The Dressmaker (23 page)

“Tell me now. How many order cancellations?”

James glanced down at the sheet of scribbled notes in his hand. “About ten, Madame,” he said.

“Did anyone have the courage to say why?”

“Other obligations,” James replied weakly.

“What about reservations for the show?” She stared out at the racks of folding chairs stacked at the end of the room, ready for placement.

“A few cancellations, not many.”

“Mrs. Wharton?”

“She sends her regrets; she is unable to come.”

“James, I am aware of how many copies of the
Times
were stuffed into the trash bins. I’m sure it was on your orders.”

James, his face gray, gave a funny little bow. “Yes.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

James glanced at Tess, who stood at the door of the office. “Miss Collins will do well here,” he said unexpectedly. Then, “Good night.”

His footsteps echoed through the empty loft as he walked away, and now it was only Lucile and Tess.

“We should have a delicious meal waiting at the hotel,” Lucile said, pulling on her gloves. She held her head high. “Their chef is absolutely the best, and the three of us will dine in our suite.”

Tess followed Lucile to the elevator, trying to hold down the euphoria this wonderful place had aroused in her. How could she ever have envisioned something as good as this? Just holding the fabric, watching the meticulous work of elegant stitching and beading—it had been a day unlike any other. She didn’t know how she would fit in here, but she knew that she could. She knew, more than anything, that she wanted to.

The cables pulling up the elevator groaned, louder because of the emptiness of the building. It seemed to take forever to reach the top floor. Tess and Lucile stepped in and the elevator creaked downward with a slight swaying motion that made Tess nervous. When the doors opened on the first floor, they were instantly confronted by a mob of reporters.

“Did you bribe the sailors?” shouted one.

“Why was your boat so empty?” screamed another.

“How do you defend rowing away from the dying?” bellowed a third.

“Where is Farley?” Lucile said under her breath, ignoring the shouts, the many other questions, pushing her way to the street with Tess close behind.

And then there he was, muscling reporters out of the way, guiding them with a steady hand into the car—the blessed, safe automobile. Tess jumped in, and Farley tried to close the door.

A face poked in—the blotchy face of a man with stale tobacco
breath that made Tess cringe. “We’ve got reports that a man was in your boat masquerading as a woman,” he shouted. “Can you confirm that?”

“I won’t deny it,” Lucile said.

“Was it the dancer Jordan Darling?”

The door was swinging closed. Lucile held it briefly and leaned forward with a wintry smile. “I won’t deny that, either,” she said.

The door slammed, Farley jumped behind the wheel, and they shot out into the street, heading uptown through the streets of New York, passing vegetable stands and churches with needle-shaped spires and polished carriages pulled by proud prancing horses, while all the while, beneath the concrete, in the dark depths of the subway, the trains rumbled and roared, hurtling their invisible occupants forward to unseen destinations.

Cosmo stood at the front desk in the Waldorf’s lobby, frowning over the stack of mail the clerk had just handed him. “Is this all?” he asked.

“Yes—sir,” the clerk said, hesitating. Obviously he was an American who wasn’t sure how to address British nobility, which made Cosmo impatient. He turned to go.

“Oh, sir, there is a message for a member of your party,” the clerk said quickly. “Do you want to take it up?”

“Yes, of course.” Cosmo reached out for the proffered slip of wrinkled paper, glancing at it as he headed for the elevator. A message for Tess? What was this about? Just one line, scrawled hastily in pencil:

No signature. Cosmo stared at the message for a long moment, then, slowly, he crumpled it in his fist, throwing it into a trash receptacle by the elevator. Now fully annoyed, he punched the elevator button. Obviously that infernal reporter was out to pump Tess for
more information. No use telling Lucy about it—she’d just throw another fit. Just a bit of luck he had stopped and managed to intercept it in time. There was enough turmoil in their lives right now; they didn’t need more.

NEW YORK TIMES
SATURDAY NIGHT, APRIL 20

Pinky didn’t dance down the stairs of the
Times
building tonight; she was too tired. She had to get some groceries, pick up her father’s medicine—and have another go-around with Mrs. Dotson, that fleshy, constantly disapproving nurse’s aide who had never forgiven her for not melting into the role of a surrogate daughter. Mrs. Dotson wanted more money. Every night she complained of how hard it had become to care for Prescott Wade—his incontinence, his anger—all in a long-suffering, resigned tone as Pinky sat at the table, trapped in a narrow corner of reality that she escaped as often as she could. But it wouldn’t work tonight.

