The Dressmaker (2 page)

Up the hill, away from the shipyard, amid the sprawling brick mansions on the bluffs of the Normandy coast, Tess was marching downstairs to the parlor. Waiting for her was the mistress, a prim Englishwoman with lips so thin they seemed stitched together.

“I want my pay, please,” Tess said, hiding the canvas sack in the folds of her skirt. She could see the envelope waiting for her on the corner table by the door, and began edging toward it.

“You haven’t finished my gown for the party, Tess,” the woman said in a more querulous tone than usual. “And my son could hardly find a towel in the hall closet this morning.”

“He’ll find one now.” She was not going back upstairs. She would never again be backed into that linen closet, fighting off the adolescent son’s eager, spidery fingers. That was her envelope; she could see her name written on it, and she wasn’t standing around to hear the usual complaints before it was doled out. She moved closer to the table.

“You’ve said that before, and I’m going upstairs right now to check.” The woman stopped as she saw the girl reaching out for the envelope. “Tess, I haven’t given that to you yet!”

“Perhaps not, but I have earned it,” Tess said carefully.

“Rudeness is not admirable, Tess. You’ve been very secretive lately. If you pick that up before I give it to you, you have burned your bridges with me.”

Tess took a deep breath and, feeling slightly dizzy, picked up the envelope and held it close, as if it might be snatched away.

“Then I have,” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the heavily ornate front door she would never have to polish again and headed for the docks. After all her dreaming and brooding, the time was now.

The dock was slippery with seaweed. Heart pounding, she pressed into the bustle and chaos around her and sucked into her lungs the sharp, salty air of the sea. But where were the signs advertising jobs? She accosted a man in a uniform with large brass buttons and asked in hesitant French and then urgent English who was in charge of hiring staff for cleaning and cooking on that big new ship.

“You’re too late, dear, the servicepeople have all been hired and the passengers will soon be boarding. Bad luck for you, I’m afraid.” He turned away.

It didn’t matter how brightly she smiled; her plan was falling apart. Idiot—she should have come down earlier. What now? She gulped back the hollow feeling of not knowing what came next and tried to think. Find families; look for young children. She would be a good nanny. Didn’t having seven younger brothers and sisters count as experience? She was ready to go, no trouble at all; all she had to do was find the right person and say the right things and she could get away. She would not, she would
not
be trapped; she would get out.

But no one paid her any heed. An elderly English couple shrank back when she asked if they needed a companion for the trip. When she approached a family with children, offering her services, they looked at her askance, politely shook their heads, and edged away. What could she expect? She must look desperate, tangled hair and all.

“Lucy, look at that girl over there.” Elinor pointed a delicate, polished finger at the frantic Tess. “My goodness, she’s a beauty. Gorgeous, big eyes. Look at her running around talking to people. I think she’s trying
to get on the ship. Do you think she’s running away from something? Maybe the police? A man?”

“I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure you’ll weave a good story out of it,” Lucy said, waving to Cosmo’s approaching figure. He looked, as usual, somewhat detached from his surroundings. Cool eyes, a calm demeanor; always in charge. Following him, at his heels, was a timid-looking messenger.

“Lucile, there is a problem—” Cosmo began.

“I knew it,” Lucile said, her jaw tightening. “It’s Hetty, isn’t it?”

“She says she is unable to come. Her mother is ill,” the messenger said. He bent forward almost in nervous homage—as well he might, because Lucile was furious now.

“Tell that girl she can’t back out just before we sail. Who does she think she is? If she doesn’t board with us, she’s fired. Have you told her that?” She glared at the man.

“I have, Madame,” he ventured.

Tess heard the commotion and stopped, arrested by the sight of the two women. Could it be? Yes, one of them wore the same grand hat with the gorgeous green ribbon she had spied from the window; she was right here, idly tapping the ground with that same red parasol.

The other woman’s sharp voice jolted her attention away.

“A miserable excuse!” she snapped.

Someone hadn’t shown up for the trip, some kind of servant, and this small person with the bright-red hair and crimson lipstick was furious. How formidable she looked. Her strong-boned, immobile face admitted no compromise, and her wide-set eyes looked as if they could change from soft to hard in seconds. There was no softness in them now.

“Who is she?” Tess demanded of a young man attached to the clustered group. Her voice was trembling. Nothing was working out.

“You don’t
know
?”

She looked again at the woman, noting how people slowed as they passed, whispering, casting admiring glances. Yes, there was something familiar.

“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “That’s Lucile Duff Gordon.”

“Of course.
Couture
, you know. And the other woman is her sister, Elinor Glyn. She’s from Hollywood, writes novels. Some quite scandalous, actually.”

Tess barely heard him. This personage bristling with anger was the most famous designer in the world, someone whose beautiful gowns she had seen in the papers, and she was standing only a few feet away. Her chance—this was her chance.

“Lady Duff Gordon, I can’t believe I’m actually seeing you,” she burst out, pushing forward. “I admire you so much—you are so talented. I’ve seen pictures of your gowns that set me dreaming.” She was babbling, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was Lucile’s attention.

The designer ignored her.

