The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  I frowned. “It’s hard work?”

  “It would be for me.”

  “And me,” came a small voice from behind Tess. “All that talking about dresses. Land sakes, Mama, you can talk about dresses till the cows come home.”

  “Where did you get that peculiar expression? Miss Baker, I suppose.” I returned my attention to Tess. “If you want me to stop working—”

  “I don’t.”

  I hugged her tighter. “Tess, you’ve fought for me. With a gun, even.” I felt a tiny giggle run through the small, round body next to mine and dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. “I don’t have a gun, but I’m willing to argue this out with Mary and Aileen and both of your parents if necessary. If they need money, I’ll supply it. I’m asking you—begging you—to return to us. We need you.”

  Tess was silent for a few moments, and I could feel the tension building inside my spine. At last, she spoke, slowly, as if she were groping for her own thoughts.

  “Mary’s boys are real noisy. Even if I helped her buy a bigger house, they’d still be noisy. They make me tired. And I don’t want to be a Catholic, Nell, really I don’t. I don’t mind the church—and I like the smell of that smoky stuff—but it’s not what I’m used to, and I’m happy with what I’m used to. It’s the same God, after all.”

  “What do your parents think of the idea of you living with Mary?” I asked.

  “I don’t really know. Da doesn’t say all that much, and you know Ma doesn’t always make sense to me. She cries a lot, and she talks about the saints, and Georgie and Janet, and asks God to forgive her all the time. I keep telling her that God does forgive her, that He forgives all of us, but she doesn’t listen, and then Da says ‘hush, Tessie.’” She stuck out her lip. “I love Ma and Da, of course, but sometimes the thought of spending a whole day with them makes me feel a little bit funny.”

  “Why don’t you ask your Ma and Da?” asked Sarah, kneeling up so that she could look at Tess. “Then we can go to the saloon and I can draw in the sawdust with my feet. I like the way it smells.”

  The door below banged, and the sound of running feet mingled with Mary’s cry of “would you ever take off those muddy boots?” I surmised the older boys were home.

  Tess looked sideways at me. “Little Robbie will start yelling in a moment because Frankie’s pinched his ear. He does it every time, just to make him yell.”

  “So going to your parents’ house might be a good idea?”

  “A very good one.”

  As Tess had predicted, the arrival of the older boys soon led to mayhem. Frank, the oldest, had his mother’s solid build, his father’s peevish expression, and showed every sign of promise as a bully.

  We drank the cup of tea Mary offered for politeness’ sake, but it was a relief to climb into the rockaway and set off for the O’Dugans’ saloon. There it transpired that Mr. Nutt had become accustomed to paying a trustworthy big lad to hold the horses and keep the younger children away from the carriage while he joined the O’Dugans for a cup of strong tea and a bite of cake. I wondered briefly what Mama would have said to have seen her granddaughter sitting on her carriage driver’s knee, listening enraptured to tales of fur trappers and Indians—but then again, hadn’t my father been a rough diamond? In any case, Sarah was occupied, and Tess and I were free to sit with the O’Dugans and bring before them the matter of where Tess should live.

  I was used to Mrs. O’Dugan by now. I wasn't surprised when large tears started to roll down her face as soon as Tess began to explain that she wasn’t sure where she wanted to spend her time.

  “Now, Margaret.” Mr. O’Dugan, who’d been sitting stolidly by as Tess had stammered her way through her confused thoughts, patted his wife’s hand. “She’s not saying she’s up and leaving us forever, is she? Just that she might prefer a big fancy house in Aldine Square and summer in Lake Forest to living in the Back of the Yards.”

  “I don’t think it’s a question of wealth or comfort,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t want you to think that Tess cares about such things more than she cares about family. We lived happily together in one room in Kansas and worked hard for our living before I became rich.”

