The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

“That sounds like the kind of thing Mr. Rutherford would say.”

  Madame shrugged. “Mr. Rutherford and I get on well for a reason. You will have to work most closely with two or three of the other couturières. Nancy, Françoise, and Anna, I think, as they all have a good feeling for what is to be fashionable in the future.”

  I nodded. “I agree. And as they’re only designs, I suppose we can offer many variations, even if we’re using some of the same pattern pieces.”

  “Good. Mr. Rutherford will be pleased when he returns, I think. And in due course, as your training advances, you must travel. I will write to Worth and insist you spend time in his establishment—we are old friends.”

  Worth! My heart skipped a beat, and I gazed at Madame Belvoix with an even greater sense of respect.

  “Eh bien.” Madame took a folded paper down from a shelf. “I must work, and so must you. We will speak again tomorrow, when you have had a little time to think.”

  I found myself halfway up one of the staff staircases without quite knowing how I got there. At the corner, as the stair turned, was a large window, and I stared out of it, trying to calm my whirling thoughts. I had arrived at Rutherford’s in the darkness of a winter morning, and now it was light—a pale blue sky into which a myriad of fireplaces were discharging thin streams of smoke. I clutched the railing, feeling myself suspended between the life of the building behind me and the great mass of the city below. Somewhere, so far away that my mind could not encompass the distance, was Martin. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine him returned, walking into the store to the sight of my designs, made part of his empire. We would, in that sense, be truly side by side.

  “You look as if you’re walking on a cloud.” Joe’s voice sounded in my ear, and I turned and grasped his arm.

  “I think I am. I can’t imagine how I’m going to work today.” And then, seeing the smile on his face, “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

  “I had an idea. But this was entirely Arlette Belvoix’s doing, you know. She is according you the signal honor of grooming you as her successor. An event that will take place far, far in the future, of course.”

  “True mastery takes time,” I drawled in a French accent, and we both burst out laughing.

  “Well, if Martin is having adventures, so are we,” Joe said. “Let’s see just how much we can impress him by the spring.”

  40

  Fire

  “Would you sign this, please, Mrs. Lillington?”

  The cash boy, one of many employed to run between the sales floor and the accounting office, or wherever else they were needed, held up a book. His name was Percival, and he was a twelve-year-old fund of practical jokes. He was also his family’s only source of income and an eager student in the small school Martin had set up for the younger boys.

  I took the ledger with a smile, running my finger down the columns. It was late on a Saturday evening in February, and the store had already closed, so the final accounting was taking place.

  “Thirty-two corsets?” That was an unusually high number, even for a Saturday.

  “And we’re doing a very good trade in unmentionables, ma’am.” Percival’s job in the lingerie rooms had given him a familiarity beyond his years with the underpinnings of a woman’s costume. “Garters as well. But they’re jumping on the longer corset like ducks on a June bug.”

  He waited as I checked the figures and signed the page. The long, slender silhouette of the Natural Form was causing women to lace ever tighter, urged on by fashion plates featuring ladies with waists so small it was a wonder they could digest their food. Good news for corset-makers, evidently.

  I rubbed my eyes, suppressing a yawn. Joe never worked on Saturdays, and as the only shareholder present, I was now in the habit of staying on Saturday evenings till the last employee had left or ascended to the dormitories on the fifth floor. I compensated by arriving at the store at three so I could spend the morning with Sarah and Tess.

  Percival trotted away in the direction of the accounting office, and I walked slowly upstairs. I had been given a tiny room on the fourth floor as my own since I was accumulating papers. It was somewhat isolated, but I liked the peace and quiet. It wasn’t even a year since I’d arrived at Rutherford’s, and I was well aware that my greater standing was largely due to Martin, but I was content. I felt I was living the life for which I’d been born.

