An Heiress to Remember

by Maya Rodale

  She did not wish him ill; she wasn’t a monster. But as she dug into the details of the business, pored over the account books, learned the origins and reasons for foolish decisions, the more she realized what an idiot he was. Their father’s lifework was being run into the ground, in a series of poor choices and missed opportunities and a stubborn refusal to change. His laziness and arrogance were his downfall. And thus, the store’s.

  If she hadn’t arrived in time, he would have sold a former empire for a song and that’s all it would have been worth. Three generations of labor and love, gone.

  If she hadn’t gathered her nerve to seek her divorce . . .

  If she hadn’t gathered the nerve to seize control . . .

  “Beatrice, I didn’t do this just to help you get him out of the way so you could play store and tangle with Dalton. I did it because he also needed help.”

  “What happens when he comes back, Mother?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see” was mother-speak for you’re not going to like what I have to say.

  Beatrice understood this to mean that her mother would take sides and Beatrice might not like it.

  “You don’t mean to give it back to him when he returns?”

  Her mother just said, “Hmm.” Which was mother-speak for don’t make me say it, please.

  “But he’ll just turn around and sell it to Dalton! Edward just wants the money.”

  “He can’t sell it to Dalton if Dalton cannot afford to buy it. And if you are there to provide assistance to your brother . . .”

  “You’ll let me fix everything and then hand it back to Edward to ruin?” There was no hiding the outrage in her voice.

  “I don’t know, Beatrice!” She tossed down the letters in her hand. “I don’t know what to do. This whole situation is unseemly and unusual. Women running department stores.” Here she gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve been told the world isn’t ready for it.”

  No. Intolerable. Beatrice would not allow it. She would not hand it over to a stupid boy who would only wreck things. She would not go back to living in the shadows, existing at the whim of a man who didn’t deserve her.

  She couldn’t lose it all again. Not now, when things were coming along, when she finally had an idea of what to do and people to help her do it.

  Well, that “we’ll see” and that “hmmm” were all the more reason to get herself positively entrenched. She had to ensure that when anyone in Manhattan thought of Goodwin’s, they thought of her. Beatrice. She had to make herself the name, the face, the One.

  The beacon.

  She had to create something so successful, so unabashedly female, so distinctly hers that Edward couldn’t—or wouldn’t—lay claim to it.

  “Besides, Beatrice, you might even be married by the time he returns and you’ll want him to resume his duties so you can feather your new nest. You’re not too old yet. Mr. Wallace is no longer in mourning, and Mr. Fisk has yet to settle down.”

  “Unlikely, Mother. And by unlikely I mean absolutely not.”

  “So Dalton’s call this morning was simply . . . business. Not anything else?”

  Ah, interesting. Beatrice regarded her mother thoughtfully. She had never liked him, even when he was merely an associate her father had taken notice of and given special training to. Her father always used to say he reminds me of myself at that age with a jovial laugh, and for some reason that didn’t soothe Estella Goodwin’s misgivings about him.

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  “I don’t know him well enough to form an opinion.”

  That was society-lady-speak for utterly beneath my notice.

  “Allow me to rephrase the question. Why don’t you like him for me?”

  “He was a fortune hunter, Beatrice.”

  “Fair. But so was the duke.”

  “Nakedly so. Dalton wooed you into a foolish, girlish infatuation that would inevitably end with you brokenhearted and destitute.”

  “He seems to have done well for himself though. Better than the duke.” Montrose had blown through her fortune. When no more was forthcoming from the Goodwin family—and she had yet to deliver him an heir—he was suddenly more amenable to a divorce. It would allow him to start again with a younger, richer bride.

  “So it was only my heart that you were concerned with,” Beatrice said.

  “Beatrice, be sensible. He was an impoverished Irish immigrant who worked at the store arranging boxes and things. He had aspirations for more and he would have used you to get it. But had you run off with him you would have been cut off from the society you grew up with, you would be poor, you would be an outcast, you would have been nothing.”

  “I would have been loved.” Her mother pursed her lips. “And he did manage to earn the third greatest fortune in New York, if that’s so important.”

  “Yes, with money he took not to marry you. Is that love, Beatrice? Is that stronger than what I feel for you and Edward? I only want success for my children. Security. Their futures assured.”

  “Then you’ll want me to succeed. You’ll want me to make a success of the store. We both know Edward cannot or will not do it. But I need your help to do so, Mother.”

  “Beatrice . . .”

  “Mother, I’m wondering if you’ll help me throw a party.”

  Her mother lifted one brow and it was society-lady-speak for I am intrigued in spite of myself.

  “I need you to organize a debut party.”

  “Aren’t you a little old for that, darling? That ship has sailed.”

  “A debut party for the store. We are reopening soon and I want the whole world to know it. I want the grand opening to make a statement, an indelible impression. And I want to get people talking. So I need a debut party. A guest list, flowers, champagne, music, spectacle . . .”

  “I do know what goes into throwing a party,” Estella murmured, and Beatrice’s heart beat a little faster with hope. If her mother could work with her, instead of against her. If she could just show her mother how she and the store belonged together, if she could just get her mother on her side . . .