  Mr. O’Dugan gave me one of his rare smiles. “Don’t be ashamed of your wealth, young lady. Wealth’s a good thing to have. Not so much the diamonds and the paintings and all those fancy furbelows, but the wealth of a good fire whenever you want one, clean clothes on your back, and a nice piece of boiled beef for dinner. And in those things, we’re equal to you, God be praised. But the way I see it, Tess has worked hard alongside you and should share in the greater comforts that your own good fortune can provide. I can see you’re willing.”

  “I am. I promise that Tess will always have a home with me, no matter what happens. Whatever she wants will be hers. And—well, whatever happens, I guess we’ll never go so far away that she can’t visit you all often.” Inevitably, my thoughts had strayed to Martin, and I could hear the whispers of “when Martin comes back,” “if Martin comes back,” and “if Martin still wants me” that always seemed to hover just above my shoulder whenever I spoke of the future.

  “An unmarried daughter should live at home.” Mrs. O’Dugan wiped her nose.

  “And did you think that when our Deirdre went up to Winnetka to work?” Mr. O’Dugan gave a jerk of the head to indicate that his wife should pour more tea. “We gave up the right to direct our Tessie’s future when we let her go to the Poor Farm.” He leaned over, his movements slow and careful, and placed a large hand on Tess’s shoulder. “We should never have done that, my girl.”

  “It’s all right.” Tess put her small hand on her father’s. “You told me before that you didn’t have enough food.”

  He nodded. “We had a few bad years back then. And it felt like a real godsend that you’d have a place where you’d be provided for. It seemed the right thing to do.” He shook his head. “But we shouldn’t have done it anyway.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” Tess’s face was serious, but there was a gleam in her almond eyes. “But you did. And maybe God wanted it that way because Nell needed me to protect her, and help her with Sary, and help her with her sewing, and tell her what it says in the Bible because she’s dreadfully bad at remembering. And I learned about housekeeping, and you know what? I miss my ledgers. Alice is keeping them in order, isn’t she, Nell?”

  “She is. But she’ll be very happy to hand them back to you.” I felt a bubble of happiness growing inside me. “So you’ll come home? Before Christmas?”

  “But you’ll be back to spend Boxing Day with us,” said her father as Tess answered my question with a hug. “Ah, well, Margaret, dry your eyes. We reap what we sow, and we’ve done better than we deserve.”

  39

  Opportunity

  Tess never mentioned my impulsive offer to stop working at Rutherford’s, and I never brought up the idea again. Indeed, my fascination with my work grew daily. Rutherford’s, to my mind, was the perfect balance between the old-fashioned principles of good cloth and good dressmaking, drummed into me by Grandmama, and the newfangled methods of commerce that thrived on a constantly renewed stock of sumptuous articles from all over the world. Women fond of the latest fashions could find the best and newest articles at our store while the thrifty housewives of the middle classes knew that the same articles could be had at a reduced price once the season was almost over, with the same high standard of service.

  “I can never make up my mind whether this is a small department store or a very large draper’s,” I mused to Joe one January morning. We were standing at the railing of one of the highest galleries, watching the men on the long, hooked ladders fasten the ends of bolts of cloth to the clamps carefully hidden behind a small ledge of plaster peacock feathers. Every bolt of cloth was white, but the differences as the men unwound them were startling: the creamy sheen of a white velvet, the dazzling shine of a silk that reminded me of snow in sunshine, the astounding delicacy of a white lac
e that cost more per yard than most families earned in a week, the texture of a semi-translucent white linen. Down below, displays that were within reach of the customers’ questing hands mounded up white clouds of more practical and affordable fabrics. Everywhere there were touches of gray and gold—gloves, perfume bottles, gilded buttons, soft gray rabbit skins for lining, and gray wolf pelts to be used on collars and cuffs.

