My legs were suddenly very light. Almost hollow. I sat down heavily on the stairs. I emptied my mind. Held my hands so they would not shake. I told myself to be sensible. This was no real shock. I had known Sadie’s killer was still out there. I even had a fair idea who he might be.
And he knew it. And he knew where I was.
7
The next morning Berthe and I agreed: the women should stay inside. If they had to go out, they should go in pairs. Rather than being chastened by yesterday’s madness, the Purity Brigade had grown; as many as twenty people now stood outside the refuge. And it was no longer just the devout. Men out of work, mistreated women, boys hoping for the chance to jeer and throw things; the restless and aggrieved had gathered under Mrs. Pickett’s banner. Destroying the refuge would not get them a job or convince their husbands to quit drinking, but they would have at least made something happen. Through the locked door, you could feel their agitation, the hunger for another confrontation. As proof of their renewed commitment, Clementine Pickett herself stood at the head of the group.
The women were restless, too. Under siege, the refuge felt cramped, overcrowded. There was no place to be alone, no place to breathe. Thinking of the shouting, whirling happiness of the cotillion just two nights ago, I wanted to throw a rock through the window myself.
Looking out the window, I saw that Mr. Danvers was not present. Perhaps he was tired, hungover, after his late-night calls.
Could Sadie have been meeting with Bill Danvers? I remembered her complaint about how he stared at her. I said, Mr. Danvers, you need to bring me flowers or something, you come here so much. He had told her to go to hell—or so she said. Sadie was bold; it might have appealed to her to tease a man whose condemnation was tinged with lust. It was easy to imagine that game going horribly wrong.
Sadie, I thought, liked secrets, but she liked people to know she had them. If she had a new suitor, there was a good chance she had bragged to someone. But who? I thought of Maja Woycek, a Polish woman who was the softest touch at the refuge. Not only was she easily moved—she had wept when a hawk tore a nest of newly hatched pigeons to pieces on the fire escape—but her limited English ensured she did more listening than talking. (It was her opinion that English was a ridiculous language that made no grammatical sense.)
I found Maja in the yard, scrubbing sheets against a washboard with brisk, determined strokes. When she saw me, she waved the suds from her hands and wiped them on her apron.
“Good morning, Miss Woycek.”
“Good morning, Miss Prescott.” Her pronunciation was precise, careful. “How are you?”
“I am sad,” I said, then realized I was echoing her cadences. “I’m sad about Sadie.” Maja shook her head. “You and she talked a lot. May I ask what about?”
Maja wrung out the wet sheet. “Oh, it is all that man. What he did to her, what he make her do. I say, yes, good, you are done with him. Sometimes she says, Yes, done. Then…”
Not done. “Was Joe the only man she talked about?”
“To me? Yes. Only Joe. That is why I tell her, I don’t want to hear any more. I want to help. Joe is not … help.”
He certainly wasn’t. Unfortunately, Joe was also not a killer. At least not Sadie’s killer.
In between classes, I managed to catch a few other women, all of whom echoed Maja’s story. “She was like a little kid,” complained Doris Barton as she rethreaded the bobbin on a sewing machine. “Wouldn’t do a lick of work, but oh, she was getting out of here, had better places to be, finer people to know.”
“Did she say who they were, these finer people?”
“They weren’t anybody, they were in her head. King of England, I don’t know. I stopped listening after a while. Ruth might know.”
I found Ruth Renehan upstairs, frowning over sums. Tapping her pencil as she calculated, she quickly wrote down an answer. Then just as quickly scratched it out. Falling back in her chair, she sighed, “I’ll never understand percents.”
I smiled to think of Otelia Brooks’s reaction. In my place, she would answer, If a man told you he was taking ninety percent of your earnings and giving you ten, you’d know you were being cheated, wouldn’t you? Then you understand percents. Keep at it.
Taking the seat next to her, I said, “Doris tells me you were friendly with Sadie those last few weeks.”
“I wouldn’t call it friendly. But I knew she was close to getting thrown out, and so I told her straight she had to give up on McInerny and start thinking about her own life or she wouldn’t have one.”
“And she said?”
