The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  “Thank you.” That prospect thrilled me, and I saw my delight reflected for a moment in the little woman’s face. “What kind of notice should I give Gambarelli’s?”

  “One week.” She shrugged. “They are always losing girls. Your wages—” and she named a sum that would have delighted a Mrs. Amelia Harvey who had been working in millinery, so I smiled broadly.

  “Thank you most kindly, Madame.”

  “Do not thank me. Mr. Rutherford expects the utmost hard work from his employees and pays them well enough that they do not leave us once well trained. It is good business. If your work is of bad quality or your habits slipshod, you will receive a week’s notice. Are we agreed?”

  “We are.”

  “Very well, I expect to see you in my office at eight in the morning, one week from now.”

  I arrived at Madame Belvoix’s door ten minutes ahead of the appointed time. I was dressed in a light gray dress I liked very much but hadn’t had many chances to wear. It boasted little trim except a row of shining gray pearl buttons on the bodice and a deep, shimmering fringe of silver hue.

  “Hmmm.” Madame’s sharp little eyes became sharper as she took me in. “I could swear I’ve seen those trimmings before. About a year ago, among our samples. We could not get a sufficient quantity of them for the store, and Mr. Rutherford was sorry because he’d liked them. Where did you get them?”

  I felt the heat rise to my face. Of course, the trimmings had come from Martin. He understood as well as I did that such subdued colors brought out the best in my pale skin and unfortunate shade of reddish-bronze hair.

  “I got them in Kansas,” I said, slightly bending the truth. I had certainly opened the parcel in Kansas. “You don’t think the fringe is too showy, do you, Madame?”

  “It looks well on you. Though it’s strange that you happened across just such a combination of trims, all those hundreds of miles away.”

  There was nothing I could say to that without lying, so I merely dipped my head. I followed the plump woman, who was dressed in a striking combination of black and white, to the top of the building. I felt an odd sense of pleasure at the notion that I was, at last, part of Martin’s business. The more I saw of Rutherford’s, the more proud of him I was.

  We entered a huge room lit by a wall of windows. I could see straightaway that they faced north—good. Even better was the enormous structure that ran down the center of the room. It was a massive table with rounded ends, divided up into bays of differing sizes separated by low ridges of polished wood. Each bay had compartments built in underneath the tabletop, holding spools of thread, scissors, tape measures, and pincushions. Similar tables ran along the wall under the windows. Every one of them was occupied by a woman doing some kind of close work, such as embroidering or working on the details of a sleeve or panel, helped by the bright morning light. Sewing machines were lined up on the opposite wall, and dress forms clustered at the ends of the room. It was wonderful.

  “You will not be assigned to a table yet,” Madame said. “You may move around and work on such auxiliary tasks as the other ladies agree to. They will explain our ways. Each set of compartments holds exactly the same equipment. All must be left precisely as it is at the end of the day, replacing what has been used up. You will see that many of our ladies keep a trousse on their person with needles, scissors, and the like that they bring from their own homes. We all have our favorite tools of the trade.”

  A few glances were directed at me from time to time, but for the moment I was being quietly ignored. There were old and young women of all shapes and sizes, some in beautifully cut dresses, others in plainer garb covered by a simple apron.

  “Mesdames.” Madame Belvoix clapped her hands, and every woman immediately stopped what she was doing. “This is Mrs. Harvey—cutting and piecing, and with Mrs. Nippes on Thursdays. Her hours are eight till four. You will kindly assist her in learning our methods.”

  Several of the woman said, “Yes, Madame,” while others murmured a greeting to me. I smiled and nodded at those closest to me.

  “I leave you to observe a little and ask questions. We will see how things go.” And with a sharp, all-seeing glance around the room, Madame swept out, looking a little like a gray-haired penguin.

  “Sink or swim.” A woman about ten years older than me grinned at me. “What experience do you have?”