“I would love to work for you,” she pleaded. “I know goods. I am a dressmaker, I do very good work; I could be a great help to you.” She thought wildly—what to say next? “I’m very good at buttonholes—anything you need done. Please—”

“She’s desperate, I told you so,” murmured Elinor with a giggle as she straightened her elaborately fashionable hat.

Lucile turned toward Tess. “Do you know what the job
is
?” she demanded.

Tess hesitated.

“It is as my personal maid.
Now
are you interested?”

“I can do that.” Anything, anything to get on that ship. To be working for Lady Lucile would be an unbelievable opportunity.

“Where do you work now? What do you do?”

“I—work in a home in Cherbourg. And I do dressmaking. I have very satisfied clients.”

“A servant of some sort—not a surprise,” Elinor murmured.

Lucile ignored her. “Your name?”

“Tess Collins.”

“Tessie. Ah, I see.”

“No.
Tess
.”

“As you wish. Can you read and write?”

“Of course!” Tess was indignant.

Lady Duff Gordon’s eyes turned appraising at this flash of temper. “References?”

“I’ll have them mailed. Anything you need.”

“From the middle of the Atlantic?”

“There’s always a marconigram.” Tess had read about them and hoped she was saying the right thing.

Lucile suddenly tired of the back-and-forth. “I’m sorry, I know nothing about you,” she said. “It won’t do.” She turned away to talk to Cosmo.

Desperate, Tess had an idea. “Look, please look,” she said, pulling open the collar of her dress. “I made this. I tried to copy the collar of one of your dresses that I clipped out of the newspaper. It’s a poor copy, of course, but—”

“Not bad,” murmured Elinor, peering at the collar. It was deftly turned—a crisp linen designed to be worn open or closed, requiring careful stitching. “Very intricate. Unusual for a servant girl.”

Lucile cast another look in Tess’s direction, then fingered the proffered collar. It was one of her best designs. The girl had cut it in perfect proportion to her dress and stitched it by hand; there was not a wrinkle in the fabric. “You are saying you made this?” she demanded.

“Yes, I did.”

“Who taught you to sew?”

“My mother, who is very skilled.” Tess drew herself up proudly. “I’m known throughout the county. And I cut my own patterns.”

“Everyone
cuts
, my dear. That just requires a pair of scissors. You mean
design
, I presume.” Lucile reached out without a by-your-leave and lifted the sleeve of Tess’s dress, noting the skill of the girl’s inset work.

“Yes. I design and I sew. I do everything.”

“Does your employer pay you?”

“Not for dressmaking. But I am good, and I deserve to be paid.” Maybe this was too boastful. She drew in a deep breath and gave it her all. “I want to work for you. You are the best designer in the world, and I can’t believe my good fortune in meeting you. Your gowns are
an inspiration—who can design like you? Please give me a chance. You won’t be sorry.”

Lucile stared at the girl, her expression unreadable. Something stirred in her eyes as the aides around her fell silent, waiting for what would come next.

“She’s probably a bit too independent for you,” Elinor said quietly in an aside. “You never know. She might not be quite what she purports to be.”

Lucile’s expression didn’t change, even as a small smile curved her lips. “Perhaps. But then I could keep my jewelry locked in the ship’s safe, couldn’t I?” She turned back and addressed herself to Tess. “You are content with being a maid? I’m offering nothing else.”

“I will do whatever you wish—I just want a chance to prove myself, and work for you.” Yes, yes, she would do anything. She wouldn’t daydream or bunch up the sheet corners; she would work and learn and change everything. Tess was having trouble breathing. She felt the hinges of fate creaking, a door opening—or was it closing? Let her like me, she prayed.

“Anything?”

Tess pulled herself straight. “Anything respectable, none other,” she said.

Lucile’s appraising eye traveled the length of the girl’s figure, taking in her dark tousled hair, her high, flushed cheekbones and upturned chin, her shabby boots with one broken lace.

“They’re going to board us soon. Are you prepared to leave in the next hour or so?” she demanded.

“Yes, I can go immediately.” Tess cut her words sharp and tight. Only one chance, she thought, don’t squander it.

The little group around Lucile seemed to be holding its collective breath. Lucy hesitated one last second. “All right, you’re hired,” she said. “As a
maid
, you understand.”

Elinor shot her a surprised glance. “Isn’t that a bit impulsive, Lucy?”

Her sister didn’t answer, just kept gazing at Tess as if she were peering, unfocused, into the middle distance.

“Thank you—you will never regret it,” Tess said shakily, trying not to wither under Lucile’s steady gaze.

“You will need to be dressed for the job, whether you are educated or not.” Lucile was on firm ground again. “You are to call me Madame. And you’ll need a cap.” She nodded toward Cosmo. “My husband, Sir Cosmo, will take care of the details.”

Tess smiled warily at the tall, thin man with the large, well-tended mustache who stepped forward to talk to her. After asking Tess a few questions, he held a murmured conversation with a White Star Line official. This was, of course, passage only for a servant, so no passport was required. Surely no problem there? They completed their chat with a firm handshake. Tess exhaled so deeply she was dizzy. Yes, the door was opening.