  My paletot hung on the coat stand in the corner of my office, inviting me to leave the store. I could hear a fitful wind gusting, and from time to time a spatter of rain hit my tiny window. Good. The rain would melt the piles of snow that still lay in the alleys and on the north side of buildings. February was a short month, and March would bring in the first signs of spring, and some weeks after that, Martin would return.

  I flipped up my watch. Arthur Nutt would have the rockaway outside the store’s main door in twenty minutes. Plenty of time to tidy my desk and neaten my hair. Soon I’d be sharing a light supper with Tess, going over the day’s small happenings and discussing our various responsibilities.

  I frowned as a piece of paper caught my eye. Of course—I’d promised Mrs. Hindmarsh I’d send her the list of all the materials we’d incorporate into her summer ball gown by Monday. I’d been partway through the task earlier when I’d been called to the couture floor to talk to one of our customers.

  “And now you’ve let her down, Nell Lillington. That’s not like you,” I muttered, looking at my watch again. I supposed I could finish the letter now and entrust Mr. Nutt with finding a likely boy to deliver it. He spent enough time in the vicinity of the store to know almost everyone who worked or lived on that part of State Street.

  Stifling another yawn, I sat down to my task. Below, the building was becoming still. There were watchmen on duty, of course, but most of the doors were being locked on the outside as the employees left, preventing anyone but the watchmen from coming in, but not preventing anyone from going out.

  I wrote steadily, all the details still in my head, my mind on a vision of silk gauze in peach and pink. I consulted my notes and drawings for the amount of hand embroidery that would be required—an expensive item, but Mrs. Hindmarsh was willing to pay. I reread my letter, imagining how the dress would look—like a Kansas sunset. I could almost smell the honey scent of the plains.

  A noise from somewhere brought me out of my reverie. I glanced at my watch again. Poor Mr. Nutt had been waiting for me for a good thirty minutes.

  “If you’re going to daydream, do it in the carriage,” I reprimanded myself, writing Mrs. Hindmarsh’s address. I shrugged myself into my paletot, buttoned it quickly, pinned my hat to my hair, and turned off the gaslight. I held the letter in my hand. If I put it in one of the paletot’s large pockets, I’d forget about it.

  The sound of running footsteps above me made me hesitate. I’d thought there were no dormitories above me—that I was directly below the huge ateliers where we fabricated our dresses. They would most definitely have been locked hours ago, as the couturières and piece workers would be long gone.

  Should I go upstairs and investigate? Five years ago, I probably would have done just that. But supposing there were thieves above? I’d learned something from putting myself into danger in the past, which was that putting myself in danger tended to lead to finding myself in danger. There were perfectly good watchmen at my disposal downstairs, and one or two of them might be making the rounds. I could run down one of the two staff staircases and find someone in three minutes.

  I headed toward the nearest staircase at a fast clip, the letter clutched in my hand. I was probably wrong about the location of the dormitories, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. I tugged at the heavy door to the staircase.

  And shut it again hastily, coughing vigorously from the blast of smoke and heat that had hit me in the face.

  I said something unladylike and set out toward the other end of the corridor. Rutherford’s was on fire.

  41

  Escape


  The first coherent thought that invaded my mind as I ran was the dormitories. Rutherford’s paid its employees well enough that most of them lived out. Still, row after row of tiny rooms on the fifth floor housed a number of boys, single women, and bachelors in strictly separated areas.

  Before I’d run halfway down the corridor, the shrill clang of the alarm bell told me that others were aware of the fire. I pulled open the door to the staircase to the confused clamor of a large number of people coming to the realization that something was wrong. As I ran upward, they had begun to spill out of the dormitory area onto the landing.

  “There’s a fire at the other end of the store,” I informed them. “You can’t use the other staircase.” I spotted a middle-aged woman I knew vaguely. “Get the children and women out of the store immediately,” I told her, and she turned back instantly and without argument, her voice raised in a piercing shout. Within seconds, boys and young women, some in a state of dishabille, began to pour onto the staircase. I intercepted the first two or three young men who joined them, shouting at them that they were in no immediate danger and that they should allow the women and boys out first. I saw Percival’s small, pale face turned up toward me and gave him a reassuring smile.