  “I had my own dressmaking business in Kansas.” The pieces of outfits scattered around the huge room were starting to resolve themselves into whole costumes in my mind. A reception dress with a long embroidered train. A frothy white confection, probably for a girl of around fifteen or sixteen. Day dresses of varying degrees of ornamentation. Light colors abounded, it being summer, but I could also see an autumn walking dress in a deep shade of rust. Its skirt was being separately assembled with layers of ruffles and shirring while its bodice was being fitted to a dress form. One of the embroiderers, a Chinese girl, was working on a wrapper covered in a field of silk ribbon flowers, lilies of the valley and daisies.

  More questions followed, although the women all quickly resumed work, and our conversations proceeded in fits and starts. I asked questions and learned much about the work in progress. By the end of the day, I was able to connect each woman with her current task, even if I didn’t know her name. Most of the embroiderers spoke little English but were clearly proud of their work, which was exceptionally fine.

  I enjoyed myself so much over the next three days that I almost forgot my reason for being at Rutherford’s in the first place. I rarely saw Martin. He had seen me in the fitting rooms on Thursday afternoon and inquired, as conventionally as if he hadn’t known me, how I liked my job. I had replied in the same vein, and Martin had walked on without looking back. Yet I hadn’t minded nearly as much as I would have thought. It was enough, for now, to know that we were only separated by a few walls and floors.

  It was that encounter, however, that shook me out of the bedazzlement of having a new, and most congenial, occupation. So on Thursday at four thirty, I entered Field and Leiter’s in search of Christopher Columbus Crabb.

  He didn’t look quite so imposing behind a counter with a sheaf of papers from which he was copying entries into a large book. He worked in the department that sold rugs and carpets. The vast room was empty of customers except for two pairs of ladies and two couples engaged in scrutinizing the merchandise that was hung, rolled, or simply piled waist-high.

  “Good afternoon, Madam.” Crabb looked up briefly, then down again to finish the entry he was writing. With a final flourish of his pen, he drew himself up to his impressive full height—and then recognized me.

  “Oh, it’s you.” He looked annoyed. “I’m not likely to forget that hair, Miss Hoity-Toity. Did Gambarelli’s throw you out, or did you leave?”

  “I left.” I made myself sound a little indignant. “It was just like I told you—I got a position at Rutherford’s. Like I said, I’m a good dressmaker, and they were happy to take me on.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a bundle of contradictions, you are. You arrive fresh from Kansas and go from selling hats at Gambarelli’s to a plum job any Field’s employee would give their eyeteeth for. And look at that dress, and there you are saying you’re behind with your rent. You could pop it for two weeks’ wages.”

  “I’d be insane to pawn my clothes.” I sniffed loudly to illustrate how ridiculous his idea was. “They’re my shop front—how do you think I got the job at Rutherford’s?” I smiled up at him, giving him the full effect of my large blue eyes. He didn’t seem to admire my personal charms, but there was no harm in trying. “I earn more now, but I could still use a little extra, just to catch up and buy myself a few things.”

  Crabb’s eyes were on a couple walking toward us, and he spoke rapidly under his breath. “Very well, let me give you a little assignment. The names of suppliers of silk out of San Francisco, do you understand? And never come here again. The door, at seven.”

  I nod
ded, although that meant I’d have to wait three hours. “I understand.”

  He raised his voice, speaking to me as the couple came within earshot. “I’m sorry we don’t have quite the article you desire, Madam. I’ll consult with Mr. Field himself to see if we might expedite the matter.”

  I dipped my chin in a regal nod, as befitted a difficult customer. “Good day.” I turned my back on Crabb.

  But he was already addressing the couple, ignoring me. Still, I’d put my foot in the door, so to speak, and my first task was an easy one. My career as a spy had begun.

  27

  Separation

  Even with shorter working hours, I would not always be able to see Sarah into bed. After all, I had an investigation to conduct. Elizabeth having written the appropriate letters of introduction, I paid a call on her sister’s friend, Grace Fairgrieve. She was a woman of about Lucetta’s age and had clearly been a beauty. Now her looks were fading, marred by two deep lines between her eyebrows and a mean, pinched look to her mouth.

