by Jodi Thomas
Birdie handed Miss Quigley her last sample, a headscarf covered in elaborate embroidery. The design was every Irish flower Birdie had ever seen—including her favorites, the lacy wild angelica, the trumpet-shaped bindweed, the delicate Little-Robin, and of course, the bright green shamrock.
Birdie held her breath while the woman looked over her handiwork.
“My mother taught me . . .” Birdie began, but stopped mid-sentence as Miss Quigley looked over her half-glasses at her. Clearly, Miss Quigley did not want her to speak.
“Can you use a sewing machine?” Miss Quigley finally inquired.
“No, ma’am.”
“Pity.”
Miss Quigley handed the headscarf back to Birdie. Birdie tried not to cry as she repacked her samples.
“I suppose we’ll have to learn to use it together then,” Miss Quigley said absently, as she refolded her glasses and put them back on the table.
Birdie’s head spun. Did this mean she was hired? Dare she ask?
Miss Quigley smacked her hand on the table and Birdie jumped.
“Why Mrs. Cockrell insists that we share the same floor with Cook is beyond me,” Miss Quigley said. “Can you smell that stew?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Birdie said, dividing her attention between the heavenly sounding words stew and we.
“Night and day, that woman cooks,” Miss Quigley said.
“But . . . isn’t that her job?”
“Of course it’s her job. She’s called ‘Cook’ after all. But we’ve got a job too. And you know what that is?”
“To . . . sew?”
“Exactly! To sew and mend and fix and hem—and then return those clothes to our guests and have them not smelling of stew!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Birdie was still not certain she had the job.
“One of your jobs will be to walk the garments up and down the alley before returning them to guests. Air them out—it’s the best we can do.”
One of her jobs!
She wanted to embrace Miss Quigley but had a suspicion that would not go over well with the severe woman. Birdie wasn’t sure she’d even appreciate a smile.
“I’ll do my best,” Birdie said with a simple nod.
Miss Quigley nodded back.
“From the looks of you, you just got off the boat.”
Birdie didn’t need to tell Miss Quigley the details of her journey from New Orleans to Galveston by a steamer ship so old and tired she was afraid it would sink, and then the flea-bitten coach to Dallas. The less said about that the better.
“Are you staying at Miss Hortense’s Boarding House?” Miss Quigley asked.
“No, ma’am,” said Birdie, who didn’t have enough money to stay anywhere.
“I know you’re not staying at Scarlett’s”—Miss Quigley gave Birdie an appraising once-over—“or you wouldn’t be looking for a job here.”
“Yes, ma’am . . . I mean no, ma’am.”
Birdie guessed that Scarlett’s was the local house of ill repute. When Birdie left her sheltered life in Ireland, she had never even heard of a harlot. But in every city she’d visited since—the wharf towns on the Irish coast and all the stops she’d made in America—she’d been propositioned not only by men but by women promising her an easy life if only she wanted it.
She didn’t.
But Birdie made no judgments—she’d earned money sewing for the ladies of the night in more than one town. They always paid well. Though the women always had smiles plastered on their faces, they knew how hard it was to make a living in a man’s world.
“I haven’t . . . settled yet,” Birdie continued.
“There’s a storage closet you can clean out if you want it,” Miss Quigley said, gesturing to a door behind two exquisite ball gowns. “It’s large enough for a bed and a small dresser. It’s not much but at least you’ll be safe.”
Safe. Could she even let herself think about being safe?
“Thank you,” Birdie said, trying not to sound too eager. “I’m very grateful. I’m happy to clean it out . . . but I don’t have a bed or a dresser.”
“Don’t be daft, girl,” Miss Quigley said. “Haven’t you noticed this is a hotel? We can get you a bed and a dresser.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
“In the meantime, get down to the kitchen and tell Cook to give you some of that stew. The sooner it’s gone the better,” Miss Quigley said, eyeing Birdie’s thin frame. “From the looks of you, you could put away a good portion of it.”