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dalton’s Department Store

  A few days later

  It was a gray day with the feeling of storm in the air, when Dalton stood at the window of his office, looking down at the spectacle across the street. The windows of Goodwin’s had been darkened and boarded over, upon which notices had been posted advertising for available positions.

  In blazing red letters on a soft pink background were the words WANTED: Women Who Want More. And then, in smaller print:

  Goodwin’s is hiring clerks. Fair wages. Opportunities for advancement. Childcare provided. Inquire within.

  This was the fourth day in a row in which women formed a long line, snaking around the block, to inquire within. The newspapers were certain this spelled doom for Manhattan’s most prestigious department store—his. Dalton would never admit it but he was starting to feel something like trepidation.

  A knock at the door diverted his attentions. He turned.

  “Do you have a moment, Mr. Dalton?”

  “Good morning, Miss Baldwin. Do come in.”

  He always had time for Clara Baldwin, one of his best shopgirls and department managers who was especially adept at training new hires. She hardly ever troubled him; she simply performed her job expertly and efficiently while he raked in the money.

  Today she stood nervously before his desk.

  “What can I help you with, Miss Baldwin?”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Dalton, but I have come to give my resignation.”

  “You’ll have to repeat that, Miss Baldwin. It sounded like you said you were offering your resignation.”

  “I did. I am.”

  “That is unexpected to say the least. May I inquire as to your reason? Good news, I hope.”

  It was expected that women would resign when they were married or found themselves with child. Dalton racked his b
rain for facts about Clara that might explain this. Did she have a sweetheart who might have proposed marriage? Was she already secretly married and expecting? Perhaps she was moving home, wherever that might be.

  “Oh, I have not been unhappy here, Mr. Dalton. However, I did learn of an opportunity for advancement . . .”

  He refused to turn around and look at that damned line, that sign, that store.

  WANTED: Women Who Want More.

  “Goodwin’s?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, relieved.

  “How much?”

  “Ten dollars a week.”

  He gave a low whistle.

  “Exactly. And I am to be given a very prestigious title—vice president of training. I shall be training all the new hires.” She laughed nervously. “I do have my work cut out for me.”

  “I didn’t realize you were unhappy with your position here.”

  “I didn’t, either. But then I saw the signs and made some inquiries. I wanted to see what I was worth, Mr. Dalton. Then she gave me an offer I could not refuse.”

  “I understand,” he said. And he did. Miss Baldwin was no different from him: she was not content with fine. She hungered for more and would seize opportunities that would afford her higher wages or a chance for professional advancement. He would have done the same thing in her position.

  The mistake he’d made was thinking that women didn’t burn with the same ambition, that they would be content with five dollars a week, sixteen-hour days, and the title of shopgirl.

  By that afternoon, it proved to be a costly mistake. Miss Baldwin was not the only employee to leave his store for the one across the street. Seven—seven!—other shopgirls gave notice, as well. Connor had come up to his office to give him the grim news.

  “A few more and it’ll be a certified exodus,” Connor said darkly. “And then what will people say?”

  The publicity would be unfavorable. The gossip would be unpleasant. If this exodus continued, service would suffer and customers would flee. Dalton’s was a place where a woman could come to have all her needs met right down to a porter to follow her through the store, carrying her purchases. Without such caring, attentive service, they’d go elsewhere. Say, across the street. Then he’d be in no position to exact his revenge.

  He did not come so far to come up so short.

  It was not to be borne.

  He was going to have a word with her.

  “They’re not going to say anything because they’re not going to know. This is going to stop. Now.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dalton!” The shopgirls chirped their usual greeting as he strode determinedly through the store on his way to the revolving door. This time there were no friendly winks as he passed by. Anger had sharpened his focus.

  He pushed through the heavy glass doors, stepped out onto the sidewalk, strode across the street. He stormed into Goodwin’s on the heels of some laborers carrying in supplies, like lumber and tools and things he didn’t recognize.

  Dalton barely registered the disruption. He paused and noted that the Goodwin’s he had once known was gone. Much of the store was deep in the throes of dusty, intensive renovations. But still, enough remained to remind him.

  Memories had a way of tugging on the heart and whispering, Remember? when you were only trying to forget.

  He remembered being a mere delivery boy who never wanted anything as much as he wanted to belong in that store.

  He remembered falling in love here. And never wanting anything as much as he wanted to be with Beatrice.

  He remembered being cast out of paradise.

  In this moment he wanted to torch the place as much as he had on the first of June in 1879.

  Beatrice turned, caught sight of him, strolled over.

  “Oh, hello, Dalton.” She smiled like she knew exactly why he was here. He nearly lost his temper on the spot.

  “You’re stealing my shopgirls and you greet me with a cheerful ‘hello, Dalton’? I don’t think so.”

  “They are freeborn human beings, Dalton, I’m not stealing them. I simply posted notices that I was hiring. Didn’t you see them?”

