The Dressmaker (46 page)

“And now—” Lucile lifted her arm, palm up, facing the catwalk. “The first piece in the 1912 spring collection of the House of Lucile! I call this gown, my dear friends, the Sighing Sound of Lips Unsatisfied. Listen to the whispers of the chiffon as it moves, and you will know why it is so named.”

A murmur spread among the reporters, punctuated by a titter, but Lucile’s guests clapped politely as a mannequin swathed in powder blue strolled out of the shadows, turned slowly to reveal the gown, and then vanished from the stage.

“Next is this lovely tea gown, quite appropriately named a Frenzied Song of Amorous Things,” Lucile announced as another mannequin in a shimmery mixture of tulle and brocade took to the catwalk.

The titters from the reporters were louder this time. Tess winced
inwardly. No number of suggestions had deterred Lucile from continuing to name her dresses.

“Could be that dressing gown of hers that went down with the ship,” chuckled one reporter, a bit too loudly.

The tiny but regal Mary Pickford lifted a small gloved hand to her lips, as if to suppress a titter herself. Lucile’s lips were pulled tight now, her expression still.

Tess could leave her alone up there no longer. Without a thought of what she would do when she got there, she approached the stage.

Lucile glanced swiftly in her direction, her face pale as clear ice. Tess braced for a scene, an order to leave. She was probably walking into a disaster.

But there was no surprise in Lucile’s eyes. None. Tess’s suspicion was true; this was a programmed drama. Elinor had hatched it with her sister’s full knowledge, knowing that nobody got away with surprising Lucile. It was a waste to be indignant, Tess told herself. Lucile could get through this now, appearing to be vindicated, and it didn’t matter if it wasn’t true; it just had to appear to be true—until the show was over.

“My dear friends, I want to introduce to you a promising new young talent whom I have been mentoring,” she said, turning toward her seated guests. “And here she is, Tess Collins!”

Again, scattered applause. Close up, Tess could see the lines curving deep across Lucile’s brow and the dark shadows under her eyes. Even if she was a pawn here, she could still give Lucile this one last thing. She smiled out at the audience.

Lucile hardly paused. “And just in time, too,” she said with a flick of more than triumph. “The next gown you will see, ladies and gentlemen”—her gaze flickered as she glanced at the reporters—“is the creation of Miss Collins. A quite elegant confection in silk—without a name, unfortunately.”

The spotlight swung to the catwalk entrance, allowing Tess’s surprise to go unnoticed. Elinor had persuaded Lucile to keep her gown in the show? Lucile surely would have tossed it in a bin. And yet here it was.

The mannequin moved forward, not as languorously as before, the lights dancing off the fabric, deepening its texture. As the model turned, the shortened skirt flipped up, revealing a quick display of skin above her boots. A murmur went through the room, but no titters.

“Miss Collins, tell us about it,” Lucile said suddenly. “This is your creation.”

Tess looked out at the crowd, hesitating, wondering what she could possibly stammer out. “This is a dress designed to move naturally, that is uninhibiting,” she began. “But I wanted it to be practical and modern, so a woman could get out of carriages and motor cars quickly, walk fast on sidewalks; run without tripping over her skirt. Everything is changing, and women’s clothes have to change, too.” She paused. A few heads nodded slightly, and she felt encouraged. “Within a few years, for example, we won’t be fussing with dozens of buttons on our gowns; we’ll have new kinds of closures, and that’s just one thing. But right now, even though it may seem daring, we can shorten our skirts. We don’t need to be sedate anymore.” Was she actually saying these things? The mannequin had completed her turns and was moving backstage. Tess watched her go, her critical eye in full operation. Maybe the bodice worked, after all. But it was so plain, nobody would want it. The applause was lively. She saw in Lucile’s face a flash of surprise: the audience actually liked that boringly simple gown.

“My young student and I will now alternate the introductions,” she suddenly announced. She bowed to Tess, seemingly enjoying her startled look. And probably also the fact that the rude tittering had stopped.

Pinky stirred restively in her seat as the show progressed. She couldn’t think of a less likely event for her to be covering, apart from the fact that she was here to follow the drama of it all. Sitting for a couple of hours staring at dresses filled with furbelows and ribbons was not
her idea of a good time, although Tess’s contribution looked easy and comfortable. She looked around at the women in the room. Hard to believe they could be so fascinated by clothes, of all dreary things. Their faces looked waxen, carefully powdered; their lips various shades of cherry pink. They sat erect, probably held up by corsets.

Her eyes continued to travel around the room, her gaze stopping finally on the tall Mrs. Bremerton, who somehow managed to look totally fascinated and totally miserable at the same time. Getting the combination right must take a lot of practice. Why had Tess looked so upset at the sight of her? Idly, Pinky doodled with her pencil on a copy of the program, then stopped, pencil poised in the air.

Of course. That’s who the other man was. It fit. Tess had asked about him, talked about him—and then, not a word. What an idiot she was! Her father had guessed it immediately; he hadn’t lost his sharpness for reporting. For her, it had to hit her in the face. So what did she do with this one? She shifted her gaze to Tess, almost wishing she hadn’t figured it out.

The show was almost over. The model wearing the wedding gown—the pièce de résistance of Lucile’s design work—swept down the catwalk with full drama, the dress sparkling as its intricate beading danced in the light. A burst of appreciative applause filled the room as Lucile signaled the lights to rise. The quartet, on cue, switched to a livelier tune. The guests began to stir, smoothing down their dresses, chatting in low tones with one another, smiling at Madame Lucile, some with genuine admiration.

