by Jen Turano
“Which has been lovely, to be sure, but I would never fit into Asher’s world.”
“You have more in common with him than you know. You may make the claim that you’re a frugal shopper, but you’ve got one of the best eyes for fashion and design I’ve ever seen, which means you speak Asher’s language. Quite honestly, I think the two of you would make a formidable team if you joined forces.”
“As appealing as that may sound, Asher has disclosed to me his unfortunate opinions on women and where they belong in the scheme of life. Joining forces with a woman in order to work together is not something I believe Asher would ever consider doing.”
“I can’t see Asher remaining stuck in such opinions as he becomes better acquainted with you.”
“Since I’m off for Europe tomorrow, Gertrude, Asher’s views on women will most likely not change anytime in the . . .”
A knock on Permilia’s bedchamber door had the rest of her words trailing to an end. Turning, she found one of the Griswold maids, Maude, poking her head in the door.
“Pardon me for interrupting, Miss Permilia, but a note just arrived for you, one that states right on the front of the parchment that it’s a matter of great urgency.”
Gesturing Maude into the room, Permilia met her halfway, taking the note. Frowning when she recognized the writing scrawled across the front as belonging to none other than her editor, she moved to the window under the pretense of needing better light to read the note.
Slipping her finger under the fold, she broke the seal and opened up the page, scanning the contents. Lifting her head, she summoned up a smile.
“Nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut our visit a bit short, Gertrude.”
Gertrude’s gaze darted to the note in Permilia’s hand. “May I assume that note has something to do with the oh-so-mysterious appointment you had last night, the one you almost forgot about?”
Permilia’s smile widened. “In all truthfulness, no, this note has nothing to do with that meeting, but if you would be so kind as to stay, Maude, and to close that door so we won’t be overheard, I’d appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
With Gertrude looking more confused than ever, and Maude moving to shut the door, Permilia walked over to where a settee was placed by the side of the window, making short work of clearing off the clothing she’d considered packing for Paris. Pulling up a spare chair once she’d cleared off the settee, she waved Gertrude and Maude forward.
As everyone took their seats, Permilia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “This is not common knowledge, Gertrude, but it suddenly struck me, especially since I’m going to be out of the country for an extended period of time, that perhaps you, being one of my very good friends, would be interested in assisting me with a dilemma I just realized I face.”
Maude raised a hand to her chest. “Goodness, Miss Permilia, I only just now realized that your leaving is indeed a dilemma, what with the support you give Miss Snook and all.”
“Who is . . . Miss Snook?” Gertrude asked.
“She’s the owner of Miss Snook’s School for the Improvement of Feminine Minds,” Permilia said. “A school I became involved with not long after my father married Ida and moved me permanently to New York.”
Gertrude sat back against the settee. “Does Ida know that you’re involved with what sounds to me as if it might be a controversial school?”
“Of course not,” Permilia began. “Miss Snook’s school is for young women who have not been given any advantages in their lives, and—”
“Like me,” Maude interrupted. “Along with a lot of other women who work as domestics simply because we lack the education needed to do anything else.” She smiled at Gertrude. “I’ve been improving my speech for the past four years, along with my reading abilities, because I’m hopeful that someday I may very well be fortunate enough to become a companion, like you are for Mrs. Davenport.” Maude’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t mean to suggest, though, that I would be on an equal footing with you, Miss Cadwalader, seeing as how you are related to some of the most well-regarded families in New York.”
Gertrude waved away Maude’s words. “I was raised in genteel poverty, Maude. And while my being related to well-regarded families did make it possible for me to obtain a well-rounded education, I was only able to attend the schools I did because of the generosity of others.” She smiled. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re striving to improve yourself with education, although I’m not certain how I could possibly help.”
“How’s your math?” Permilia asked.
Gertrude bit her lip. “The basics . . . Or are you inquiring how I do with the more advanced subjects? I’m not much good for anything more than multiplication and division.”
Maude cleared her throat. “If Miss Cadwalader is not comfortable taking on the science and math classes you teach, Miss Griswold, she could always teach deportment and perhaps carry on with the lessons you were giving on dressing to impress future employers. Although . . .” Maude glanced Gertrude’s way and winced, probably because Gertrude, while looking almost normal today, did have a few more bows in her hair than most ladies would choose to wear, and her gown, interestingly enough, was littered with an overabundance of buttons—compliments, no doubt, of Mrs. Davenport’s artistic nature.
“I’m very good with deportment,” Gertrude said with a grin. “And while I would be more than willing to help here and there with teaching, was there anything besides teaching you needed assistance with while you’re off in Paris?”
Taking a moment to consider the matter, Permilia frowned. “Well, Miss Snook does occasionally ask me to step in to find positions for some of the young women who get let go when their participation in the school becomes known to irate employers. If you feel comfortable broaching the subject, you could enlist Mrs. Davenport’s aid in that regard since I won’t be available to get those women hired on here.”
“That’s how I got my current position,” Maude said with a nod Permilia’s way.