  “I saw the notices,” he said tightly. “It’s not like one could miss them, the way you plastered them all over the front of the store.”

  “Well, you know that I fired the previous staff,” she explained calmly, which only angered him more. “You didn’t think I was going to run a store of this size without clerks, did you?”

  “Of course not. I just didn’t think you would hire my salespeople. There are enough people looking for work in this city that I thought you’d get—and train—your own. I thought you would have some notion of fair play.”

  But no.

  They were going to fight and the gloves were off. Fine. He’d been too close to satisfying his revenge to start losing ground now. But he was. First it was seven salesclerks, and then more would inevitably follow. He could and would hire more, but as he sacrificed the time to train them, Dalton’s renowned and impeccable service would slowly falter.

  Rule: please a woman and she’ll be yours. Keep her waiting and she’s gone forever.

  It wasn’t just seven salesgirls.

  Dalton, seething, took a step closer and looked down at her. It was, admittedly, a move designed to intimidate and one he’d employed when necessary in conversations with other businessmen. But this, oh, this, was not the same. His heart was thundering and he became acutely aware of the rise and fall of his own chest as he breathed. If he weren’t so angry it would have felt like desire.

  But it was rage, certainly.

  Pure molten rage that had no other feelings mixed in.

  Yet Beatrice tilted her chin up stubbornly and refused to step back. She held her ground. In fact she stepped closer.

  “A very qualified bunch of candidates applied. I hired them.”

  “I know they are a very qualified bunch of candidates, Beatrice. I know it because I’m the one who trained them.”

  “And I’m the one paying them more.”

  Dalton and Beatrice were toe to toe now. Tempers flaring, heat rising. He imagined he could feel the heat from her body, drawing him closer. But he could not allow himself to think of her body now.

  “You have poached them. You could at least apologize.”

  “They’re my employees now. And there is no point in quibbling over them. They are humans with free will to make choices. Such as the choice to work for a woman who understands their circumstances and offers them a higher wage. And who gives them a break during the long workday.”

  “A higher wage? What are you paying them?”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “What they’re worth.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “You’ll never turn a profit like that.”

  Beatrice wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.

  “Best not let Josephine Shaw Lowell hear you say that. She’s putting together a list of stores that treat their female employees with decency so the women of Manhattan know where to best spend their money. I know Goodwin’s will be on The White List. But will Dalton’s?”

  She lifted one brow.

  He felt another surge of anger.

  Because this was the first time he was hearing of Josephine Shaw Lowell and her White List. Who the devil was she and did he really have to care?

  Beatrice was fighting back. Dalton was not about to argue any of her points. He was going to learn how much she was paying and give all his employees a raise accordingly. It would cut into his profits but he had plenty of profits. Or he could wait it out. Wait until Goodwin’s went bankrupt, then hire back all those employees at their former rate when her great experiment failed.

  And he really had to put someone on the case of Josephine Shaw Lowell and her White List.

  Standing where he was, in the wreckage of the store and memories, it seemed impossible that she would make a success out of this dusty mess of wood, glass, and mirror. And toilets. And .
. . the strangest-looking chair contraption that he had ever seen. It reclined, and there was an odd space indented for the neck, presumably. Two burly men were carrying it past him, toward a newly installed elevator.

  They looked at Beatrice for instruction. “Where do you want these, Mrs. Archer?”

  “What the devil are those?” Dalton inquired.

  Everyone ignored him.

  “Upstairs, please. In the section for Martha.”

  “Who is Martha? What are those for?”

  “I can’t tell you, Dalton. We’re competitors, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. And it seems we’re playing dirty.”

  “If that’s how you want to play, Dalton,” she replied, and if he didn’t know better he’d say she sounded flirtatious. But this was no flirting matter. She gave him that smile again. It did things to his insides. It made him feel like he was falling from the very top of the New York World Building. Falling and flailing and anxiously reaching out for something to hold on to. His instinct was to reach out to her.

  He was mad. Furious. That was why his heart was pounding. All the dust was the reason his chest felt tight and his breathing fast and shallow.

  It certainly wasn’t desire.

  It couldn’t be.

  That was a complication he didn’t want or need.

  “You’re upset,” she said calmly which did nothing to calm him. “You’re upset that I’m not selling you the store. You’re upset that I’m not just going to add floral arrangements and hope for the best. You’re upset that I’m not going to let you have your revenge so easily. You’re upset that you have nothing else to occupy your mind other than business and stupid ideas of revenge.”

  Every word landed like a sniper’s shot.

  “Upset? Men do not become upset. I am righteously enraged.”

  “Perhaps you need to take a walk around the block. Breathe deeply. Count backward from a thousand.”

  “You don’t know what I need.”

  She stopped and whirled around, nearly colliding with his chest. She pushed him. Her palms thumping against the wool of his suit jacket.

  “I don’t care what you need. In case you hadn’t noticed, I am trying to do something here and it doesn’t concern you. No matter how much you stomp about trying to make yourself the center of attention. Look at me, Dalton. I’m not the girl who broke your heart. I’m a woman trying to run a business.”