  “Are there any watchmen down there?” I shouted as loud as I could. An answering cry brought me to the railing, looking down into the dizzying spiral of the staircase as people pushed past me. I could see the head of a watchman far below.

  “Is the way out clear?” I shouted and was relieved to see him make a thumbs-up gesture. I couldn’t hear his answering cry for the noise of people.

  “It’s all right—we’ll still be able to get out.” I looked around at the young men who were beginning to mass in the doorway, some looking frightened, some excited, others calm. “Does anyone have the passkey for the door into the ateliers?” I knew it existed. The building’s only external fire escape was in the alley, leading from the largest workroom, and the passkey never left the dormitories.

  “I do.” I recognized the man who answered—Mr. Windridge from the silk department, a levelheaded and hardworking sales clerk. His expression was alert but unworried.

  “Good. I swear I heard someone up there just now. And besides, if we have time to get the work in progress out, we should do so.” I looked around. “Can I have volunteers? We need a handful of men to help me, and some of you should station yourselves at intervals to warn us if the fire’s approaching. We’ll only be a few minutes. The rest of you can leave.”

  To my surprise, most of them stayed. They quickly organized themselves into teams that emerged laden with the most valuable pieces of work while Mr. Windridge and I checked through every room. We found nobody.

  “They could have gotten out by the staircase before the fire got too bad,” I reflected.

  “Not now though.” Mr. Windridge wiped his brow and coughed. He’d opened a high window and stuck his head outside for two minutes. “You can see the flames coming out of the second floor. The fire escape’s no good either—anyone trying to use it risks getting burned. Nobody’s getting out that side of the building.”

  “All right. What about the pearls and gemstones?” We had a stock that was used for the most expensive dresses.

  Mr. Windridge shook his head. “Locked in the safe, and I don’t have the combination or keys. It’s supposed to be fireproof.”

  “We’ll have to forget them, then. I hope somebody’s been sensible enough to organize getting as much stock out as possible. Although I imagine the rain will ruin what the fire doesn’t destroy.” I felt oddly calm, considering the circumstances. “Let’s get out, Mr. Windridge. Thank you for your help.”

  The stairwell was still free of smoke when we arrived at the top of it. I let Mr. Windridge go ahead of me, entrusting him with the task of telling those below that the fifth floor was clear. I planned to step into each floor as I descended, just to make sure it was empty, but I wouldn’t linger. I thought briefly of the day’s takings, which would still be in the accounting office. But I couldn’t possibly carry that amount of money, and in any case the safe they were in would be fireproof too. Chicago had learned about fire the hard way.

  I had just stepped into the third-floor corridor when the explosion took place. It wasn’t a large explosion, more a sort of whoomph, like the sound a lit oil lamp would make when dropped, only somewhat more powerful. The door I had just closed shook in its frame but held fast.

  The gaslights went out. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized they were still lit. But now the corridor was plunged into darkness, and I could see the glow of fire at the far end, where the building rounded the corner of State and Madison. I couldn’t get out that way.

  I cautiously opened the heavy doors behind me, and peered round. Below me was fire, red-orange in hue and emitting an urgent crackling sound. There was smoke, but not much.

  I pulled the door shut again and hesitated, not knowing what to do for the best. I didn’t think I could go down—and I couldn’t jump from a third-floor window safely. Where would the fire department be? Mr. Windridge would surely check to see I’d followed him out of the building and would realize I was trapped inside. Was it the lighting gas that had exploded? Surely not—such an explosion, I thought, would have been much larger. The fire department had probably turned the gas off at the main, and that’s why the lights had gone out. For a moment, I felt a bubble of panic growing inside me at finding myself alone in the dark with danger on both sides.

