Ziegfeld Girls

by Sarah Barthel

  “See, Mother?” I handed her the book. “I thought, perhaps, this kind of skirt would look wonderful. See how the layers give the illusion of a tiny waist?”

  Abigail took a bolt of fabric from Mother’s grasp and placed it back on the rack. Adjusting the book in her hands, Mother examined the gown. Her tongue clicked again and she tilted her head.

  “Very well,” she relented. “However, the bodice on this is all wrong. This high cut is too matronly. Perhaps if we lowered it to here?” She pointed to just above my bosom. “And then layer lace over it to give her the propriety needed.”

  Miss Margaret grabbed a sketchbook and let her hand fly as she drew out the design.

  “Like this?” she asked, holding out the book for us to see.

  I gasped. Without knowing it, I had guided us to my dream gown. The tiered skirt and fitted bodice would be perfect on my frame, and the lower neckline would highlight my femininity without shocking the world.

  Miss Margaret pulled out her measuring tape and went to work taking all new instructions for the dress. I stood with my arms out and blandly stared into the mirror. Abigail stepped to the side and met my eyes. The smile on her face was genuine. She had helped and I was grateful. I’d have to find a way to show it.

  * * *

  Later, Mother and I left Miss Margaret’s shop and walked down Main Street while Abigail trailed behind weighed down with our packages of jewelry, hats, and other trinkets Mother insisted on purchasing. I tried to avoid the puddles and horse droppings as gracefully as possible, but knew I failed by the edging of dirt that congealed at the bottom of my skirt. Mother strode smoothly through it all while twittering on about how lovely the engagement party was and what a success Gregory had been with all the ladies. It was as if I hadn’t been there at all. I hid my disappointment with a smile and pretended to agree with her observations.

  Through the Town Hall windows, I could see men sweeping the floor and pulling down the flower arrangements from my party. I paused for a moment. Abigail stopped beside me.

  In a loud voice she declared, “Miss Isabelle, shall we look for your glove?”

  Mother turned to face us. “Your glove?” she asked me.

  I stared at Abigail, unsure of what she referred to, but her big eyes implored me to play along. After her help at the dress shop, I couldn’t embarrass her.

  “Yes,” I concurred. “My glove.”

  Abigail relaxed and filled in the details. “I couldn’t find it after the party. Perhaps one of the girls found it here as they cleaned.”

  Mother, now bored, looked on toward Hotel Horizon with impatience. I knew she was longing for a bowl of their wonderful chowder.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead, Mother?” I suggested. “Abigail and I will inquire after my glove and meet you promptly.”

  “Don’t be too long, dear,” she insisted. “You don’t want to miss lunch.” Before waiting for a reply, she rushed off down the street.

  Once she was out of earshot, I turned to Abigail. “What was all that about?”

  Abigail motioned for me to follow. “I know this is highly improper, Miss Isabelle, but I promised someone an audience with you.”

  Balancing her load in one arm, she ushered me through the side door. In the bright light of midmorning, the hall wasn’t nearly so grand. Instead of glistening with promise, now the flowers wilted and hung oddly from the banister, while huge boxes lay on the floor waiting to be packed up with the serving ware.

  “This way,” Abigail said, walking toward a back room. I followed, wondering whom I was about to meet.

  Abigail pulled another door open, and we entered a small room lined with wooden shelves, where a girl sat at a table shining a tarnished silver platter. The girl’s blond hair was braided down her back over a blue uniform and white apron. She looked up as the floor creaked.

  “Miss Isabelle!” The girl jumped to her feet. “Abigail, how did you manage—never mind, thank you.”

  Abigail gripped the door, obviously uncomfortable. “This is Katerina,” she explained to me. Then to Katerina she said, “I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed. Don’t be too long. Isabelle’s mother is expecting us for lunch.” She gave me an inscrutable look before she left and then closed the door behind us.

  Katerina put down her polish and stared at me as if trying to find words. Her dark blond hair glistened in the light from a small window behind her.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” I asked, hoping to move things along.

  Katerina took a deep breath. “Yes. I apologize for disturbing your day, but I am desperate.”

  “Oh?” I squirmed. Desperate. The word made me want to run.

  “I knew Gregory as a boy and I need him to hear me out.”

  “You knew Gregory as a boy?” I repeated.

