Somerset (42 page)

H
is meeting with the foreman of his cottonseed mill forgotten, Thomas headed for the DuMont Department Store. He always lost his breath when he walked into its rarified air, an occurrence that happened seldom more than twice a year when he shopped for Regina's and his mother's Christmas presents. After his first failed attempts at pleasing his wife on other celebrations that called for gifts, she preferred putting a bug in Henri's or Armand's ear about something she liked. They in turn would pass on word to him, and he would say to put it on his bill, wrap it up, and send it to the house. Thomas could not recall any item that he had personally selected to give to Priscilla to commemorate special occasions.

The DuMont Department Store was a gilt, marble, and mirrored palace whose fine wares and opulent appointments were set aglow by dozens of gas-lit crystal chandeliers. It boasted separate departments for men's, women's, and children's clothing, along with sections for jewelry, gifts, home furnishings, and furs. Under its roof were housed a tearoom, hair salon, bookstore, design and tailoring rooms, and administrative offices, all spread on three floors reached by a sweeping, elegant staircase.

Thomas regarded the store as a Texas phenomenon. What businessman would ever dream of building a retail establishment like the DuMont Department Store in a small town in East Texas and expect to turn a profit to justify its expensive scale and inventory? But Henri DuMont had done just that. From the beginning his instinct for pinpointing his customer base, knowing what his patrons wanted and would pay for, had been the guiding light behind the store's success. Henri knew the value of advertising and publicity and had always been in step with the modern demands of the times in which he lived. He and Armand had been among the few retailers to realize that mass production, ushered in by the Civil War, would change the way Americans dressed, shopped, and ate. They understood that men and women had moved on from the lengthy fittings and costly trimmings of
custom
-​
designed
, couture clothing and had therefore primed the store for the advent of ready-to-wear garments that could be purchased immediately, right off the rack.

Customers came from all over, giving Henri's competitors in Texas cities and those in Louisiana and Mexico a run for their money. Around Easter and Christmas, it was not uncommon for flocks of families to come to Howbutker for a weekend's roost in the Fairfax Hotel to do their shopping in the DuMont Department Store, or for gaggles of ladies to arrive by train on buying sprees that made short work of the inventory in the store's gleaming cases. The DuMonts' home décor department was in constant demand, and no well-to-do Texas rancher or farmer ever dared send his daughter off to finishing school without first outfitting her from the store's selection of up-to-the-minute feminine attire. Nowadays, customers did not have to visit the store to buy what they needed. They could order right out of the DuMont Department Store's mail-order catalog, an innovation begun by Aaron Montgomery Ward in 1872.

Thomas took the flight of stairs to the second story, where the store's glassed offices overlooked the main floor. He found Armand in his own office, passing by Henri's, where the founder's chair behind his desk yawned sadly empty. Armand, his lean, aristocratic face showing the strain Thomas had known in watching his father die, glanced at the mantel clock when his secretary ushered him in. “You're early,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

Thomas got right to the point. “Armand, I need a favor.”

Armand leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his silk waistcoat. “Ask, and it is yours.”

“Not so hasty, my friend. What I have to ask may not set well with you, but I hope it will.”

“Ask, my friend.”

“It is about Jacqueline Chastain. As you know, her shop failed. I believe she's nearly destitute. It's been very generous of you to allow her to live in the apartment until she can make other arrangements.”

Armand dismissed the tribute with a wave of his hand. “She is a deserving woman.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Thomas said. “I spoke with her this morning. Her future plans sound pretty bleak. She intends to go live with her sister and brother-in-law in Richmond, Virginia, and hopes to find employment in a millinery shop there.”

Armand was listening patiently, and Thomas suspected his friend, who knew him so well, had already anticipated the favor. “I wonder if you have a position in the store that calls for her expertise and could offer her a job,” Thomas said. “I know nothing about women's hats, but from what I saw of those in her shop when I picked up that head thing Regina wore on her
birthda
y…”

Armand leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. “I wish I could have stopped what was happening, but I couldn't.”

“Well, no, you couldn't throw business her way.”

“I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the deliberate plot to boycott Mrs. Chastain's shop. Somebody mailed letters that started a whisper campaign against her. Very unsavory stuff. The blasphemy obviously fell on the right ears, and”—Armand lifted his well-tailored shoulders—“you saw the result when you went by her shop.”

Thomas felt heat rush to his head. “Letters?”

“Very damaging not only to her place of business but to her personally. The poor woman is persona non grata now and has become a practical recluse.”

“How did I not know about this?”

“Why would you?”

“Do you know who was responsible for the letters?”

Armand held his eye. “I've an idea.”

“Who?”