  “And you’re not here to rescue me now, are you, Martin?” I said under my breath. “So I’ll just have to save myself.”

  I’d done it before, after all. For a split second, I wished I were back in the river. Drowning seemed infinitely preferable at that moment to the notion of being roasted alive.

  “Stop that, Nell,” I admonished myself. “Form a plan and follow it.” The roof, perhaps? Or at least I could find a window as far away from the fire as possible and scream for help.

  I had just decided to do the latter when I heard footsteps above me again. This time, of course, they were on the fourth floor. And there were shouts. Not the desperate sound of panic, but two or more men shouting instructions to one another.

  If I had a plan, it changed at that moment. I didn’t have much time to think in any case. The fear had left me, and I was experiencing the strange sensation of clarity that had settled on me before in times of danger. The rueful thought crossed my mind that I was, after all, going to have to rely on a man or two for my rescue, but this was no time to be particular.

  I opened the door again. More smoke was billowing up, and the heat in the stairwell was increasing, but it was sufficiently far below me. I took a deep breath.

  It didn’t take long to climb to the next floor, but by the time I pulled open the door and stumbled into the corridor, my eyes were streaming. I released the breath I’d been holding and coughed, wiping frantically at my eyes.

  “Who’s there?” I shouted. “I can hear you. Are you trapped? Who’s there?”

  I blinked at the darkness before me, convinced I could hear running feet. If I was wrong, I was in real trouble. My thoughts strayed to the long ladders kept on hooks on the blank expanses of wall on this floor. Could I effect some kind of escape using them?

  “I don’t believe it.”

  That was the gist of it, anyway. The voice that came out of the darkness, accompanied by the sudden beam of a lantern and the smell of kerosene, was using language so colorful that I couldn’t have repeated it if I’d tried. It was also a familiar voice.

  A large hand grabbed my arm and began towing me along the corridor. I dug my heels in as hard as I could, resisting the movement.

  “I know it’s you, Crabb.” I wriggled my arm out of his grasp. “And I want to know what you’re doing here and where you’re taking me.”

  “I haven’t got time for explanations, you stupid bitch. I might have known it would be you, stuck in a building that’s supposed to be clear. Alex!”
The last word was uttered at high volume.

  “Alex? Alex Gambarelli?” I could hear the high-pitched indignation in my voice. “After you told me—promised me—you were done with it all. Done with the spy game and done with the Gambarellis. And you have the nerve to call me stupid?”

  “Yes, well, Alex wasn’t quite done with me. And I apologize—but will you come on? Alex!”

  The door I had come through suddenly lit up around the edges, and a tongue of flame thrust greedily at the ceiling. Crabb swore long and fluently under his breath.

  “Time to get out, Crabb.” There was a voice nearby, sounding mighty pleased. “Everything’s ready.”

  I could see the bulk of a man outlined by the glow of flame behind him. The flames chasing us from the other direction flickered in his eyes. As he turned, I could see his thick beard jutting out from his chin.

  “For God’s sake, Alex, it’s the Lillington woman.” Crabb’s voice held a note of urgency.

  “The what?” It was getting harder to hear. The noise of the fire was rising to the roar of a beast, and despite the fact that the ceiling was made of tin, the flames were beginning to lick along it.

  “Woman,” bellowed Crabb. “We have to get her out. You said nobody would die.”

  “Merda!” I could see Alex clearly now, his black eyes wide as he became aware of my presence. In fact, I could see perfectly well—but this was not good news. A rolling sheet of flame was advancing toward us along the ceiling from the other end of the corridor. Feeling that this was not the time to argue, I let myself be dragged as each man seized one of my arms and towed me along the corridor.

  Just as the heat became unbearable, Alex veered to the right and Crabb let go of me. This happened so suddenly that I lurched forward and hit the jamb of the door, feeling a rush of hot air on the left side of my head. Someone grasped the back of my paletot and yanked me backward so hard that I fell. A second later, I was drenched in water.