“She got cute and said, Well, how do you know it’s Joe I’m seeing? And I said, Who else would it be, you don’t talk about anything else. She said, Maybe that’s what I want everyone to think. Maybe it’d shock you all if you knew who it really was.”
“Did she mean you knew him?” Ruth looked puzzled. “Well, how else would you be shocked?”
“I just thought she was trying to make out he was someone important.”
Would Bill Danvers shock the women of the refuge? Absolutely. I could think of someone else even more shocking, but I put that thought from my mind.
“He had money.” Ruth snapped her fingers. “Enough to take her out. I remember because she said for once she’d have a decent meal, not the slop Berthe puts on the table. I should have known that couldn’t be Joe. He’d never spend money on her.”
So Sadie’s new friend was willing to pay for the pleasure of her company. That didn’t sound like Bill Danvers. But then it occurred to me I didn’t know much about the man. For example, what he did for a living …
Reminded of livings and the need to make them, I glanced at the clock and saw I was late. Answering Ruth’s curious look, I said, “I have to be at Rutherford’s. It’s something for Mrs. Tyler.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be on holiday?”
“I was, wasn’t I?”
* * *
An hour later, I arrived at Rutherford’s department store to find the Crystal Palace packed with women. Not just the ladies of Mrs. Rutherford’s circle; none of the newcomers could afford to shop at Rutherford’s. Some wore the practical outfit of the working girl: shirtwaist and dark skirt. Others wore cotton day dresses with a bit of trim or lace that hinted at some income, but not much. They were all terribly excited, gazing up at the ceiling, wandering the hall as if they could not believe they were truly here. A few of them had gathered around the piano; Mr. Hirschfeld was playing Joplin and looking rather excited himself.
The American Beauties had arrived.
As I looked wonderingly at the crowd, Louise came over and said, “Mr. Rutherford said to tell you they all need costumes.”
“Oh, dear God.”
“Emily is here, too.”
Yes, I had seen her, leaning on the piano, inquiring as to the function of its keys. “And the black ones, Mr. Hirschfeld, what do they do?”
“She promised me she was going back to Vassar,” said Louise. “But it seems she had tea with the Rutherfords, and now she’s keen to try out for the contest. My mother-in-law will be furious.”
“Does Mrs. Tyler care so much about education?” Mr. Hirschfeld, I noticed, was now assessing the span of Emily’s hand, finding much to admire.
“No, but she cares very much that Emily is kept in a women’s college behind stone walls. Especially after last summer…”
Before I could ask what had happened last summer, Mrs. Rutherford came up and said irritably, “My goodness, Louise, is your woman here at last? She’s late.”
Between domestic staff and employer, there is a tacit understanding that the staff has no existence beyond the employer’s needs. To suggest otherwise is … vulgar. It is for them to show a benevolent interest in our family; it is for us to burden them with only the briefest pleasantry. Yes, my mother is feeling better, thank you, Mrs. Waterman. My brother did get that job; how kind of you to ask. What they do not ask about, we do not speak of. They pay f
or our services and attention; they have the right to command them. But for some employers, it goes beyond that. The very idea of an independent life, separate from them, is threatening. To point out that I was on vacation, needed to attend to a family matter, or had a friend who had been murdered would be extreme provocation to someone like Mrs. Rutherford. As would pointing out that I was a person to be spoken to in her own right, not simply Louise’s “woman.” I would not have minded giving such provocation, but I didn’t want to embarrass Louise.
“Jane is on holiday, Dolly,” Louise retorted. “It’s very kind of her to give us her time.” Her voice cracked under the strain of such a bold statement.
“I’m happy to do it, Mrs. Tyler,” I said, leaving the words “for you” unsaid. “I am concerned about how we’re to dress the new cast members, though. Perhaps I could speak with one of the saleswomen. Or someone in the stockroom.”
Dolly Rutherford gave me a smile a Doberman pinscher might give a throat. “My husband is right over there; you might ask him.”
Her husband was indeed right over there. And Emily Tyler, having moved on from Mr. Hirschfeld, was beside him. For once, Mr. Rutherford’s face did not show rage or weary disapproval; he looked almost … happy. He gestured expansively to Emily, as if outlining some vision. For her part, she laughed, then gave his shoulder a playful shove with the tips of her fingers.
