The Dressmaker (24 page)

A
weary Senator Smith leaned back against the coarse weave of his seat as the train south to Washington gained momentum. Finally, a respite from the hysteria. His own bed tonight; a civilized hearing on Monday, surely.

“Senator, you wanted me to take some notes?” An aide had approached, his voice gently prodding.

Smith straightened in his seat. Dictating his thoughts helped him sort things out. “My primary job, of course, is to find out
why
that ship went down. Are you writing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It could have been a series of small mistakes fatally aligned, but people don’t want to hear that; they want one reason, not many reasons. They don’t want to examine the moral and practical decisions we’re contending with.” He sighed. Was it too overwhelming for them all—himself included—in this age of progress to see a product of the best minds and the most modern equipment so spectacularly punish its creators?

“You’ve seen the papers, Senator?”

“Indeed. They are clamoring for villains.”

“Especially this British couple. Are you going to bring the Duff Gordons to the witness stand?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m tired of being hammered about that.”

The aide was clearly taken aback. “Sorry, Senator. I just thought—”

“To answer your question, I’d rather not; it would anger the British too much.” He slumped back in his seat. “And they’re already mad at me. Did you see this?” He pointed to a story in the
American
. “Henry Adams—you know who he is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The man’s an admirable historian. He says we’re running on our own iceberg, that we’re a society cracking apart. He says the entire fabric of the nineteenth century is foundering, do you hear? And all of us, friend or foe, will go with it.”

“Maybe we should do this later?”

“Yes, I think that would be better.” Ah, home. He could impose order better there. That damn fellow Ismay was furious that he had to stay, and well he should be. This thought gave Smith a moment of satisfaction. He felt a righteous yearning for justice. He would follow this investigation wherever it might lead. And at least now he wouldn’t have the New York tabloids on his back every moment. Reason enough to postpone wading into the sticky business of interrogating British nobility.

NEW YORK CITY
SUNDAY MORNING, APRIL 21

This was usually the most restful day of the week. Jean Darling sat with the Sunday-morning paper in her much loved breakfast room, with its bay of encircling windows that diffused the golden light. She was wearing her favorite dressing gown, the one with fox cuffs and collar bleached to a pure white; Jordan liked to see her in this on Sundays. The most restful day.

Usually she sipped her coffee, enjoying the lush panorama of Central Park spread out before her, across the street and three stories below. How exciting it had been when she and Jordan, swept up in
a wave of glory after their first Broadway play, were able to walk through these elegant rooms and know that they, two minor English vaudeville players, could hold up their heads and say, “Yes, we will take this.” How long ago? Years.

But she didn’t lift her cup to her lips. She simply held herself still, staring at the translucent, fragile china filled halfway. She could perhaps have been a statue, almost carved from stone. But a statue would feel no pain.

Next to the cup was her morning copy of the
New York Herald
. And there was the story she had feared would find its way into the caterwauling agony of mistakes and suffering sweeping the country since the sinking of the
Titanic
. “Dancer’s Shameful Disguise,” read the headline. “Dressed as a Woman to Save Self in Millionaires’ Boat.” Directly beneath was a photograph of Jordan, looking into the camera, a half smile on his lips. So vulnerable.

She skimmed the story. It was what she expected, a mocking screed on the man “who abandoned women” to save himself. Her eye stopped only on one sentence. “Asked to confirm this new information on the despicable happenings in the Millionaires’ Boat, Lady Duff Gordon said, ‘I won’t deny it.’ ”

Such cruelty. Her dear husband, a man of courage and integrity, ruined. Their professional lives were over, of course. By tomorrow morning, all their bookings would be canceled.

What would she change? If she hadn’t insisted, Jordan wouldn’t have pulled that cloth close around his shoulders and head and run with her to the lifeboat; if the boat hadn’t been almost empty, he would have refused to board. She knew it to be true. He wasn’t a coward, he was simply trying to live. Was that wrong? Had anyone died for Jordan to live? No.

She stared now through the window out onto the winding paths and foliage below, which had imbued her on so many peaceful mornings with a sense of well-being. All she wished for now was an absence of pain.

Jean heard Jordan’s footsteps approaching from the hall. Carefully she folded the newspaper and tucked it inside a bottom cabinet
of the lovely old hutch they had bought on their honeymoon. That wonderful honeymoon. The trip to Morocco when they first danced as partners. They were in step from the very beginning, flowing through routines of magical grace, embracing the cheers of their audiences, and going home to each other. She smiled, looking up, waiting for his cheerful face to light up the room. How many women had such a precious gift of love? Why, why should she have given him up to death?