“I've never lied to you, Thomas, so don't ask me.”

“But you know?”

“I've definite suspicions. Now, as to your request, I'll be happy to hire Mrs. Chastain. We can use a designer of her talents. I thought of offering her a job, but under the circumstances, with her reputation in tatters, I…didn't think she'd wish to stay in Howbutker. Shall I sound her out?”

“I'd be most grateful, Armand,” Thomas said, trying to think of who in town would go to such lengths to destroy a woman like Jacqueline Chastain. He would go to the house and ask Priscilla. She belonged to every women's organization in the county, fertile grounds for gossip. If anyone would know, she would, and when he learned the name of the perpetrator…

They shook hands, but Armand tightened his grip as Thomas made to pull away. “Thomas, my friend, I advise you not to investigate this matter further.”

Thomas studied him, puzzled. “Why? Whoever it is deserves to be run out of town!”

Armand released his hand. “Are we still to meet for luncheon? I'll drop by Mrs. Chastain's on the way to the Fairfax and have her answer for you.”

“And I may know the name of the culprit by then. I'm on my way home now. I'm sure Priscilla will have a good idea who's behind this. My wife did all she could to keep Mrs. Chastain in the black. She must have bought over a dozen hats.”

“Really?” Armand raised a sleek eyebrow. “How
…
generous of her. One o'clock at the Fairfax, then?”

Thomas urged his horse to a full gallop toward Houston Avenue and was halfway there when he drew on the reins so sharply his mount almost lost his footing. A shocking coldness, like a dunk into icy water, shuddered through him. Good God! Priscilla! Priscilla wrote the letters! He had only to ask himself who would want to see Jacqueline Chastain run out of town for the answer to shout at him. He had only to recall Armand's odd demeanor and warning couched as advice, Jacqueline's remark—
There are certain influences afoot in this town that would prevent my being offered one
—to know that his vindictive, spiteful, jealous wife was responsible.

Priscilla! That brainless wife of his who thought herself superior to a shopkeeper who possessed the grace and kindness to keep silent about her maliciousness to her husband. Thomas was certain Jacqueline suspected Priscilla. Thomas recalled the bills of sale his wife had signed for the hats, the purchase a ruse to deceive him and others from guessing her to be the culprit behind the poisoned pen. Obviously, Jacqueline had come in possession of a letter, and she would have compared its writing to his wife's signature on her copy of the bill. No doubt Armand had done the same. Priscilla would have tried to disguise her penmanship, but its many flowery, telltale curlicues would have given her away as the writer.

Thomas kneed the horse on and steadied his breathing to regain control of his rage. He had to be careful how he confronted Priscilla. He must remember that she was the mother of his children and still grieving the loss of a child. For the same reason, he must think of Vernon and Regina and avoid causing them further pain from seeing their parents at each other's throats. They were already sadly aware their mother and father were not as happy together as their best friends' parents. The wives and husbands in the Warwick and DuMont households were heart mates. His children could not say that of him and Priscilla.

But Priscilla must not be allowed to get by with this heartless act of malice against an innocent human being. He would find a way to make sure she did not.

L
ate that afternoon Henri DuMont, aged eighty-three, closed his eyes for the last time as he spoke to Jeremy, who stood by his bedside. The first to know he was gone, Jeremy gently placed a hand on his brow and said, “Good-bye, old friend.” Cries immediately went up. Armand sobbed uncontrollably before his tearful sons, Abel and Jean, and Philippe, veteran of many wars, bowed his head in an attitude of inconsolable grief. Armand's wife stood beyond the bed waiting to offer her arms to her husband and sons while Bess, stiff-shouldered, lips pressed together, stoically drew the sheet over the face of her husband of forty-eight years.

In the hall outside Henri's bedroom, Thomas and Jessica waited for the inevitable news with Jeremy Jr. and his wife. Upon hearing the sounds of mourning, Thomas placed his arm around Jessica's shoulders. “He is with Papa, Mother.”

“Yes,” Jessica said, her voice forced through the pain of her grief. “Such a good friend he was, so noble and generous.”

Thomas wiped his eyes and left his mother to be with Bess while he went downstairs to the drawing room to impart the news to Vernon and Regina and their Warwick contemporaries, Brandon, Richard, and Joel. Regina discerned his message before he spoke and rose to embrace him. “You want me to walk home with you, Daddy?” she asked when he said he must go down to tell her mother.

“No, Poppy. Stay with Abel and Jean. They will need your comfort.”

Thomas walked the short distance to his house, his footsteps dragging. God, he wished he could be with Jacqueline Chastain. One of the dearest men on earth had died, and the earth was poorer for it, and he wanted to be in the presence of a woman who appreciated that loss and understood his pain.