  She nodded. “It would be improper of me to say anything further.” She paused and sighed. “I tried at your gala, but he wouldn’t listen. I mean no harm, but I truly need his help.”

  “If he doesn’t wish to see you, there is little I can do.” I shifted my stance. The further we went in politics, the more often we’d deal with such requests. I supposed this was good practice for the future.

  “What is it you need?”

  Katerina flushed. “I’d rather not bring another into my affairs. Could you just try to have him meet me at this address?” She handed me a folded piece of paper.

  I took it, but paused. This felt wrong. “I can give him your message, but I think it would sound better if I could explain why you wanted to see him.”

  Katerina stiffened. “My mother helped take care of him when he lived in Joliet. She’s gone now and I am alone. Please . . .” She reached forward and took my hand, but I pulled away.

  “Joliet, Illinois?” I clarified.

  “Yes, my mother worked for his family for near two decades.”

  “I’m so sorry, but you are mistaken. My Gregory grew up in Kentucky, not Joliet.” I tried to contain my relief. “You sought out the wrong man.”

  “But . . .” Katerina’s voice drifted off. “Of course, how silly of me. I haven’t seen him since we were young. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

  Placing her note back on the table, I offered, “It is a common name. I’m so sorry you wasted your time.”

  Again, Katerina replied, “Yes, so silly of me.” She refused to look at me.

  I backed out of the room and left her with her disappointment.

  True to her word, Abigail remained right outside. Before she could say anything, I pulled the door closed swiftly behind me.

  * * *

  Hotel Horizon was filled with small tables of women, their heads bent together in conversation. The restaurant was a sea of pastel hats and gowns as everyone showed off their afternoon best. I pursed my lips at my own choice in gown, an olive green day dress. Despite the flattering color, I wished I’d chosen a lighter shade. I felt like a weed in their garden of finery.

  “Isabelle.” Mother stood to gain my attention. “I hope your errand went well.” Sitting at her table were Mrs. Quincy and Mrs. Abrams. I would hear about my delay this evening.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied and took a seat. I prayed Mother hadn’t mentioned the missing glove story. Such carelessness was something only tolerated in young children.

  The women returned to their discussion of the latest style of boot as I demurely sipped from my teacup. Perhaps my presence was good for future connections, but footwear was something to be worn, not discussed.

  Despite Katerina’s misidentifying Gregory, the girl’s plight weighed on my mind. I didn’t doubt her need, nor the fact that she was mistaken. And yet, she and Gregory had been in the middle of a heated argument when I discovered them. Shouldn’t it have been resolved then? I added two sugar cubes to my tea, nodded to Mother about the impropriety of loosely laced boots, and tried to decipher my dilemma.

  As if answering my thoughts, Gregory walked into the restaurant. He handed his hat to the waiter
and scanned the room for someone he knew. When his eyes met mine, a smile lit up his face, and after saying a few words to the maître d’, he walked over to our table.

  “Isabelle, you look radiant,” Gregory said, leaning over and kissing my hand. “The color of that gown makes your eyes a deep mystery I’d like to unravel.” He wiggled his eyebrows, making me laugh.

  “Please join us, Gregory,” Mother said, gesturing to the empty chair in between us.

  Instantly Mrs. Quincy and Mrs. Abrams gushed greetings to him. After kissing their hands, he took the seat beside me. His cologne filled my senses and my heart sped faster. He was in his element and more attractive because of it. Mother took Gregory’s arrival as a chance to steer the conversation to us and began an elaborate description of the wedding flowers.

  I leaned over and whispered to Gregory, “Is everything all right?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  I put my teacup down and turned toward him. Keeping my voice low, I explained, “That girl you argued with at the party, Katerina. She sought me out.”

  Gregory’s face paled. He took a sip of tea. “What could she want from you?”

  “She thought you were someone she knew growing up, but was mistaken.” I paused to examine Gregory’s face, but it didn’t betray any emotion. “I feel bad for her. She seemed truly distraught.”

  “She does seem to be in some trouble. I tried to explain I wasn’t who she thought I was, but she was insistent.” He shook his head. “She shouldn’t have brought you into her troubles.”

  I shrugged. “It’s in the past.”

  “How did you uncover her mistake?”

  “Oh, she said she knew you from Joliet and I knew she had the wrong Gallagher.”