Louise and I exchanged glances. Then I headed over to Emily and Mr. Rutherford—pointedly ignoring Mr. Hirschfeld’s smile as I did so.
As I approached, the two were in animated conversation about the contest. Should Emily try for next year, or would it be good fun to sneak her in at the last moment? Emily was demurely insisting she couldn’t possibly crash, but Mr. Rutherford seemed enchanted by the element of surprise. Also, he seemed to find this year’s contestants lacking. “Look at that one,” he said, flinging a hand toward my favorite, Celeste Dwyer. “Hair like straw. And that one”—a dismissive wave at Eleanor Gosnell—“the grace of a stevedore.” Emily let out a shocked but encouraging giggle.
I drew near, and Mr. Rutherford pressed Emily’s hand and headed in the opposite direction. Once again, I was going to have to chase after him if I wanted answers. I called out, “Mr. Rutherford.” But he only wiggled his fingers in the air and said, “Measure them all, measure them all…”
So I began with Emily, murmuring as I held the measuring tape around her waist, “What are you doing here, Miss Tyler?”
“Having fun.”
“Is there no fun to be had in Poughkeepsie?”
“No,” she said. “There is not.”
I wanted to say there wasn’t really much fun to be had with a middle-aged married man either, no matter what kind of crown he promised. But there were ten other girls who needed my attention. For nearly two hours, I measured and avoided questions I had no answers for. What would the costumes be like? How much time would each have onstage? Who was coming to the pageant? I felt so rushed it was even hard to be excited when I met Hattie Phipps, the telephone operator, who was lovely beyond imagining and made me rethink my bet on poor Celeste Dwyer.
I was not the only one who failed to be excited by the Beauties’ presence. Dolly Rutherford was even more snappish than ever. I wondered how pleasurable it would be, being married to a man who spent his days gazing at other women. Now that he was married, William adored only Louise. Other men—I glanced at the piano—were more like Mr. Hirschfeld.
When I was done measuring, I looked around for George Rutherford. Not seeing him, I asked his wife where he was and received a very curt direction to his office.
Catching my eye, Leo grinned and nodded at the doors as if to say, Go on. I pretended not to see him. He could go on, too, as far as I was concerned. He could grin at Emily Tyler and explain his stupid little keys. No doubt his mother would be happy to sell Emily some underwear. No doubt Mr. Hirschfeld would be happy to advise.
George Rutherford’s office was clear on the other side of the top floor and was guarded by a secretary who sat just outside. When I arrived, she gave me a very grim look and told me Mr. Rutherford could not be disturbed.
“Mrs. Rutherford said specifically that I should speak to him.”
This did not have the desired effect on the secretary. Then, through the door, I heard, “Let her in, Miss Ambrose.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Should I open the door? Should Miss Ambrose? Mr. Rutherford? Who granted access to the great man? Or should I simply take it? I preferred not to be screamed at if it was avoidable. Finally, I turned the knob and opened the door to find the raging tornado of the other day seated calmly behind his desk.
It was a surprisingly small office for a man with a strong sense of spectacle. A large, cluttered mahogany desk with a leather chair for Mr. Rutherford and two chairs for … the word “supplicants” came to mind. Along one wall, there were filing cases; along the other, sheets of paper with architectural plans, cuttings from magazines, and sketches. In the corner sat a ponderous safe; the cash for the store’s business was probably kept there, stacks upon stacks of money spent by grateful, hopeful women.
“I’m very sorry to interrupt, Mr. Rutherford.”
“Why? Didn’t my wife tell you to speak with me?”
“She did.”
“Well, there you have it. Mrs. Rutherford said you should speak with me and I should speak with you, and here we are speaking. You see? The woman is all-powerful. Sit.”
He gestured to the empty space before his desk, and I sat.
“Now, why did my wife ask you to speak with me?”
“It’s the additions to the pageant. The American Beauties. How do you want them presented?”
He considered. I found myself holding my breath in prayer that his vision wouldn’t be too elaborate. Burlap bags would not be an unwelcome suggestion.