  “It’s both.” Joe grinned. He had assumed charge of Rutherford’s with relish, making small changes here and there. His strength was in taking Martin’s artistic vision and making it somehow bigger, more obvious, in a way that the customers seemed to like. “All merchants in our business are actors, of a sort,” he had explained to me, “but Martin’s acting style, if you will, is restrained. Mine is expansive.” He had made very few changes to Martin’s organizational practices, which were already excellent.

  “I suppose I must take this opportunity for our regular comparison of letters from Martin,” I said, my eyes on the display below. “Did yesterday’s mail bring you one as well?”

  “Yes, and it ended, as usual, with a brief interrogation as to your health and happiness.” Joe took my arm as we turned away from the hubbub of a store readying itself for the moment of opening. “The rest was naturally about his adventures with the German and Austrian manufacturers he’s visited. And about the University of Vienna.” He looked at me out of the corners of his dark eyes. “Did he tell you about that?”

  “No.” I frowned. “What does Martin have to do with the University of Vienna?”

  “Well, there are one or two doctors there who study patients who have undergone a mental shock of some kind and are having trouble shaking it off. I knew about them because one of them is my wife’s cousin’s husband, you see. Martin, being the methodical man he is, took the opportunity to consult them about his dreams, and about what he describes to me as a certain sense of panic when confronted with particular thoughts and images. He believes that it is possible to overcome what he sees as a weakness of the mind and is applying himself to the task. He won’t tell me the nature of these consultations, but he says he thinks they will be beneficial.”

  I sighed. “He didn’t tell me anything about this. He knows what I’d say, I suppose—that I know his weaknesses as he does mine, and that I’m happy to live with them.” I paused for a moment. “But I understand this fear of his because I know where it comes from. He’s afraid of becoming unstable, like his father. Only he’s not a bit like him, at least not from what I recall—I was still a child when his father died, and I hadn’t seen him for years before that. Martin’s like his mother, in looks and character.” Ruth Rutherford had been my mother’s greatest friend. I remembered with fondness the tall, blond woman with an artist’s eye for beauty and a huge capacity for hard work. Her greatest fault had been her tendency to hide her pain behind a stoic mask—a tendency Martin had also inherited.

  “What did he write to you about?” Joe asked. “If it’s not an intrusion to ask.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry, his letters aren’t—personal, not in the way you’re thinking. In many ways, they’re like the ones he’d send me during my early days in Kansas, full of descriptions of places and events, as if he wanted me to see what he saw. His letters changed, of course, when Lucetta came along—but I didn’t realize that until much later.”

  Joe nodded. “It doesn’t surprise me that his letters are friendly, rather than, as you say, personal. He’s trying hard to give you every possible chance to build a life without him. I suppose you could call that noble.”

  “I don’t want him to be noble,” I said peevishly. “He told me once that devoted love was one of my defining characteristics and that, once given, that love was steadfast. What on earth would make him think I should be any different with regard to him?”

  “So what do you write to him?” The corner of Joe’s expressive mouth twitched, as if anticipating my reply.

  I couldn’t help letting a rueful grin escape. “I write about the store. About what I’m doing, who our customers are, what Madame says, why I think the French cut of an evening dress will be more popular than the English this season. Very well,” I said as a smile broke out over his saturnine face, “I don’t exactly write words that burn the paper they’re written on either. And it’s hard to have a real correspondence—in the sense of a conversation—when every letter takes weeks to cross the Atlantic. But he says my letters make him feel as if he’s standing beside me, and I have to admit that his descriptions make me feel I’m standing beside him. This time he told me about walking in the foothills of the Alps, with grass so green it hurt his eyes and great gray clouds that seemed to be shedding rainbows, there were so many. And then it snowed, and everything was changed overnight to dazzling white under a blue sky.”