  “So you knew Lucetta?” she inquired after we’d spent twenty minutes on the social preliminaries and were sitting in Mrs. Fairgrieve’s suite of rooms at the Tremont Hotel. “Poor darling, she was so badly used by that husband of hers. And I used to think he was such a nice man.”

  “But you don’t think he killed her, do you?” I asked. “The newspapers said he was freed for insufficient evidence.”

  “Which is not the same as being found innocent.” Mrs. Fairgrieve spoke in a quick, arch tone, as if she were used to getting her own way and didn’t like people disagreeing with her. “I suppose if they do find him innocent, I will have to receive him. I rather hope he won’t come to New York, or that at least he will stay away from society.” She shuddered. “I will never reconcile myself to him being free while poor, dear Lucetta lies in her grave.”

  Personally, I thought Martin would be delighted to stay away from Mrs. Fairgrieve’s society. At least Mrs. Fairgrieve’s feelings about Martin might prevent her from running into me at Rutherford’s.

  “Did you know Lucetta well?” I wondered if there was anyone who knew Lucetta well enough to have heard from her lips about a certain redheaded woman in Kansas whom Lucetta suspected of stealing her husband’s heart.

  “We were school friends.” Mrs. Fairgrieve’s bony fingers fiddled with the lace on her sleeve. “Great friends in our young days, to be sure—we told each other everything.” She sighed. “Since I married and moved to New York, we’ve seen very little of each other. I was quite surprised when she wrote me asking to stay.”

  This was news to me, but I tried to pretend I knew all about it and hoped I wouldn’t get caught out in a lie. “I think Lucetta needed someone to talk to,” I said. “I hadn’t known her for nearly so long. She didn’t confide much in me. I felt in my heart that there was something weighing on her when I last saw her.” I extracted my handkerchief from my reticule and held it as if I felt that tears were imminent.

  “I had that impression too. That’s why I feel her husband is at the bottom of it all. Lucetta seemed almost ill—and then that silly maid of hers became infatuated with my groom, John, and refused to return to Chicago. The poor dear—deserted by her husband and lady’s maid, and returning to an empty house with only half a dozen servants for company. No wonder she was thinking of going to Europe.”

  “She was?”

  “Indeed—she was talking about visiting Paris. Such an amusing city, but Lucetta didn’t seem to be looking forward to it all that much. I thought—but no, it’s impossible. Did you think she looked ill when you last saw her?”

  “Not at all.” Of course, the last time I’d seen Lucetta was in Kansas, some six months before her death, and she’d looked quite beautiful. “I heard she went to Domenico Gambarelli’s Christmas feast—which I wasn’t able to attend this year—and was in splendid looks then.”

  “Oh, she probably looked well then,” said Mrs. Fairgrieve. “You haven’t seen her since?”

  “We had plans to meet when she returned.” I sighed in a dramatic fashion. “What did you think was wrong with her?”

  “I probably imagined things.” Mrs. Fairgrieve’s mouth pursed in a way that showed lines above her lips. “That silly Nicolina would know, but she’s long gone. Decamped with John, and I’m almost certain one of my solid gold saltcellars went with them. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know for certain. I should have dismissed my butler for leaving the silver safe open, but he’s worth far more than a gold cruet. It’s just impossible to get loyal servants these days, isn’t it?”

  I agreed heartily, and the conversation turned away from Lucetta with no apparent way to turn it back again. Mrs. Fairgrieve was on far more solid ground complaining about servants and the weather than talking about Lucetta. I had the feeling that her friend’s death had made little impression on her other than leaving her with an ineradicable prejudice toward Martin.

  I almost felt I had wasted my time. Yet I was sure nobody else concerned with the Rutherford murder knew that Lucetta was planning to go to Paris, nor that she had seemed ill when she was in New York. Both facts suggested something that I too thought was impossible. I wasn’t going to reveal either of them to Martin until I had made quite sure. And the only person who might know, other than the maid, was, in my estimation, Frank Gorton.

