by Maya Rodale
He was not having trouble landing an heiress. Both the blonde and the brunette would say yes in a heartbeat. The problem was that he was enchanted with a woman who was the opposite of an heiress.
“As you pointed out, some people have real problems. Problems that make ours pale in comparison. For example, Miss Black.”
Freddie lifted one brow. “I’m not familiar with her.”
“I have taken a liking to a woman I believed to be the heiress Miss Harriet Burnett. But she was, in fact, Miss Adeline Black.” Kingston took a swallow of whiskey and decided it was time to say the facts out loud. “A seamstress.”
“A seamstress?” Freddie choked on his drink.
“Correction: former seamstress.”
“You must have been blinded by her charms.”
“You could say that.”
She was enchanting. That smile. The sparkle in her eyes and the sway of her hips. The way she teased and challenged him and opened his eyes to give him a different glimpse of the city—another world, another life—one he found intriguing.
He wanted to be angry with her, but now that he’d had time to cool off, he acknowledged that the facts would not support it. Kingston had turned their encounters over and over again in his mind, looking for all the blatant falsehoods she had told him. But he came up wanting.
He had so badly wanted to believe that she was an heiress that he overlooked any clues that might indicate otherwise.
Because if she was an heiress he could have something like a love match.
A wife he wanted to cozy up with in his drafty old ancestral homes. Plural.
These were thoughts that verged precariously into the territory of feeling and he was horrified to think them and feel them, and they stubbornly refused to go away. But it was imperative that said feelings vanish, as quickly as they had come. He had a duty. A sacred duty to uphold tradition. He couldn’t be a mess of emotions over a woman he couldn’t marry.
He should think about Miss Olivia Watson (the blonde) or Miss Elsie Pennypacker (the brunette).
Or drink more whiskey.
He should not think of Miss Adeline Black, despairing seamstress whose life he ruined and had no way of fixing.
Whiskey. Definitely more whiskey.
“I might have been responsible for her being relieved of her position.”
“What. Did. You. Do?”
Kingston recounted the discovery, the heated walk, the ridiculous altercation with the shop owner. The way Adeline had summarily dismissed him and vanished into the crowds. The least he could do was disappear and get out of her way; clearly his stalking her steps did her no favors and he had no desire to force himself upon her. But now he wanted to see her again and had no way of finding her. He had to admit this was probably for the best.
“Well, you’re an ass,” Freddie said.
“I know. I have to make this right. I’m just not sure how one would go about it.”
“Do you though? No one expects it from a man of your position.”
“It is the honorable, responsible thing to do. I cannot bear the thought of her starving on my account. Or worse.”
“Chuck her some coin.” Freddie shrugged. “I know you think that you’re broke, but you can afford to spare enough to tide over a seamstress between jobs. Just one of those drinks ought to keep her for a night at least. Who knows, maybe she’ll enjoy a new career as your mistress.”
“I cannot.”
“Why ever not?”
But Kingston didn’t know how to repeat what she had tried to explain to him. That it was not merely a simple fact of having coin or not. That it could not even be a simple matter of love or lust, so long as the disparity in their wealth existed. He did not understand, and he was shocked, slightly horrified, and somewhat aghast to discover that he wanted to.
Change the world, Duke.
What did that even mean? Where did a man even begin?
Not with Freddie, that was certain. His cousin thought nothing of leaving his wife uptown and spending her dowry on other women downtown. As long as he suffered Marian’s giggling, this was somehow owed to him. For the first time, Kingston started to wonder about the lives of those other women. He knew, instinctively, that Freddie did not. A curious fissure in the connections between the two friends and cousins opened up—Kingston saw it, noted it, kept the fact of its existence to himself.
And then there was this unfortunately true fact: “I don’t know how to find her.”
He had stood on the sidewalk and watched as the city swallowed her up. One minute she’d been beside him, then a swarm of pedestrians surged around her, engulfing her, hiding her, sweeping her along. It would be a fool’s errand to walk the streets of New York in search of a petite brown-haired and brown-eyed seamstress with a fiery gaze and a mouth he hungered to kiss.
He did not have the time. The debts were crushing and coming due with a ferocious speed that left him little breathing room.
He didn’t have a good enough reason to, either.
Not when roofs were leaking, tradesmen’s bills were due, tenants were struggling, and his sisters were threatening elopement. Not when finding her was only half the battle; she would make him change the world. No, he needed an heiress, the sooner the better. No matter how he may—or may not—feel about the matter.
“Well then,” Freddie said. “I repeat my original question. Which heiress will it be? The blond one or the brunette? If you’re really struggling, might I suggest that you flip a coin for it?”
Chapter Ten
It is a curious phenomenon that the respectable ladies of the city are now occupying their days with the formation of clubs for the purpose of improving their minds and communities. One is prepared to tolerate it—as long as wifely duties at home aren’t neglected.
—The New York World
Tuesday
25 West Tenth Street
Adeline paused in front of 25 West Tenth Street, a fine and impressive redbrick townhouse nearly indistinguishable from any other house on the pretty, tree-lined street. Her heart was thudding hard in her chest and echoing in her ears.