Permilia rose to her feet. “And since I’ve been called away on another matter, I might not have the time needed to seek Miss Snook out and explain why I’m off to Paris, so . . .” She moved to the small desk where she wrote the majority of her articles for the New York Sun and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. Taking a moment to write down her message, she straightened and walked back over to Gertrude, handing her the note. “I’ve written down the address of the school for you, as well as a message to deliver to Miss Snook—that message being that I will see to it that the funds I provide her with on a monthly basis will still be delivered to her on schedule.”
Gertrude got up from the settee and put the note in the pocket of her gown, a pocket that had not one but two buttons to see it securely closed. “I’m surprised Ida hasn’t discovered your secret about the school over the years, especially if you’re its benefactor.”
“I’m sure you’ll now understand more fully why I’ve become such a frugal shopper. That frugality has been one of the ways I’ve been able to divert most of my pin money to the school while still being able to maintain a fashionable wardrobe that doesn’t embarrass my stepmother.” Permilia blew out a sigh. “I was quite unused to being restricted to such limited funds after my father married Ida, but in all honesty, it has made me become rather creative with my spending, and has given me a greater appreciation for the value of a dollar.”
The clock on the wall began to chime, recalling Permilia to the idea she needed to be getting on her way to the paper.
“But now, I do fear I’m going to have to say good-bye, because I need to address some business that was disclosed in that note I just received. Although . . . now that I’ve just told you one of my secrets, it seems somewhat silly to not confess all.”
Gertrude shook her head. “One confession is fine for now, Permilia, but when you return from Paris, I’ll be more than happy to hear all about your other secrets, ones I’m sure will explain all
of that lurking and scribbling on dance cards you do at each and every society event.”
With that, and after she’d given Permilia a rather delightful hug, Gertrude stepped back, pulled gloves over her slightly orange hands, and pulled down a bit of netting from her hat that sufficiently obscured her face, or more specifically, her orange cheeks. Wishing Permilia the best of luck, she took hold of Maude’s arm and together they walked from the room, their heads together as they launched into a discussion about Miss Snook’s unusual school.
Feeling a great sense of relief that she wasn’t leaving Miss Snook in a complete lurch, what with Gertrude’s enthusiasm to help, Permilia walked to her wardrobe and fetched a coat.
Letting herself out of the house a short time later, while doing her utmost best to avoid Ida and Lucy—which wasn’t as difficult as she’d expected since they’d apparently gone out—Permilia slung the satchel she always took with her when she visited the New York Sun over her shoulder, her handy disguise nestled in the confines of the bag.
Squinting against the bright sun beaming from a cloudless sky, Permilia headed up the street, intent on hitching a ride on an omnibus, a source of transportation she used often when visiting her editor.
She had gotten all of three houses down the sidewalk when an unexpected chill swept down her spine, that chill bringing her feet slowly to a stop. Glancing up and down the sidewalk, she didn’t notice anything out of sorts, but when she lifted her hand against the uncommonly bright sun, her gaze traveled over and then back to a gentleman standing on the opposite side of Park Avenue.
There was something about him, something . . . disturbing, and something that kept her frozen to the spot. Why she felt that way, she couldn’t actually say, since he appeared to simply be a man perusing a newspaper, although . . . She squinted and regarded him further.
It almost seemed as if he was now deliberately hiding his face behind that paper, having hitched it up a good few inches after she’d caught sight of him.
When he turned and headed off down the sidewalk, she got a brief glimpse of his profile, a profile that looked curiously familiar, although she couldn’t place where she’d seen the man before.
Tightening her grip on her satchel, she set off down the sidewalk after the man, keeping an eye on him as she walked, a rather daunting feat considering they were separated by the traffic traveling along Park Avenue.
When a large wagon sporting the name of Henry Siede Furs rumbled past, the height of the wagon obscuring her view, Permilia craned her neck to make certain the mysterious man was still on the other side of the sidewalk . . . and stopped in her tracks a moment later when she realized he’d disappeared from sight.
Debating whether or not she had the time to locate the man, she glanced one last time over the length of the sidewalk, a small smile tugging the corners of her lips when she spotted a man, and then another, both of whom were perusing a newspaper.
Her smile turned into a grin as the thought sprang to mind that she was beginning to see murder plots and skullduggery around every corner, when in actuality, it was simply normal scenes of life playing out before her eyes. Setting off down the sidewalk again, she flagged down a hansom cab, realizing she was now running behind schedule and did not have the time to catch a ride on an omnibus.
Settling back into the seat, she turned her thoughts from dastardly plots and settled them on the reasons her editor might have summoned her into the New York Sun.
Anticipation coiled through her as the idea struck that perhaps her editor had been so impressed with the column she’d written about the Vanderbilt ball that he was finally going to give her a much-deserved raise.
