The Dressmaker (13 page)

“My mother made me a rag doll and I sewed for her, too.”

But Lucile wasn’t interested in any more shared experiences. “Really, dear, we were all children once. Now go to bed and come back early. We have work to do.”

Tess sat down at Lucile’s desk the next morning, looking as efficient as possible as she opened a drawer and pulled forth a notebook and a pen. If she had expected the intimacy of the night before, it was certainly not there now.

Lucile was pacing, talking about the messages being sent and received from her various showrooms in London, Paris, and New York. There were showings of her spring line scheduled
everywhere
, she said with satisfaction. So much needed to be coordinated, and remaking the gowns lost on the
Titanic
would take time. Nothing must cast a pall over the New York opening. She talked rapidly, firing off instructions as Tess scribbled them down on notepaper. Clients had to be notified, courted, rounded up. Was Mrs. Wharton still planning to purchase the coral tea gown she adored in London?

What about the models? Were they all assembled and ready to go or not? And if not, why not?

“Actually, I believe the publicity from this disaster might help,” she said, her voice trailing off as she looked at Tess writing silently. She began to drum her lacquered nails against the table.

“My dear, I’ve noticed you spending a fair amount of time with that odious seaman. Since your mother isn’t here, I just want to warn you—you can do better.”

Tess’s cheeks began to burn. She opened her mouth to answer, but Lucile cut her off.

“Second, we might as well get to this. We need to talk about your future. I don’t need a maid in New York; I have two.”

Her voice had hardened, businesslike, and Tess, shocked, braced herself. Now came the dreaded repercussions of her disobedience.

“But, I thought—”

“Yes, I know, I mentioned something about working in my shop. And I know you’re good with buttonholes.” Lucile sighed again, paced the room for a few moments.

“I can do much more than that,” Tess said with a rush. “I’m good, I can be a true help to you, I—”

“Oh, Tess, you should see your face. Don’t worry, I’m just teasing. I’ll find a place for you. You’re quick and intelligent. I will try you out in the shop—we’ll start from there. Why are you looking at me that way?”

“I’m bewildered. It’s as if, sometimes, a game is being played.”

“Game?
Game?
Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Lucile’s light laughter bounced through the air. “Now sit down for a moment—I want to give you an idea of what we’re going to face when we dock tonight. We are all celebrities now, you know.”

Tess wasn’t quite sure what that would mean. Only gradually had she realized that the fate of the “unsinkable”
Titanic
had drawn worldwide attention, that newspapers were clamoring for details, that inquiries were being planned, that the U.S. Congress would be involved. Radio messages had been flying back and forth between the
Carpathia
and the shore. Somehow it had seemed to her to be the private tragedy of the survivors, which she saw now was absurd.

“It’s going to be a circus,” Lucile warned her. Tess should try to avoid the reporters; they were jackals and would crawl all over anybody unfamiliar with their deceits. She and Sir Cosmo would do the talking. There would be drivers from her New York office with cars at the dock to whisk them off to the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, so she was to stay close and not wander off. On second thought, they might stop at her salon; Madame was quite sure all the models would be there. “And wait until you see this hotel, dear,” she said cheerfully. “You will
die
.”

Tess winced at that. “I’ll make sure everything is ready,” she said, preparing to leave the room.

Lucile must have caught the shadow that flitted across her face.

“By the way, I’ve forgotten the name of the family you were working for in Cherbourg,” she said. “Who were they, dear?”

“We haven’t talked about them.” They both knew she had never named them.

“Perhaps not.” Madame surveyed her thoughtfully. “But then …”

Why this cat-and-mouse game? She could say nothing. No, she would take a chance. “Thank you for your kindness last night,” she said. “You comforted me, and I am grateful for that.”

Once again, that sudden shift of expression on Lucile’s face. “It isn’t what I do,” she said after a pause. “But you brought it out of me.”

A short silence. And then it ended.

“Oh well, I know about made-up worlds. Do be sure you understand about the one we are entering—and that’s the last time I’ll ever remind you.” Madame smiled, her eyes dancing. “So prepare yourself. We’re about to go through Alice’s looking glass.”

PENNSYLVANIA STATION
NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 18
7:00 A.M.