With Elinor hovering, Mary Pickford chose one of Lucile’s gowns, dictating the changes she wanted in a lightly musical voice. “No tulle under the skirt, please,” she instructed. “And would you shorten it—oh, maybe seven or eight inches? I like shorter skirts.” She did not order Tess’s dress, but really, that was too much to expect.

After the audience members sipped tea and ate tiny lemon biscuits, effusively thanking Lucile as they drifted toward the door, Tess
realized that there had been only two more orders for gowns—one from, of all people, the cool ex-Mrs. Bremerton.

“There will be more orders later,” Elinor said at her elbow. “My bet is, someone will order your dress.” She sighed. “Still, things are changing. It’s in the air, really, and I wish Lucile would heed it. Or at least stop giving her dresses these ridiculous names.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Lucile was in on this little ruse?”

“That you were coming? My dear, with her volatility, I wouldn’t dare leave that to chance. And if I had told you, you wouldn’t have come. Anyway, it’s just as well; she knows it was a performance.”

“And I was one of the players.” What did it matter anymore? She could walk away from the deception. But she felt compelled to offer something else. “I don’t think I’ve fully understood before today how much talent she has. Her gowns are gorgeous, truly beautiful, but, more than that, their structure is so artful.”

“It’s true,” Elinor replied quietly. “But her time is gone.”

Slowly Tess walked toward Lucile. Madame was standing straight as a rod of iron at the entrance, chatting brightly in her throaty voice, saying goodbye to the last of her guests, waving the reporters out with a well-manicured hand. For just a moment, after all were gone, she stared after them, her face unreadable.

“Lucile?”

Lucile started, then turned around. “Ah, Tess, now I’ll learn your true motives for showing up today.” Her bright smile was back in place. “Wasn’t this fun? That silly Isadora Duncan, always complaining about gaining weight. But did you notice she didn’t hesitate to ask for hot chocolate instead of tea? Really, these actresses. And did you see that poker-faced Mrs. Bremerton? She obviously came out just fine from her divorce; that’s apparent from her pick. There is just so much to do now. We—”

“Lucile, please.”

A pause. “Ah, as I suspected. You haven’t changed your mind, have you? This was—how best to put it? An
acted
show of support.”

“I hear you expected that.” Tess felt very calm. “But in another way I’m not acting at all. You didn’t know about the scheme to arrest Jim, and I’m sorry I denounced you.”

“I don’t forgive you, Tess.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness, Lucile.”

“You are being outrageously—”

“Rude? Impudent? Arrogant?”

“Beyond your station.”

She looked so fierce and, yes, fragile. “I don’t work for you anymore,” Tess said gently.

“Then why are you here?” Lucile demanded.

“I came back to help you through this day. I want no part of ruining you or your business.”

“Well, that’s appropriate, I’d say.”

“You really are a masterly designer, Lucile. And this is a superb collection.”

“I’m glad you realize that.”

“I’m sure it will sell.”

“Well, it will, of course.” Lucile’s voice was slightly thin. Suddenly she reached out a hand and rested it on Tess’s arm. “Stay with me,” she said quickly. “I’ll train you, if you want to stay in this country. Or you can come back to England with me. I’ll take very good care of you, give you every opportunity. That’s a promise.”

Slowly but firmly, Tess shook her head. Lucile’s nature wouldn’t change. It would always be to praise and criticize and goad and condemn, ensnaring everyone into a constant dance of trying to please, running harder, doing anything to please Madame. Not only could she
see
the web; she could
feel
it, and she’d not let its sticky pleasures catch her again.

“We would end up hating each other,” she said.

For a long moment, Lucile said nothing. “Well, that’s a decision made,” she finally managed. Nothing soggy now. Crisp, crisp as a cracker. “Perhaps you’re right.”

She patted her hair and began to turn away, then stopped, as if making a decision. She turned, pointing to her office. “Please come into my office—I have something to tell you privately.”

There was nothing private about that glass-encased box, although it might seem to be so to a woman who lived always in the public eye. Without comment, Tess followed Lucile.

The door closed. A pungent, slightly acrid smell filled the room, even though the wilted flowers had all been removed. Lucile’s desk was a chaotic jumble. Unused invitations, a spilled box of face powder, scissors, even a wad of used chewing gum—one of Lucile’s vices, according to Cosmo—wrapped in paper. Lucile seemed to notice none of it. She folded her arms together, turning partially away from Tess, not looking at her as she spoke. “You called me regal once. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I’m not, of course. I came from a family as impoverished in its way as yours. I scrabbled up the ladder, dear, breaking a fair number of rules along the way. But I came from nothing to something. I like the taste of success, however unattractive in a woman. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, you do. When I met you, you were ready to fight your way up that ladder. I saw me in you.” She turned to face Tess squarely. “I lost a child at birth, long ago. She would have been about your age. Am I to lose her again?”

“Are you talking about me?” Tess managed, astonished.

“Of course.”

Tess tried to regain her voice, but the silence was awkward; she saw that in Lucile’s eyes. “I’m sorry you lost your child,” she finally said. “I had no idea—”

“I can see that. Well, I thought I would try. But you must know that risking humiliation is not something I do lightly.” Lucile began picking at a small tray of tea cakes balanced precariously, amid all the jumble, on the edge of the desk. “I suppose you have reason to be glad you aren’t my daughter. I would have been a terrible mother.”