “We fear for our reputations should we venture out alone, so we stay in or merely travel from drawing room to drawing room. Which raises the question, why is it so terrible that a woman go out alone?”

  “It’s dangerous. Our virtue might be . . . compromised,” Elizabeth said.

  “Or people might only think our virtue has been compromised. Which is almost worse than being actually compromised,” Elsie remarked.

  There was a ring of truth to this. It brought to mind the sneaking around she had done the other night. It didn’t matter what she had done, as long as she wasn’t seen doing it. As long as no one gossiped about it, it might as well have never happened.

  But why, she wondered for the first time, was it so very terrible that people would think she was a woman who’d been made love to? She was either labeled a hopeless spinster or bride-to-be or wife; anything else was dangerous territory.

  “Never mind that it’s exhausting moving around in all the skirts and fripperies that a woman must wear,” Ava said.

  “I’m working on solving that one,” Adeline said to the group’s gentle laughter. “It won’t be long before hemlines are shorter. Mark my words.”

  “Until then, there is nowhere to go and it’s too difficult to get there and one risks their reputation in doing so. One might as well stay home.”

  “I do believe that is the point,” Elsie said dryly.

  “How are we supposed to upset the natural order of things from home?”

  “Again, I do believe that is the point,” Elsie said.

  “Daisy, what is on your face?” Harriet asked.

  All the women turned to face her. Finally!

  “You might be noticing my lip color.” Daisy smiled. “It’s specially formulated to mimic the look of a woman who has just been kissed.” Daisy paused for oohs and aahs that were not forthcoming. Nevertheless, she persisted. Because they were definitely intrigued and definitely looking. “With my proprietary blend of waxes and oils, plus specially crafted mixtures of pigments to create flattering shades—”

  “Never mind all that!” Elsie interjected with a wave of her hand. “Who have you been kissing?”

  Miss Lumley answered for Daisy. “Theodore Prescott the Third, obviously. Her fiancé. Obviously.”

  “Her fake fiancé,” Harriet corrected. “Whom she has told us on multiple occasions that she loathes.”

  Eunice snorted at that. “It didn’t look like she loathed him backstage at the theater.”

  Daisy’s cheeks turned a shade of pink that Theo might have called upstanding spinster romanced by a rogue and embarrassed in front of her friends.

  “What were you doing backstage at the theater?”

  “Research. For this . . .”

  Tea things were promptly cleared away from the table—they had vanquished a tower of sandwiches and petit fours and drained the teapots—and in that space Daisy created her display of products she carefully removed from her satchel. There were small pots of lip paints in varying hues of pink and red and little powders for cheeks.

  A hushed silence fell over the ladies present as they examined everything, some women even daring to pick them up and examine them. It wasn’t that these things were utterly foreign. They had been around for decades—centuries, even—but for as long as anyone in this room could remember, they were only worn by certain kinds of women. The ones of questionable virtue.

  Rouge was something for actresses and prostitutes; women who earned their own money.

  The ladies with reputations of impeccable virtue, such as the ones in Harriet’s drawing room, were not usually at liberty to openly browse and experiment with these products. They were high society wives and daughters or respectable middle-class women. But they were also daring to push the boundaries of what proper ladies could do. They pushed the limits, in the most ladylike
way. They owned and operated their own businesses, they earned their own way as reporters, they were doctors and activists.

  Proper ones though. Not a smidge of lipstick was to be found on their lips.

  “Do I have a volunteer to try it?” Daisy asked.

  “Will it come off?”

  “Of course. Regular soap and water should do the trick, but I have also been working on a special solution that will help remove it.”

  No one clamored for the opportunity. The women were silent. But Daisy recognized the expression on their faces: it was of a woman desperately keen to try it but determined not to appear thusly. A similar expression was to be found on the faces of wallflowers in ballrooms all over town; girls who wanted to dance but did not appear to want to dance.

  Because then what would people say about a woman who obviously has desires?

  To be obviously wanting was unseemly in a woman.

  “I’ll give it a go,” Harriet said gamely. She was always one to support her friends. Daisy gave her a grateful smile.

  “We’ll start with the rouge. It’s a loose powder lightly tinted with pink to provide the illusion of having received a delicious compliment from a suitor one likes.”

  Blushing at receiving a compliment was ladylike enough. The women curiously appraised Harriet’s now delicately pink cheeks.

  Daisy carried on, reaching now for just the right shade of pink for Harriet’s complexion.

  “I have formulated a few different shades of lip paint. I think this color is a little more daring, but I think it would suit you, Harriet.”

  It was a shade of red that Theo called Lady Rebel.

  Daisy carefully applied the lipstick to Harriet’s lips and moved back to admire her work and let everyone see. Had everyone not been watching the application process, they might not have noticed the difference. Daisy had not used a strong hand—they were not under stage lights in front of an audience of thousands, after all.