Chapter
Seventeen
“What do you mean, I need to switch up my articles?” Permilia demanded, flipping up the veil attached to the hat she’d exchanged with her traveling hat right before she’d exited the hansom cab and entered the New York Sun building. Narrowing her gaze on her editor, Mr. Charles Dana, a man she normally enjoyed speaking with but certainly wasn’t enjoying today, her temper edged up a notch when he sent her what seemed to be a rolling of his eyes.
“Honestly, Miss Griswold, why is it that reporters have to be such a dramatic lot? I’m not questioning your ability to pen a credible column. I’m simply telling you that you’re going to have to spice up that column in order to be competitive with the other society columns that are springing up in all the other papers in town.”
“Spice it up? I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific than that since I truly have no idea what spicing could possibly entail.”
“I need you to be more diligent from this point forward in making certain your articles have those titillating tidbits about individual society members that readers are most assuredly going to demand. Those tidbits need to pertain to not what is being worn or what dances are being danced, but what happens when the music stops and the gossip begins.”
Permilia crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry, but I thought I was writing for the New York Sun, not the New York Herald.”
“The New York Herald sold every copy of its paper when it came out with its Vanderbilt edition. We were not that fortunate.”
“I’m sure that their scintillating articles were found to be riveting by the masses, but I find it hard to believe that articles penned with salacious content will find favor for long. This is simply a peculiar circumstance, driven by the frenzy the Vanderbilt ball caused throughout the city. I highly doubt it will settle into a trend.”
Mr. Dana leaned back in his roller chair, placing his hands behind his head. “I’m afraid the times are changing, Miss Griswold. Now that readers have gotten a taste of the scandalous, they’re not going to be content to return to the vanilla articles of the past.”
“I don’t believe you’re giving our readers enough credit. A little bit of gossip and scandal is all well and good, just like ice cream, but one cannot exist on ice cream for long. You mark my words, readers will grow tired of the nasty feeling they’ll get after consuming rubbish for more than a week or two.”
Mr. Dana dropped a hand and patted his rather thick stomach. “I’ve been known to exist on substances sweeter than ice cream for extended periods of time, Miss Griswold. And while you may think I’m not giving the readers enough credit, I believe you’re simply reluctant to accept the true nature of people. Rubbish can be addicting, and because readers have now been given a taste of what has been forbidden in the past, they’re not going to relinquish that taste willingly. Because of that, and because publishing a paper is business, not a charity endeavor, we need to give our readers what they’re now salivating for.”
“What about the integrity of the paper?”
“We’ll certainly continue to offer responsible reporting when it comes to matters of actual news, but you write one of our society columns. It’s not held to the same standards as the rest of the paper. And forgive me for what I’m about to say, because I’m fairly certain it will hurt your delicate writerly feelings, but”—he leaned forward, placing both of his hands on his desk—“your coverage of the Vanderbilt ball was severely lacking when compared to the coverage other reporters made of that exact same ball. Why, you didn’t even mention the name of the young lady who went to the ball with a stuffed cat perched on her head.”
“I never mention names, only initials, which to a certain extent protects the identity of the person I’m writing about, especially outside our rather small social circle.”
“And that type of thinking is exactly what allowed the New York Herald to best us. They printed the cat lady’s full name—which was Miss Kate Strong, if you weren’t aware. They even described everything about Miss Strong’s unusual costume, including the numerous cat tails she’d had sewn into the skirt of her costume, along with a choker she wore around her neck. That choker had a pendant hanging from it, one that had the word Puss engraved into it.” He leveled a stern look on Permilia. “Did you not take notice of that inte
resting little detail?”
“Considering it was a rather large pendant, of course I did. But since everyone knows that Miss Strong’s nickname is Puss, it would have been irresponsible of me to include that detail, just as unseemly as providing her full name. If you’ve forgotten, society does not care to be specifically named in any of our newspapers.”
Mr. Dana continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. “The New York Herald also had five inches of text dedicated to the subject of you and Mr. Rutherford—as in Mr. Asher Rutherford, who happens to be a gentleman worthy of an entire column dedicated strictly to him. Imagine my distress when I read that five inches and realized that you had barely mentioned Mr. Rutherford at all in your column.”
Lifting her chin, Permilia sat forward. “If you will recall, I wrote that Miss G. and Mr. R. participated in the Go-As-You-Please Quadrille. I even wrote what I thought was a clever little bit about Miss G. becoming confused about the actual rules of that particular quadrille. For me, that was being downright bold.”
Mr. Dana leaned halfway across his desk as his face turned an interesting shade of red. “The other papers told a different story about you and Mr. Rutherford. They told a remarkably riveting tale centered around the notion that the two of you spent an uncommon amount of time with each other.”
“See, that’s the problem right there, sir. We as reporters have a responsibility to report the truth, not to construct some fiction piece written solely to stir up trouble.”
“You’re not going to make the claim that you spent little to no time with Mr. Rutherford, are you?”
“I suppose I spent more time with him than I did any other gentleman at the ball, but . . . that’s not exactly newsworthy.”
“It’ll be newsworthy once the two of you post an announcement, which is what all the papers are now holding their breaths for, wanting to be the first to publish that news.”