Pinky Wade sat hunched in her seat, staring out a grimy window as her train pulled slowly into the tunnel below the new Penn Station,
that vast edifice of soaring arches and splendid skylights held up by magnificent pink granite columns. She jumped slightly as the conductor strode into the railcar and bawled out, “New York City, end of the line!” Quickly she gathered her belongings, which consisted of a small satchel with an extra shirtwaist and toiletries. Pinky Wade was proud that she always traveled light.

She stepped from the train and started to mount the stairs, looking up toward the skylights expectantly. Yes, the light was bursting through, dancing off the heads of hurrying passengers and shimmering over every polished surface. Usually she loved this elegant passage from the train to the waiting room, loved stepping onto the gleaming travertine marble floors, imagining that she was in some kind of grand palace. She had no heart for it today, though. Weary and cranky, she was still smoldering over the
Times
’s demand for her presence. She made a halfhearted attempt to straighten out the mess of stringy hair pinned carelessly on top of her head, then glanced down at her shoes. Van Anda would probably make a few cracks about the length of her skirt, which now skimmed a few more inches above the top of her ankles. What did he expect her to wear when she was working?

She walked past a huge, gold-framed mirror and stopped, staring at her reflection. Well, surprise, she looked as cross as she felt. How could Van Anda have pulled her off the mental-hospital investigation to stick her with survivor interviews? It made her uneasy. He was a good boss, backed her up on most of her assignments. But in the end he was just like any other man in the newspaper business: when you’ve got something pathetically sentimental, bring in a woman reporter; that’s what they’re good for. If she had been booked on the
Titanic
—now that’s a story that would have been worthwhile. Now she was stuck with the too-easy job of wringing human-interest accounts out of survivors.

She walked on, indignation rising. Sometimes she wondered why she kept reporting. Would her father ever admit to being proud of her? She had grown up hearing from him how smart she was, but then there were the little sharp-edged asides: most women are married by your age; what about a family? Pinky stopped again, scrambling
in her bag for taxi money. She had more freedom to do what she wanted to do than most women, and maybe he hadn’t liked sharing with her the guilty joy of the job. When she was exposing abuse at an orphanage or forcing reform in a mental hospital, she felt powerful. The truth was, she could still be yanked off an important story as quickly as a child being pulled away from a candy box.

She sighed as she hurried out of Pennsylvania Station and joined a line of people waiting for taxis. At least they didn’t have to put up with horse-drawn hansoms anymore.

CITY ROOM,
NEW YORK TIMES
NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 18
10:00 A.M.

Van Anda had hardly slept in three days, not that it mattered. Every other paper in the country was eating humble pie. Only the
Times
had had the nerve to print the story of the
Titanic
’s sinking before the White Star people finally stopped lying and confirmed it. This was the coup of his life, and there was no way he was going to lose that lead now. The
Carpathia
was due this evening, and he was almost ready. A whole floor at a local hotel had been reserved for his reporters, and they were ready to go. A dozen phones had been installed, with direct access to the rewrite desk. “We were first, and we’re going to stay first,” he crowed to the excited reporters in the city room.

“Hello, Carr.”

He looked up to see Pinky Wade standing in front of him, her arms crossed, a frown on her face. He smiled, noting that her skirts had inched up again. She was pretty enough—rosy skin, bright eyes, and a laugh that always had a bounce to it. Also something of a chameleon, which helped on undercover assignments. Plenty of courage and strong opinions. If it weren’t for her smart mouth, she might even get away with pouring tea in one of those mansions on Fifth Avenue.

She always gave the impression that she held enormous amounts of energy bottled inside her ready to burst out at any moment. No one loved a good story more than Pinky.

“You’re to be down on the dock when the ship pulls in,” he said without preamble. “Get steerage as well as first class. Quick takes—we’ll piece it together. Did they see the iceberg, when did they realize what was going on. The more detail the better; get some near-miss stories. Get me—”

“Hello, Carr.”

Van Anda could see that she was really angry this time.

“Hello, Pinky.”

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because you’re the best human-interest reporter I know. And I’m sorry you don’t have to risk your life for the story. I’ll try to rectify that later.”

She couldn’t help but smile. He did have a sense of humor.

“I want to get on the ship before it docks,” she said.

“Great. You find a way; I’m happy.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.
APRIL 18
3:30 P.M.

Senator Smith barely made the train pulling out of Union Station, swinging himself up on the lower step as it began to move, a briefcase stuffed with papers tucked precariously under one arm, two aides scrambling up after him.