  My duties as a mother, so joyously resumed when I quit my job at Gambarelli’s, were about to be interrupted again. Elizabeth had easily convinced Tess and Sarah—and Miss Baker—that a few weeks in Lake Forest would be just the thing. I didn’t blame them. The smell of the stockyards for which Chicago was notorious had settled on us with summer. It was a smell that combined sweet with fetid, rancid with musk, in a way that could not be ignored. It even came as far north as Rutherford’s at times, competing with the river’s stink of sulfur and rotting vegetables. As the breezes of spring gave way to the humid heat of summer, the hot, odorous air seemed to settle on us like a smothering blanket. All Chicagoans longed for days when the breeze would bring the smell of lake water and smoke from the railroads across us, for a nice change.

  It was very early when we reached the station at Wells Street, but already unpleasantly warm and sticky. The racks of newspapers cried news of an outbreak of cholera. Sarah, unusually for her, clung to me like a red-haired limpet.

  “I don’t like this place, Momma. It’s dirty.”

  I hugged her to me, catching a sympathetic look from Miss Baker. The governess had a skill I particularly appreciated, that of receding gently into the background whenever we were both with Sarah. I blessed her for not interjecting her own rules and opinions, but leaving us to find our own way through our changing lives. I found I looked forward to seeing her unremarkable—even plain—face and boyish figure at the end of my working day. Goodness only knew what she thought I was doing during my absences. I never informed her, and she never asked.

  “It certainly is. A dirty, nasty hole,” said Aileen, who, along with Mary, had come to see their sister off. The two sisters flanked Tess like tall bedposts and insisted on carrying her bag rather than giving it to the porter who’d stacked up the trunks on a small wagon. “All this traveling will make you ill, Tessie.”

  “I’m all right.” Tess was too excited to complain. “I like trains. Elizabeth has been telling me all about the house in Lake Forest. We can picnic in a pavilion in their garden, and the breeze comes off the bluff to keep us cool.”

  “Living on the charity of others,” said Mary under her breath.

  “It’s not charity,” I said rather tartly—I didn’t think Mary intended me to hear her remark. “It’s a visit. It’s the way things are done.”

  Mary sniffed loudly. The two sisters had raised a great many objections to Tess’s accompanying Sarah to Lake Forest.

  I sighed. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, darling,” I said softly to Sarah, who had buried her face in my neck.

  “But there’s a pony.” Sarah straightened up and
looked me in the face. “And prairie like in Kansas. Will you be all right here on your own, Momma?”

  “I’ll be fine. After all, I have Mrs. Power and Mr. Nutt and Zofia and Alice to look after me. And I’m going to visit you very soon.”

  Elizabeth had been talking to the porter but now returned to us, picking her way over the tobacco quids that liberally decorated the floor of the wooden building we were in. It was little more than a large shack and quite disreputable looking. I understood it had been erected as a temporary measure after Chicago’s Great Fire, but no replacement was in sight.

  “Won’t you let Elizabeth carry you for a while and give your mother’s arms a rest?” Elizabeth asked Sarah. “I’ll tell you all about our horses.”

  Sarah transferred herself easily into Elizabeth’s open arms, and I shook out my shoulders in relief. I saw Elizabeth and Miss Baker exchange a smile. They seemed to get on remarkably well. I’d heard Miss Baker speaking passionately to Elizabeth about the plight of the poor in England’s cities.

  Behind me, Aileen expelled a short breath from her nostrils. “If this train would only come,” she said in the irritating, nasal way she often affected. “I don’t hold with all this traveling, Tess. It’s a lot to ask of a body, and who knows what at the end of it.”

  Elizabeth hoisted Sarah up a little more firmly and gave Aileen a look reminiscent of her mother. “At the end of it is a very pleasant visit,” she said. She had received my news about David Fletcher thoughtfully and had since made few allusions to the young man. It was as if she were giving some considerable thought to his request to be left to do his own wooing. Indeed, there was a quietness and stillness about her demeanor that I hadn’t seen before, and I wondered what that meant.