The Dressmaker (21 page)

“What decision are you talking about—” she began.

Lucile leaped to her feet, her swollen eyes blazing. “Who talked to this woman?” she demanded, kicking at the wastebasket, knocking it over and sending newspaper pages skittering across the room.

“She spoke to many people,” Tess said.

“I see. And did that ‘many people’ include
you
?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her people in steerage couldn’t get to the boats in time.”

“What else did you prattle on about?”

“She asked why your boat was almost empty and I said I didn’t know.”

“Ah, yes. That started it. Then there’s that sailor friend of yours. He’s the one out to get us, that’s who; he’s the one filled with all the innuendos and lies. Not much of a mystery, is it?”

“Jim isn’t a vindictive man,” Tess said quickly.

“Oh, now it’s ‘
Jim
.’ ” Lucile was furious. “Not vindictive? Whose side are you on? He managed to disappear when I gathered people for the photograph. Is he why you didn’t join us? And where was he when Cosmo so generously thanked the crew for keeping us safe? Not vindictive? Oh, for God’s sake, he’s obviously an ignorant product of his class and has no judgment. He’s self-righteous, through and through. You had better tell me everything, right now.”

“Lucy, calm down,” Cosmo interjected. “Our accuser is anonymous. This isn’t testimony, it’s just malicious gossip.”

“Who else would have called us cowards?” she said, staring at Tess. “And
bribery
? For paying those poor men a little money to get them started again? Who else?”

“Lucy, I said calm down!” Cosmo snapped.

“Maybe it was Jean Darling. No, she wouldn’t dare.”

“Perhaps.” He pulled a cigarette from a silver cup on his dressing table and lit it, a slight tremor in his hand prolonging the task.

“The newspapers are trying to ruin me,” his wife said, ignoring Tess’s pale, set face.

“I’m the one described as a ‘cowardly baronet,’ you might recall.”

Lucile sank down on the sofa. “At this moment, I need all the support you can give me. How can you be thinking of yourself? I know I shouldn’t have talked for that article; I knew that the moment I walked into the shop and heard the fabric cutters whispering. Oh, they all said the interview was wonderful, that they were so happy I had survived. But the tone was dutiful, not like last night in the dining room when my friends hung on my every word.”

“You did keep them enthralled,” Cosmo said dryly.

“All right, I put myself in the spotlight at just the time when the newspapers were clamoring for scapegoats. So too many rich people survived, and all that—why do
I
have to pay a price?”

She glanced at Tess. “What are you standing there for?” she demanded.

“I’m waiting for your permission to leave.”

“Well, I haven’t given it.”

“I would like to go, please.” No, at this moment she would like to run. So they
had
paid money to the sailors.

“You disobeyed me. You talked to that reporter. I should fire you.”

No begging, Tess told herself. She was beyond that.

A silence. Then, in a calmer tone, Lucile said, “You look ridiculously bedraggled. Dear Tess, we must get you some decent clothes.”

Tess blinked. Another sudden shift from anger to—to what?

“I can go, then?” she asked.

“Go, go, for heaven’s sake. But I want you to come with me to the shop tomorrow morning. Someone else can report back on the inquiry. Now please go tell the hotel switchboard we will be taking no calls from reporters anymore, no exceptions, and I will meet you downstairs at eight-thirty. My driver will be waiting; his name is Farley. And, Tess?”

“Yes?” Tess stepped back, away—anything to get away from this volatile woman. She wanted out of here. Oh, how she wanted out of here.

Lucile suddenly stood and cupped both of Tess’s hands in her own. “Now don’t get upset,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t betray me. I have a terrible temper, and surely you won’t take this too personally.” She leaned closer and kissed Tess’s cheek, the sweet scent of her floral perfume wafting into the air. “I’ll make up for this, dear.”

Tess nodded, slightly dazed. She opened the door, murmured good night, and left the room. Lucile had apologized—sort of—to
her
. This thing about the money would be straightened out; it wouldn’t be bribery. Lavish tips were part of their way of life. It had to be Jim who gave Pinky that story. Who else cared? Not the sailors
who lined up for pictures, she was sure of that. He must have known it was coming, or guessed it, or something. And he hadn’t said a word on their walk, just let it hit her full in the face. Don’t jump to conclusions, you don’t know, she told herself. Her hands were shaking; she couldn’t stop them.

And she couldn’t quite forget the word
prattle
.

“You really whipped into her, Lucy. For God’s sake, what are you trying to do?” Cosmo said as the door closed behind Tess. “Be your mother?”

“That awful woman? For heaven’s sake, no.”

“You seem to be treating this girl as if you were, my dear.”

“I don’t want her to—”

“To what? Take control, defy you?”

“I don’t care what she does, Cosmo, for heaven’s sake. There’s no use scolding her for her friendship with that sailor; she looked sufficiently stricken as it was. In fact, she looked
too
stricken.”

“Perhaps she’s going to be a constant reminder of that terrible crossing.”