She hated asking herself the kind of blunt, direct questions that had shaped her reputation as a reporter. She had no answers for the ones that affected her own life. How long would he live? How much could she afford to pay for his care?

The streets, as usual, were deserted as she made her way home under the flickering streetlights. Whenever she saw a figure in the shadows, she straightened her shoulders and strode forward, determined to show as much confidence as a man. She would not shrink from facing the streets of this city. The first time she did, she would end up in a puddle, a failure; of that she was sure.

It would help if her father smiled once in a while. She never knew for sure if he refused to do so out of stubbornness or because he simply couldn’t. After all, he was Prescott Wade, revered, lionized—and he must know that no one came around anymore. Most people thought, like Lady Duff Gordon, that he had died—not that they remembered
taking note of such finality. It was easier to assume a kind of hazy, comfortable slide into nonexistence—painless, of course—so that when actual death came they could cluck and reminisce but shed no tears. That’s what a life of celebrity brought. Who would remember her? What would she be? A package of bylines, mouldering in a folder in the
New York Times
morgue. She tossed
that
thought into a bin of rotting tomatoes as she headed for the meat counter of the neighborhood delicatessen.

Mrs. Dotson had her coat on already when Pinky turned her key in the lock. “He didn’t have a good day,” she announced as the door opened.

“He never does, Mrs. Dotson.”

“Well, it’s hard on me, with you traveling and all.”

“This is what I do, Mrs. Dotson. This is how I pay the bills.” She pulled packages of beans and chicken from her canvas bag and put them on the countertop, wishing this woman would go home now, without the usual complaints.

“I know you work hard, dear.” The older woman’s tone had turned ingratiating. “But, you know, he’s slipping more every day. I hope you won’t be traveling much. What a shame if you weren’t here when his time comes. If I have to stay overnight more, I’m going to need some extra money; it’s only fair. You’ve been gone a lot. Not that you shouldn’t be for your work, of course.”

It wasn’t unreasonable. What would she do without Mrs. Dotson? Put her father in one of those hellish institutions she had been investigating? “We’ll work it out,” Pinky said.

“Five dollars more for night work.”

“Three.”

“Four—and a half.” Mrs. Dotson had become braver.

“Four—that’s all I can afford.”

“All right.”

They stared at each other. The negotiations were actually complete.

“I liked your write-up today, dear. I read it to your father, though he didn’t seem to care much.”

What a hurtful thing to say, and Pinky didn’t believe it for a
moment. Mrs. Dotson, she wanted to say, we are not friends. We don’t like each other. Let’s not pretend otherwise—just take care of my father, go home when you’re done, and don’t be chatty. I hate chatty.

Instead, she said, “Thank you.” She shoved her hand into her bag and came up with a fistful of bills. She peeled off several and handed them silently to Mrs. Dotson, who grabbed them and left quickly, with the usual promise of being back early tomorrow morning.

Pinky pulled out a knife and started cleaning the chicken, then paused. She should check on her father first.

The room was dark, not that it mattered. She flicked on the light.

“Well, it’s about time you got home.” His eyes were closed, and his voice seemed more raspy than usual. She could see stubble on his chin, which meant that Mrs. Dotson hadn’t found the time to shave him today.

“I have deadlines, you know that.”

“Out to knock the pins from under the gentry, right?”

“Just like you did.”

“Right. Past tense.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“My life, maybe. And, if you’re not too busy, my dinner.”

She had long ago vowed not to let him make her cry. This towering figure of a man she had adored and emulated lay like a lump of sodden clay on the bed, and she couldn’t help him. There was nothing to investigate or fight for here—all there could be was endurance. She turned to leave the room.

“Baked chicken?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You make good baked chicken.”

She walked back to the kitchen, feeling better. She knew an apology when she heard it.

The park had receded into the gloom of night. Still Jim stood by the 59th Street entrance, as late as he dared, peering down the street for
some sign of Tess. Each time he saw a slim woman approaching with a brisk stride, his hopes went up. And each time he was wrong.

“Not your lady, huh?” A carriage driver, a jovial-looking man with drooping wattles and a badly faded cap, smiled sympathetically. “Well, there’s always next time.”

Jim tried to smile back. He rubbed the nose of the sleepy mahogany mare hitched to the carriage, remembering the sight of Tess’s graceful hand stroking her mane. Only yesterday?

Finally he gave up. “Thanks for your company,” he said to the driver, then strode away, his pace quickening with every step.