We take callers on Tuesdays, they had said.
Tell no one, they had said.
Come alone, they had said.
For what? They did not say. It was nerves and fear making her heart beat so, but she told herself such feelings were ridiculous. This street was perfectly nice and clearly well-to-do and not the sort of place where Dangers Might Befall You.
She allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
Besides, how dangerous could a group of ladies be?
What would they do, prick her to death with their hat pins? Tighten her corset until she couldn’t breathe? Hang her from the ceiling by her bustle? Absurd!
Adeline climbed the stoop to the front door. And she paused. What was she afraid of, anyway? The unknown, of course. Miss Burnett had not been very forthcoming about the purpose of this call or whom she would meet. Why, it could be anyone, with any nefarious intention.
They could poison her tea. Elegant, polite, clean, and lethal. That was how ladies would do it, if they were determined to do it.
She wore her best ensemble for the occasion—the one she’d been wearing when she met the duke. If the circumstances were good, she wished to make a favorable impression, and if she was going to meet her maker, she would like to be finely attired.
She had come all this way. She would have to take the risk.
She also did not have any other options. Every shop she’d called upon to inquire about positions was not interested in hiring a woman without a reference—which Madame Chalfont steadfastly refused to give, despite entreaties from Rachel and Rose on her behalf. Soon, Adeline would have to swallow her pride and return to the tenements and find a position basting sleeves or something equally tedious and low-paying.
Finally, Adeline raised the brass knocker—in the shape of a woman’s head, with a riot of curls that upon closer inspection, were snakes—and
rapped on the door, which was opened swiftly by a person who she could not immediately identify as being either a man or a woman, despite wearing the traditional butler’s attire. But regardless, this kind and friendly face smiled at her and said, “Come in, love.”
Just like that, no questions asked.
Adeline followed her through a recently refurbished foyer—one could still smell the fresh coat of paint. It was decorated in a simple style, but with fine materials and furnishings that suggested old New York money. There was none of the glitzy, gilt new-money style, designed to dazzle, impress, and conceal a sense of inadequacy that their fortunes didn’t stretch back for generations.
Like the duke. She wondered what his house—houses—were like. Probably monstrous old castles into which could fit the entire neighborhood in which she’d grown up.
The butler opened the doors to the drawing room and stepped aside for Adeline to enter. The sight that greeted her was hardly one that would inspire fear, or cause for concern, or even be the remotely remarkable.
A group of women sat around, sipping tea. As women do. As women had done. For centuries.
It was such a benign scene, Adeline almost wished for weaponized hat pins and bejeweled vials of poisons. Had she really come all this way merely to take tea, even if it promised to be quality tea?
“Miss Black!” It was Miss Burnett, smiling at her. “How lovely to see you again.”
She performed introductions. “Miss Black is the dressmaker I was telling you all about, the one who makes the beautiful and flattering dresses with pockets.”
This was greeted by oohs and aahs, and suddenly, the women’s faces became friendlier. Somehow, this feature made her and her work more amenable to this society’s purpose, which still remained a mystery to Adeline.
“What a darling ensemble,” complimented a woman wearing a pinstriped day dress.
“Is it your own design?” asked another.
“Yes, thank you. I get bored sewing simple cuts and styles, so I like to be more inventive with my own attire.” Since the ladies seemed interested, Adeline continued. “I like garments that feel good to wear, but I don’t wish to sacrifice style, of course. I just think life would be a lot easier for women if they needn’t bear the weight of seven pounds of corsets and petticoats, or if they had someplace to keep their things without having to mind where they put their reticule.”
“We couldn’t agree more with your assessment on women’s attire,” a woman who introduced herself as Miss Parks remarked. “Many of us are active in the rational dress movement. We believe that liberating women from her skirts will make it easier for them to move about the world freely.”
“Who knows what shall happen when we are free from corsets and can take a deep breath?”
“There will be no stopping us then!”
Adeline was startled when the ladies then emitted whoops and hoorahs. They did so in a very ladylike way, but still, they were whooping and cheering about women taking over the world while enjoying afternoon tea.
How curious.
Adeline had to admit she was intrigued.
“Miss Black, welcome to our meeting of the Ladies of Liberty society,” Miss Burnett said. Her gray green eyes crinkled with amusement. Like she had a secret. Like she possessed magic. “I am the founder. Our shared purpose is the advancement of women in the professional arts.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with your group.”
Adeline remembered Miss Burnett’s vague mentions of important afternoon teas, but she had not revealed more than that and Adeline thought nothing of it. Fancy ladies like these were always forming societies and foundations to lecture on hygiene or the evils of drink and to aid poor, unfortunate girls in unfashionable neighborhoods. They handed out Bibles and mittens and it was all right, she supposed. Adeline was going to be tremendously vexed if she had donned her best dress and come all this way only to receive a Bible and a lecture.