As Birdie headed down the hallway, she saw a now familiar figure propped against a wall. It was Captain Newcastle. Birdie surprised herself at the initial excitement she felt. She knew better than to make snap judgments about men. Especially positive snap judgments. She averted her eyes. She’d learned not to look at the floor. She just acted as if she didn’t see him as she strode past.
“Are you following me?” she heard him ask.
“Excuse me?” She turned on him. “I was about to ask you the same question.”
“Were you now?”
“Yes,” she said, although she hadn’t thought that until this very moment. “So . . . were you following me?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but no. I actually have business here.”
“You have business?” Birdie was annoyed with his suggestion that she might be disappointed and forced herself not to sound it. She settled on a contemptuous tone. “You have business. . . in the basement.”
“A soldier’s lot takes him everywhere,” he said with a wink. “You never know where you’ll find danger, Miss Flanagan.”
Birdie froze.
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m in the military,” he said. “I have my ways.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me it was through top-secret channels.”
“No,” he said. “I just asked Mrs. Cockrell. After all, it’s not every day I carry a woman up two flights of stairs. I inquired as to your health and Mrs. Cockrell mentioned your name.”
“You didn’t mention you knew my name when you asked me to dinner.”
“If I recall, you didn’t give me the opportunity,” he said. “Any chance you’ve changed your mind?”
Birdie tried to dislike this man, but she was finding it very hard to do.
“No, sir,” she said, but could hear the regret in her own voice. “I can’t. But thank you.”
The captain saluted. Birdie tried not to smile.
“Would you know the way to the kitchen?” she asked.
She hoped it wasn’t obvious she was just trying to prolong their conversation. Heaven knows, she could have just followed her nose to the kitchen.
“It’s just down this hallway,” Captain Newcastle said, walking in step with her. “I’ll show you.”
“In case there’s danger in the kitchen?” Birdie couldn’t help herself from playing his game.
“I can guarantee you there is no danger in the kitchen. I just came from there.”
“Oh,” Birdie said, envisioning a comely cook kneading bread.
“I was there on official business,” he said. Birdie hoped he hadn’t read her mind. “The kitchen staff cooks for the officers who are stationed here in Dallas. It’s probably the only way we can keep the officers.”
Birdie smiled. He really was incredibly charming. Perhaps she might lower her guard just a little.
The captain stopped abruptly.
“Here we are,” he said as they turned a corner and faced a set of huge double doors.
He saluted again and turned on his heels. She watched as he disappeared around the corner. He did not look back.
All for the best.
Birdie opened the door and let herself into the kitchen. The heat of the ovens immediately washed over her. She remembered so many recent cold nights, she refused to be anything but grateful for the warmth. She could see a short, round woman standing on a stool, stirring an enormous pot of stew on a stove. Birdie
’s eyes widened. She was expecting to see a pot bubbling inside a huge fireplace, but clearly, the St. Nicholas had every modern convenience.
“Excuse me,” Birdie said to the woman stirring the stew. Birdie wished she had asked Miss Quigley for Cook’s name. “Are you . . . Cook?”
The woman turned around on her stool. She held a large ladle aloft and gave Birdie a smile.
“Oui, cherie,” she said, stepping off her stool and wiping her hands on her apron. “Je suis Madam Durand. Est-ce que vous parlez français?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry . . . I mean . . . pardon, but I don’t speak French.”
“Oh good,” the woman said in a Texan twang. “Me neither. I just told you every word I know.”
Birdie looked puzzled. Had the heat gone to this woman’s head?
“Everybody likes a French chef and when people hear my name, they expect me to start jabbering in French,” the woman said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mrs. Durand—”
“Madam Durand,” she corrected. “Gotta keep the romance alive.”
“All right, Madam Durand . . . I . . .”
“Or ‘Madam’ is fine,” she said.
“Yes, Madam.”
“Or Cook,” she said, sounding deflated.
“I think I’ll call you ‘Madam,’ if you don’t mind.”