Lucile paused, absorbing this. “She didn’t call me Madame. Have you noticed?”

“Yes,” Cosmo replied.

“That’s required for her job.”

“It’s too late,” Cosmo said simply.

“She doesn’t give you proper deference, either.”

“I rather like not being
Sir
Cosmo.”

“You are impossible. Please don’t make me sad.” Lucile swept a hand over her eyes and fell back into the comforting folds of the sofa cushions. “I’m much too tired, and none of this is worth an argument. Tomorrow I’ll do battle.”

“My dear, we have to face facts. That story will stir an outcry on both sides of the Atlantic, and we are in deeper than I thought we would be. This diligent Senator Smith will soon focus on us, I’m afraid.”

“They wouldn’t dare. And if they do I won’t allow it.”

Cosmo walked over to the lamp and flicked the overheated towel to the floor. The edges were already singed.

WALDORF-ASTORIA
SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 20

“So you’re the new fetch-and-carry girl? All the way from England or France or somewhere? Kind of silly—Lady Duff’s got her pickings here. Well, pile in. She’ll be issuing me orders the second she comes out the door.”

The man gesturing Tess into the waiting black car outside the Waldorf the next morning had large, full lips and a sardonic grin that annoyed her. He had no higher status than she did, other than that conferred by a driver’s license.

“I’m not a fetch-and-carry girl,” she retorted.

“My dear, you are whatever she wants you to be,” he said affably. “You’re joining her crew of minions—the slavering, trembling minions that work for the mighty Madame. I’m one of them—I’m Farley.”

Tess had barely settled herself in her seat when Farley jumped to attention, opening the door for Lady Duff Gordon, slamming it quickly in the faces of a handful of reporters who rushed up to the automobile. He shoved the car into gear and roared into the Fifth Avenue traffic. Tess slumped, glancing cautiously at Lucile, whose face was more heavily powdered than usual. No mention of their encounter last night; there would certainly be none from her.

The workrooms for Lucile Ltd. were in a dingy building just below the Flatiron Building, on Twenty-third Street. “It’s the pride of New York,” Farley said to Tess, pointing to the Flatiron. “Does look like an iron, don’t you think?”

Maybe it was her general sense of apprehension, but it didn’t look like an iron to Tess; it looked ominous, more like the prow of a ship.

A cluster of people waiting for an elevator scattered like sparrows as Lady Duff Gordon entered the building. “Nobody’s allowed to take the elevator when Madame is here; she won’t share it,” Farley whispered to Tess.

“Don’t whisper around me, Farley,” said Lucile. She stepped into the elevator and beckoned Tess to follow. Her loft, on the top floor of this building, was her sanctuary—the kingdom she had created and ruled. No one went there without her permission.

The elevator doors opened onto a vast workroom that took Tess’s breath away. Everywhere there were worktables heaped with sumptuous brocades, richly hued woolens, and fragile laces. Seamstresses were bending over dressmaker’s dummies, their mouths filled with pins, shaping, draping, pinning, while slender-figured women in gray crêpe kimonos lounged against the wall, waiting to be called for fittings. The place bristled with activity and excitement.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Lucile called out over the hum of sewing machines and chatter.

Tess nodded vigorously, looking around, openmouthed. She followed Lucile as she threaded her way past the tables, alternately smiling and frowning as she inspected a seamstress’s work, picked up a bolt of fabric here, another there, testing their heft and crushability while calling out to various employees—here, finally, was the woman she had been so in awe of on the
Titanic
.

At the back of the vast workroom was Lucile’s glass-walled office. The room was bursting with an abundance of flowers—roses, peonies, daffodils—every kind imaginable, perched on every available surface, including the floor, all adorned with what must be congratulatory notes.

“All my clients and friends were happy I survived,” Lucile said wryly as she stepped into the room. “We’ll soon see if they still are.”

Waiting just inside the door, clustered together as if for comfort, a group of men and women with dutiful expressions jumped to attention.

“Good morning, Madame,” said one.

Lady Duff Gordon plucked a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from her handbag, put them on, and stared at each person in turn.

“The runway must be put in place today,” she said. “And the draperies closing it off from the workroom must be hung. I don’t see anyone working on that out there.”

“We need the workroom space for another few days,” said a woman in what looked like a white baker’s coat. “All the last-minute—”

“There is always last-minute work to do,” Lucile said, cutting her off. “Move the work benches closer together. We have to get that runway up early. If there are problems with it, we don’t have time to correct them and we have a full house of clients coming. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Madame.”

Lucile turned her attention to a young man with thinning hair. “James, where are we on the wedding gown? I don’t see my beaders working out there.”

“They’ll be in this afternoon,” he replied hastily.

Lucile began pacing, her voice rising. “Why aren’t we further along?” she demanded. “Why aren’t the gowns being shaped on the models yet? They’re standing out there with nothing to do, and time is running out! The wedding gown is the centerpiece of the show—the beading must be perfectly done, and it needs to be started
immediately
. I said all this yesterday—why isn’t it happening?”