“You mustn’t apologize. You are not familiar with our work because it largely takes place behind the scenes. In fact, the women of our club take a vow of secrecy. We cannot have many people aware of us.”
“Yes . . . of course,” Adeline murmured, confused.
Miss Burnett continued. “While our sisters clamor for the vote—as they jolly well should and we support them—we take more direct, but discreet, action. We have no wish to wait for laws or society’s expectations to change. We will not seek permission. We simply place ladies in positions where they might do good, honest work for a fair wage. We believe that the more women thusly employed, the more powerful a force they’ll be together, and the more men will have to acquiesce to our demands for equality.”
Adeline wasn’t sure if this was absurd or audacious. Or both. But at least it didn’t sound as if they were going to distribute Bibles or mittens. They looked like such respectable, traditional women, and yet Adeline felt as if she might have fallen into the clutches of a revolutionary ladies collective.
“Sometimes girls in trouble come to us,” Miss Lumley explained. “And we help them get on their feet and give them employment opportunities that preserve their safety and dignity.”
“For example, some are given positions as sales girls in my salons.”
“Your salons?”
“I’m Madam C. J. Walker, how do you do?” A dark-skinned woman smiled at her. Adeline gasped in recognition and shook the woman’s outstretched hand. Madam C. J. Walker was a remarkable entrepreneur; she had created her own line of hair products specifically for dark-skinned women like herself and was rumored to be a millionaire. Rose was such a devotee of the products that she occasionally spent her spare funds on them rather than her beloved dime novels.
“Those with literary or journalist aspirations are given employment with the suffragette newspapers—like the Women’s Journal or The Revolution. You’ve heard of it?”
Adeline shook her head no. The only periodical she read regularly was Demorest’s Illustrated Monthly, which included dress patterns and design ideas.
“We have connections at all the papers, numerous activists, and even a female physician among our members,” a woman in a blue day dress added. “We help women with whatever they might need, but we mainly help women find good jobs.”
“The other members here are either professional women themselves or married to open-minded professional men who are willing to hire females for their offices,” Miss Lumley said. “We are in a position to make a difference and we don’t take the responsibility lightly.”
“I suppose the short answer is this: we are a placement agency,” Miss Burnett said. “One with noble and revolutionary aims. Now, how can we help you?”
Adeline understood placement agency. There would be no Bibles and mittens making her feel like a charity case—there could be a job, an opportunity to stand on her own two feet again and prove her worth. She would never, ever make the mistake of getting starry-eyed by a man and letting him walk her to her place of employment or anywhere again.
“I would like employment in the dressmaking trade.”
“I would be happy to make an introduction and put in a good word with my dressmaker. She is always looking for good help and the quality of your work, Miss Black, speaks for itself,” one woman offered.
It was a generous offer. It was the reference Adeline desperately needed in order to find a good position worthy of her talents. This was the miracle that people prayed for. This was an unprecedented stroke of good fortune.
But Adeline noticed that one woman, Miss Parks, was wearing a Worth dress. She was so wealthy that she wore Paris couture to afternoon tea. The woman wearing the pinstriped dress complimented her attire with a hat bearing the expensive feathers of a snowy egret. All of the women, in fact, were exceedingly well turned out. Even the women who did not obviously display great wealth on their sleeves wore well-made hats and gowns that were not cheap.
Adeline had an eye for these things.
These women had in
fluence, yes. But they also had money. Even better, they had ambition; after all, they were all here together conspiring how to help her.
Adeline’s spirit of brazenly seizing every and any opportunity had long served her well; it had gotten her out of the tenements, into Madame Chalfont’s shop, and it had gotten her here. Now she would test how much further it could take her.
“I am a seamstress and I am in need of a position, preferably at a fine establishment. I’m very qualified,” she began. Then she paused, dramatically. “Or you could help me establish my own shop.”
She had harbored this dream and spoke of it to anyone who would listen—her mother, family, neighbors. But people had only laughed. Even Rose and Rachel smiled politely but distantly whenever Adeline mentioned if I had my own shop . . .
Adeline braced herself for laughter. Or polite smiles, or renewed offers for a good word at their local dress shop—something simpler, less risky.
These ladies expressed themselves in murmurs of shock and resistance. But they were considering it. Adeline held her breath.
“But the expense!”
“But it hasn’t been done!”
“But how!?”
“Is it necessary?”
“Too much, too much . . .”
“You could place me at another dressmaker’s shop, but I am just one woman,” she said, finding her courage with each word she spoke. “However, if I had my own shop—making stylish yet sensible gowns that make women feel as if they could conquer the world—then I could employ scores more girls.”
Miss Burnett was gazing at her intently and Adeline couldn’t read the look in her gray-green eyes. Had she gone too far? She might have gone too far. The ladies chattered among themselves, debating the merits and drawbacks of supporting some seamstress to this degree.
Finally, Miss Lumley spoke and the room quieted down. “Miss Black does have a point. We could help more girls if we established new businesses rather than cajoling existing business owners to make room for one more girl, here and there.”