“That would be wonderful,” Cook said, sounding surprised. “But you might as well call me ‘Cook.’ Everybody else does. Now, why are you here? Did you just tell me?”
“No, actually,” Birdie said.
Now that she was here, Birdie wasn’t sure how to demand a bowl of stew.
“I’ve just been hired by Miss Quigley to—” Birdie continued, but Cook silenced her.
“Are you the girl who fainted?” Cook cried, seizing Birdie’s arm.
“How did you hear about that?” Birdie asked, embarrassed.
“Oh, you can’t keep a secret in this hotel,” Cook said.
Birdie stiffened. She prayed that wasn’t true.
Chapter 3
“Excuse me, sir,” the man said, pulling the badge out of his coat pocket. “I’m Detective Hilbrand. May I ask you a few questions?”
It was cold on the docks of New Orleans. All the detective wanted to do was call it a night. He’d been scouring the port for leads, but came up empty. He was on his way back to his hotel when he noticed a man sweeping up the day’s debris. One more line of questioning couldn’t hurt.
The man sweeping the dock stopped and rested on his broom. He gave a disinterested glance at the badge.
“You can put that away,” the man said. “I can’t read.”
Detective Hilbrand snapped the rawhide case closed. He felt as if he’d been having the same conversation for weeks in every city to which his leads took him. Mostly dead ends, but always just enough information to keep going. He pulled out a worn black-and-white sketch from his pocket.
“Have you seen this girl?” he asked.
The sketch showed an unsmiling young woman in a white blouse and heavily embroidered shawl. Her hair was pulled up in a modest bun, but a few corkscrew curls escaped and curled around her neck as if they were already on the run.
The man with the broom squinted at the picture, tilting his head from side to side.
“We see a lot of people down here,” he said.
Detective Hilbrand tried not to be impatient. It was as if the dockworkers had all memorized a script to use when talking to officials.
“Look,” Detective Hilbrand said. “I’m with the Pinkerton Agency. I’m not a copper.”
The man looked Detective Hilbrand right in the eye. It was as if he were deciding whether to proceed with the conversation or not. Detective Hilbrand forced himself to look as if he cared.
“I might have seen her,” the man with the broom said with a shrug.
“How much?” Detective Hilbrand reached in his pocket.
He knew the drill by heart.
Again, the man shrugged. Detective Hilbrand held out a few US dollars and the man took them.
“She was a pretty girl. You could tell she didn’t want anybody to notice her. She had a scarf over her head, but . . .”
“But?”
“But, like I says, she was a pretty girl. And we don’t get too many pretty girls down here.”
“Can you tell me anything else?” The detective tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
What he wanted to say was “Can you tell me anything useful?”
* * *
By the time Birdie returned to the sewing room, Miss Quigley was gone for the evening. Birdie made her way to the storage closet, hoping she could just find a place to lie down for the night. She could clean everything up tomorrow. Tonight, she was too tired. She opened the door to the closet and gasped. Even in the dim light, she could see a bed with a beautiful comforter. There were two pillows with the letter “N”—for the St. Nicholas Hotel, no doubt—done in exquisite embroidery. A small dresser had also been added to the pristine space. Her travel bag was on the bed and a blue-and-white porcelain bowl and pitcher perched on the dresser. Birdie sank onto the bed, trying not to cry.
Over the last few weeks, she’d slept anywhere she felt she was away from prying eyes . . . fields, barns, in the shadow of stacks of luggage at train depots, and behind barrels at oceanfront ports. She’d never dreamed anything so beautiful would be waiting for her. She touched the embroidered “N,” studying the design. She felt a boost of confidence. As lovely as the work was, she knew she was up to the task, should Miss Quigley ask her to replicate it. She wanted to write to her mother, thanking her for teaching her so many beautiful designs and techniques and insisting on perfection. Birdie had bristled at the time, but she shuddered to think where she would be now without them.