When he'd met Armand at the Fairfax, his friend told him Jacqueline had accepted his offer to design hats for the store and manage the counter of women's accessories. As part of her salary, she would retain the apartment over the shop with the understanding her earnings would increase to cover the cost of lodging should the property be rented.

Grateful, deeply moved by his longtime friend's generosity, Thomas had asked, “Armand, what with Jacqueline Chastain's reputation compromised, aren't you taking a chance she will be bad for business?”

“I have faith that my customers will know a lady when they see one,” Armand had answered.

It was not a title he could apply to his wife, Thomas thought in repugnance as he let himself into the house. Sassie, Amy's daughter, eight years old, ran forth to welcome him. “Miss Priscilla is upstairs, Mister Thomas.”

He touched her cheek. It was wet with tears. The DuMont servants had passed along word on the avenue that Mister Henri had died. Henri had always seen that Petunia and Amy and now Sassie had special treats from the store, especially at Christmastime. “I liked him so much,” Sassie said, her mouth quivering. “He was such a nice man.”

“Indeed he was, little one,” Thomas said. “I'll go up. No need to tell the mistress I am home.”

He found Priscilla trying on hats. A black assortment of them was on the bed. Christ! A clothes fiend, his wife was already deciding what to wear for the funeral. She turned to him from her mirror, assuming a face appropriate for the sadness of the occasion. “Amy brought up the news, Thomas,” she said. “I'm so sorry. I know how fond you were of Henri. How is Bess?”

“How do you think she is?”

She shrugged, dropping her mask. “I was just asking.”

Thomas gestured toward the hat collection. “What are those?”

“What do they look like?”

He was so tired of this sort of verbal volley in their limited conversations. “Which ones are from Mrs. Chastain's shop?”

Priscilla turned back to the mirror. “None. They're from the DuMont Department Store.”

“Where are the ones you purchased from the Millinery Shop?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You say the name as if you're familiar with it.”

“Where are they, Priscilla?”

“In the wardrobe over there. Why do you care?”

He opened the wardrobe doors to find a melee of women's hats stacked unmindful of the crush to feathers, ribbons, and flowers. Their price tags were still pinned to them. Priscilla had never meant to wear them. She never intended to serve as a pied piper to lead other women to Jacqueline Chastain's door, as she'd claimed. Thomas carefully pulled a black hat from the pile. “Here,” he said, “this is the one I want you to wear to the funeral.”

Her face paled slightly. “Why?”

“As advertisement of Mrs. Chastain's talents. Isn't that why you bought them? I met with Armand today, and he tells me that someone has been sending around poisonous letters maligning Mrs. Chastain's character, the idea being to drive her out of town. Apparently, it worked. Her shop is closed. I can't imagine who would do such a reprehensible thing, can you, Priscilla?”

Thomas saw the movement of a quick swallow make its way down his wife's creamy throat. “No, I can't, but why wear the hat if…if she's out of business?”

“Oh, she's not entirely. Armand has hired her as a hat designer and overseer of one of his women's departments. That means she gets to stay in town, and I think it would be very gracious of you to wear her hats as a statement of your support. Let Howbutker see that you don't believe a word of the drivel those letters contained. Did you receive one, by the way?”

Priscilla swallowed again. “No, I did not.”

Thomas began removing the hats from the wardrobe, setting them on tables and chairs. “The perpetrator knew better than to send one to you, I'm sure.” He studied each of the feminine creations, memorizing their details, conscious of his wife's apprehensive attention. “I don't recall you wearing any of these,” he said.

Priscilla emitted a nervous laugh. “Why would you? You never notice such things.”

“I'll remember these. Where are your others—the ones you do wear?”

Silently, her expression tense, Priscilla pointed to another wardrobe. Thomas tugged at the bellpull, then opened the wardrobe doors. Without a word, he began pulling hats from shelves and tossing them onto the bed with the others. Amy appeared. “Someone rang?”

“I did, Amy,” Thomas said. “Please collect the hats on the bed and distribute them to your friends or take the whole bunch to your church for its rummage sale, whatever pleases you. Miss Priscilla will not be needing them. When you have finished, place the hats on the table and chairs in the vacated space in the wardrobe.”

Amy's enlarged eyes said
Uh-oh
, but she replied, “Yes, Mister Thomas. I'll go get some cotton sacks to put them in.”

When the door closed, Thomas narrowed a needle-sharp eye at his wife. “I don't believe anything else needs to be said or done concerning this matter, do you, Priscilla?”

Taut-faced, Priscilla said, “I suppose not.”

“Very good. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to ride out to Somerset to visit my father's place of rest.”