  Mrs. Quincy interrupted us. “Oh, to be so young and have such secrets. I don’t know when I’ve seen a more handsome couple.” She stirred her tea and smiled at us.

  Gregory tipped his head in her direction. “Come now, don’t be modest! I saw you and Senator Quincy dancing about the hall like newlyweds yourselves. Yours is a beauty to treasure.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Gallagher,” Mrs. Quincy scolded, but her pink cheeks told a different story.

  Our waiter arrived with a tray of desserts and placed them on the table. Mother glanced at the lot and then sighed. Before she could say anything, I took a bite-sized lemon torte and took a bite. Mother insisted on watching our figures for the wedding, but I refused to give up all sweets.

  Mother was expressionless, but I knew she was annoyed. “I believe the time has come for Isabelle and me to return home,” she said, folding her napkin and placing it on the table. “Thank you for a lovely luncheon, ladies. It was a pleasure seeing you, Gregory.”

  Gregory took my hand and pressed his lips to it again. He lingered a moment too long. Behind me, the ladies swooned. He nodded his head to Mother and returned to his seat, offering the tray of sweets to Mrs. Abrams.

  Sitting in the carriage, I glanced back to our group through the restaurant’s window. Gregory used large gestures to explain something while the two women sat in silence, captivated by every word. Mrs. Abrams didn’t even notice her hat was slightly crooked.

  “That is how you make connections. Gregory can now stay the rest of the afternoon and impress those women until he’s had enough,” said Mother.

  I watched as Gregory tilted his head back in a large chuckle, and I felt my stomach flutter. Whatever concerns I had flitted away. Gregory was a good man.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, I took my sketch pad out to the front yard. The first tulips had sprouted and I hoped to draw them. My efforts never amounted to much, but it gave me an excuse to sit outside for hours without Mother chastising me. I know she hoped I’d produce something wonderful, but my sketches were too obvious to excite any real interest.

  The tulip petals were just blossoming and the light cast a rosy complexion to the garden. The charcoal in my hand flew over the page as I examined the lines in front of me.

  “Another flower?”

  I jumped and looked over my shoulder.

  “Lucy!” I climbed to my feet. “I didn’t know you were visiting.”

  “Well, I didn’t really tell anyone. Mother and Father have gone to the city for the day and I can’t stay in that house all alone.”

  I led her to our porch swing. Before sitting down, she unpinned her hat and placed it on a small table. In unison, we kicked off and swung in silence for a few moments.

  “Have you heard from Patrick?” I asked.

  Lucy shrugged. “He has written, but he’s so worried about my reputation. I have to read through his words to understand what he really wants to say. It is exhausting.”

  “I’d gladly have his letters come here, but Mother reads all the mail.”

  “And she’d surely tell my mother.” Lucy sighed. “He’s such a good man, Isabelle. Better than most. I wish people could see that.”

  “I know.” I looked down our street. Many of our neighbors had secrets in their past and yet had been forgiven. But Patrick would forever carry the guilt of his father’s actions. It didn’t seem fair. His father had died in prison before the war even ended.

  Lucy clucked her tongue. “Enough about me. How are you?”

  I smiled.

  “I know that smile. What happened?” Lucy’s eyes lit up with delight.

  “Nothing has happened, not like you think.” I met her gaze. “It’s just—the more I see Gregory in society, the more I realize how lucky I am.”

  Lucy smiled and kicked our swing higher. “He is a good man, Isabelle.”

  “I never hoped to have both an advantageous marriage and an affectionate one. It has taken me a bit by surprise.”

  Lucy squeezed my hand. “You deserve no less.”

  “And you. Are you certain your parents will not change their minds about Patrick?”

  Lucy silenced me with a look.

  “Mr. Stewart is coming for dinner tonight. He works at the bank with Daddy. He’s kind and respectful. Some even find him handsome. I should be excited, if not grateful.” Lucy’s voice was thick. “He just isn’t Patrick.”

  My friend’s head fell to my shoulder and we swung as she cried the tears she dare not shed at home.

  Being raised on classic films and old-time musicals, it isn’t surprising that Sarah Barthel found her passion in writing historical fiction. She often says she was born out of time, but appreciates modern toothpaste and chocolate! Her hometown, just outside Chicago, is full of old-fashioned charm and serves as inspiration for much of her work. She lives with her two beautiful daughters and loving husband. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, or www.Sarahebarthel.com.