Jordan walked into the room, giving her his usual funny little bow of greeting. “And how is my lovely wife this morning?” he asked. “How is our world today?”

She lifted two fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss. “Wonderful,” she said. She stood and walked over to him, curving one arm around his shoulder, reaching with the other for his hand. She would shed no tears. A barely discernible web of fine lines appeared around her eyes as she smiled again. “It should start with a dance, don’t you think? This is, after all, the most restful day.”

Lucile paced the length of her empty loft, frustrated by the silent sewing machines. Things should be humming and buzzing, but she didn’t dare insist on Sunday work in New York anymore, not since the Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union began bullying shops like hers. It was outrageously unfair. She didn’t operate some sweatshop like the Triangle people had, for heaven’s sake. She paid her workers well, and none were under fourteen years old; she could have fattened their purses if they had worked today. She sighed, trying to relax. She was always nervous just before a show. But seeing her name smeared once again all through those stories about Jordan Darling posing as a woman was unnerving. All she did was answer a question, and she wasn’t sorry to see Jordan Darling exposed. But attaching
her
name to the story so prominently was ridiculous. She hadn’t confirmed
anything
, and that reporter who wrote the story knew it. But Cosmo wouldn’t listen. He had thrown the paper into a trash basket and walked out of the room this morning, saying nothing.

Lucile slowed her pace, studying the newly constructed models’ runway at the end of the long room. It looked fully presentable, sleek and polished, and her mood lifted. It was such a thrill just before a show—the anticipation, the excitement. She loved it all. She stepped up onto the runway, pulled herself straight and began strolling, head high, in the manner she had taught her models every season here, in London, and in Paris. She turned with a practiced grace and walked back, impatient now for Monday. This was her domain, and she wanted it busy with life. She wanted what she knew, and she wanted to forget the
Titanic
. Surely all this would blow over soon; surely there would be no more cancellations. The elegant women of New York loved her designs. They wouldn’t take flight. She wanted to feel safe again.

She suddenly became aware of movement in the shadows at the far end of the loft. It must be Farley, with a message. She stepped off the runway and walked toward the figure, partly alarmed, but mostly indignant. No one had permission to be up here without her consent. No one.

“Who is there? And what do you want?” she demanded.

“You always were the bossy one,” a woman’s voice said with a giggle. “Don’t you recognize your own sister?”

Lucile gasped. “Elinor?”

“And why are you so surprised? I booked myself on the first ship out after we heard of the sinking, and got your telegraph from the
Carpathia
. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“Oh—” Lucile could hardly speak as her sister stepped out of the shadows, that silly red parasol on her arm. Had she thought that? Had she wondered if Elinor would twirl past even the worst of happenings in her usual manner, never quite connecting?

“I should have known you would come—you always were the impulsive one.”

“That trait has paid off splendidly.” Elinor’s voice was brisk. “I needed a new screenplay anyway. This time Hollywood will have to wait.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much I need you.” Something was bursting inside.

Elinor tossed her parasol onto a cutting table and extended her arms. “From what I’ve seen in the papers, I have a fair idea,” she murmured.

Their embrace lasted only a moment, but in that fraction of time Lucile felt the first true comfort she had experienced since the sinking of the
Titanic
.

Sunday morning. Tess lay in bed in her hotel room, staring at the intricate molding that joined the walls and ceiling. She stretched out her toes, at the same time winding her fingers through the bars of the brass headboard, pulling tired muscles straight. She had stood for so long yesterday, her back still ached, and it felt good to lie here in leisure, even though she couldn’t erase her troubled thoughts. She didn’t want to be thinking of Jim, turning over reason after reason why she hadn’t heard from him. Surely he would have some explanation; she
wanted
him to, but his silence seemed to say it all. Had he been reluctant to tell her what was coming, and then ashamed to admit his role in it?

She pushed him firmly from her mind. Today was hers. Lady Duff Gordon had announced quite magnanimously last night that she would not be required to work on Sunday. Courtesy of the union rules in New York, she was free to enjoy the Sunday street markets. And Tess had seen the look of pleasure on her employer’s face when she, Tess, was actually disappointed by the news. Yes, Lucile, she said to herself. I love that magical place. Your seduction is working.