“They should all … look the same,” he said.
One look. I exhaled.
“Nothing elaborate. A sort of blank canvas until the end. When she is … revealed.” He waved a hand in the air, a gesture of self-conscious showmanship. “Some sort of smock,” he said. “Simple. White.”
Then he scribbled something on a pad of paper and handed me the sheet. “See my head saleswoman on the third floor. She’ll fix you up with something suitable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rutherford.”
“No,” he said. “Thank you.”
For a moment his gaze held. For a brief, disoriented instant, I had the strange certainty that he found me pretty. You, he seemed to say, it’s you. He would insist I enter the Miss Rutherford’s contest—although I had never felt desirous or deserving of such a thing. But it was heady to be examined so closely. No wonder the ladies of New York fought for his attentions, even if you were at risk of hearing you lacked grace or that your hair was straw.
I also felt what Emily must have only a few hours ago. Remembering Sadie’s dream of her mystery gentleman and how cruelly that had turned out, I asked, “Will Miss Tyler be joining the pageant?”
“Certainly.”
“So eleven smocks.” He nodded, wanting me gone. “Only—I know her mother, Mrs. Florence Tyler, wants her back at school.”
“And so do I. Miss Tyler is a Vassar girl. All those scholarly young ladies will see her and think, She shops at Rutherford’s, so must I shop at Rutherford’s.”
He smiled briefly, as if to let me in on the secret that he was, after all, a salesman from Ohio and that the rest of it was all a bit of an act. Hurrah for pageantry and poetry; but the goal was merchandise bought and sold.
Then, as I turned to go, I heard, “Your … hair.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head. He had not been able to help himself; he noticed such things without thinking. But I could not buy his clothes, and so should not have his attention. What would it be like, I wondered as I made my way back to the Crystal Palace, to walk into Rutherford’s and simply spend? To try on and cast off as many versions
of yourself as you liked? Dresses, hats, shoes. Your hair done this way or that. Would it materialize in the mirror, that best you? That ideal version of yourself, what you were truly meant to look like? What if you never got the chance to see that self?
Then I shook my head. Yes, Jane, your true self lies in a Paquin hat. If only you could let money fly from your fingers, then you might fulfill your purpose on earth. If only George Rutherford would tell you what you should look like, you’d be worth looking at. Vacation, it seemed, was making me spoiled and self-indulgent.
I returned to the hall to find Mrs. Rutherford and Louise rehearsing the scene in which Mrs. Lincoln urged her husband to write the Emancipation Proclamation; in this version, the words seemed to spring from Mrs. Lincoln’s own imagination. Louise’s only line as Lincoln was to pronounce her “idears mighty fine.”
“Poor old Lincoln,” said Leo. “First Booth, now this. How was Mr. R?”
I jotted notes about the costumes on a pad. “Very pleasant, as a matter of fact. I’m to see the head saleswoman on the third floor.”
“Are you?” He slid off the piano bench. “Well, let me come along and introduce you properly.”
“To whom?”
“My mother, of course.”
* * *
Some men might have been hesitant to step into the lingerie department, but not Leo Hirschfeld. And from the cries of “Hello, Leo!” it was clear it was far from the first time he’d been there. Singling out a brunette inexpertly folding a negligee, he said, “Myrtle, is my mother here?”
“By the fitting rooms.” Then, crossing her arms on the counter, she said, “You know, I’ve had such a craving lately for pastrami.”
Leo grinned. “You know, that’s funny, I have, too.” He did not, however, break his stride, leaving Myrtle to give me a singularly filthy look.
As we approached the fitting rooms, I realized that while Leo might exaggerate about many things, he was telling the truth when he told me that no one sold underwear like his mother. Elegant, poised, with long tapered fingers and not a single dark hair out of place, she might have been a customer were it not for the purple Rutherford’s smock she was obliged to wear. If I looked carefully, I could see the faintest suggestion of lines at her eyes and mouth. But otherwise, she might have passed for a woman in her late twenties. She made her way around the floor, dispatching orders to junior girls, compliments to clients who had chosen wisely, and thoughtful corrections to those who had strayed.
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