  “Unlike Chicago snow, which is black with dirt half a day after it falls.” We had reached Joe’s office, and he flung both of his doors wide open, the one that gave onto the corridor and the one that connected with Martin’s outer office. Clerks began to gather around him like ants around a sugar lump, the morning’s load of correspondence in their hands. The store received hundreds of letters a week, mostly orders that were dealt with in the enormous correspondence office, but there were always some that needed a consultation. One or two of the clerks turned to me with a question about an unclear request for a style or fabric or a matter to be put before Madame Belvoix. Soon I was seated at the huge table, scribbling notes in the book I carried with me. The gradual increase in my responsibilities that had begun with the realization that I was a shareholder had become an absorbing part of my day—a great revelation to me that it was, in fact, possible to enjoy work that involved writing.

  “Mrs. Lillington?” The high, flutelike voice of the messenger boy stooping over me ended in a gruff croak on the last syllable, and I hid a smile. Several of the boys were undergoing the same awkward transition into adulthood, mercilessly teased by their elders. “Madame B’s compliments, Mrs. Lillington, and could you step into her room?”

  I made a few more notes before closing my book and undertook the short walk to Madame’s office. It was surprisingly small, which apparently was the little Alsatian woman’s preference. Every available space—including the shelves lining the walls—was crammed with squares of fabric, books on dressmaking, advertisements, journals, and sheets of drawing paper on which Madame had sketched designs or made notes. Some of those sheets were fixed to the shelves with drawing pins, and I had to sit carefully to ensure they didn’t come into contact with my hair.

  I greeted Madame with a smile and, once seated, waited for her to begin talking. Anyone who worked with her soon learned that she preferred to direct the conversation.

  “True mastery takes time,” was her opening salvo. In the light of the single gas lamp, her gray irises glinted like steel.

  I nodded but held my tongue, waiting for her next thought to emerge.

  “You have mastered the fundamentals.” Madame made an imperious movement with her head. “I have been thinking about your particular circumstances, Mrs. Lillington. You are a shareholder, and perhaps one day your share in this enterprise will be larger.”

  I felt myself redden. She was referring, of course, to the possibility that Martin and I might marry. This possibility was not common gossip, but it was hard to hide anything about the store from Madame Belvoix. “I can’t give you any assurances about that, Madame.”

  “Understood. But you are, in any event, a shareholder, and I have noted a change in the attitude of the employees toward you since that fact became known. You are also a young woman of some sense and skill. I will not live forever. Taking all of these considerations into account, I come to the conclusion that it is time for you to begin your serious training. If, of course, your profession means as much to you as I think it does.”

  “Probably more.” I smiled and was gratified to see Madame’s lips curve upward.

  “There are many finer points of technique
that I wish to communicate to you. You will not need all of them, of course. But you must know about them sufficiently well to be able to see what is well done and what is badly done. And then there is your knowledge of fabrics, which is inadequate. It has improved since you came to work with me, of course, but you need considerable instruction.”

  I nodded enthusiastically, my heart beating a little faster. The greatest dressmaker I had ever met was proposing to train me—personally. It was the most exciting offer I’d ever had.

  “You agree?” Madame fixed me with a severe eye.

  “More than agree. I thought Tess coming home was a wonderful Christmas gift, but this is like five Christmases all rolled into one.”

  “Hmmm.” Madame’s lips compressed, but there was a twitch to them. “It will stop you from moping, anyway. Now there is something I have been meaning to ask you. We must think of spring, and the new silhouette will bring us many fresh orders. The neckline goes up, the skirt goes in, and les fanfreluches, the embellishments, they move lower, I think, so that the waist is more elongated.” She considered my own elongated form for a moment. “I have thought of commissioning from you a number of designs that I will have our artists make up in color on large panels. They will utilize your penchant for a simpler line and not so many frills. They will show women of different ages and walks of life in a series of moments in the day, natural actions for the new, Natural Form, if you follow me.”

  I frowned. “Won’t that run counter to our principle of designing the dress for the woman?”

  Madame’s eyes gleamed. “You have noticed, I am sure, that many customers come to us with an idea or two culled from the fashion journals. Why do we not shape those ideas instead? Become a leader in the fashion instead of a follower?”