Perhaps she could make Dallas her home. She tried to put the thought out of her mind. She’d hoped for that very thing in every city she’d been in, but she only managed to stay one step ahead of the man who followed her relentlessly. Dallas seemed like the ends of the earth, so maybe he had finally lost the trail. But it was too soon to count on that.
But if, as a holiday miracle, she felt she was safe in Dallas, she might be able to write to her mother by Christmas. It was a lovely thought, writing a cheerful greeting filled with descriptions of her wonderful job, new friends, and possibly even an account of the St. Nicholas Grand Ball. She put her head down on the crisp pillowcase and went to sleep.
She awoke to a clatter. Springing out of bed, she saw Miss Quigley filling the pitcher on the dresser. Birdie realized the closet had no window and she had no idea if it was day or night.
“I’m so sorry,” Birdie stammered. “I must have overslept.”
“You did,” Miss Quigley said, keeping her eye on the pitcher, which she filled from a steaming pan. “It’s five thirty. We start work at five fifteen.”
“It won’t happen again,” Birdie said.
“I’d say that was a very good idea,” Miss Quigley said, setting the bucket down and looking at Birdie. “Do you always sleep in your clothes?”
Birdie looked down at herself and gasped as she realized she hadn’t changed into her nightdress. She’d gotten used to sleeping in her corset. She adjusted her scarf, which thankfully hadn’t come off during the night.
“I . . . I was just exhausted,” Birdie said.
“I’ve brought you a uniform,” Miss Quigley said, motioning to a black pin-striped dress with a simple but elegant embroidered tulle mobcap.
The mention of a uniform nudged Captain Newcastle into Birdie’s head. She quickly shut him out. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she saw that the cap would keep her hair neatly out of sight, without drawing attention to herself.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Birdie said. “If the dress doesn’t fit, I can take it in myself.”
“The dress will fit. I picked it out myself. I didn’t get to be head seamstress by haphazard guesswork, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now get cleaned up and let’s get to work,” Miss Quigley said. “I have biscuits and butter and coffee on the table, so be quick.”
Birdie couldn’t believe her ears. She’d just eaten last night! Miss Quigley swept out of the room and Birdie pulled off her worn traveling clothes and put them in the dresser. Even with all her sewing ability, she feared they would never be suitable to wear in the hotel lobby, but from what she’d seen of Dallas, she could certainly hold her head up on the town’s sidewalks.
Miss Quigley was right: the dress fit perfectly, even to the length. Birdie tucked her hair into the cap, took a deep, calming breath, and opened the door to her new life.
Her new life smelled of coffee.
Birdie was not as hungry as she’d been the night before, so she managed ladylike sips of coffee—with cream and sugar! She took a large biscuit from a tray and started to slather butter on the warm bread but slowed her pace when she noticed Miss Quigley’s arched eyebrow. Cook had been easy to talk to as Birdie downed her stew the night before and she gave Birdie a few tips on how to handle Miss Quigley.
“She scares everybody,” Cook said. “But it’s just an act. A very convincing act. But she has a heart of gold, that woman.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Well, it’s true. I mean, she took you in off the street, didn’t she? Pitiful little ragamuffin that you are.”
Birdie looked up from her stew. Cook was looking at her with sympathetic eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t being rude. Just stating the facts as she saw them. And what could Birdie say? She was a pitiful little ragamuffin.
“But she’s a tough taskmaster,” Cook continued. “So no sloughing off, you hear me?”
Birdie took another bite of biscuit as she reflected on Cook’s words. Birdie was going to do everything she could to impress Miss Quigley.
A young man—almost a boy—arrived to take the tray back to the kitchen. While Miss Quigley talked to the kitchen boy, Birdie finished her breakfast, sorry to see anything on the tray being returned. But she told herself that there would always be something to eat as long as she was at the St. Nicholas. She smiled as the kitchen boy took the enormous tray and held it expertly aloft in one hand as he left the sewing room. It seemed everyone excelled at his or her particular duties.