An Unlikely Suitor (2 page)

Lucy barely slept. Once the four adults of the family finished discussing the eviction, they’d all tried to get back to sleep—Mamma on the thin mattress she’d shared with Papa in the main room, Uncle Aldo and Aunt Francesca on a similar mattress on the floor of the only bedroom, with Lucy on her cot nearby. Uncle never did snore that night.

Only Sofia slept on, oblivious to the crisis spinning around her. As usual. Oh, to be a child again, to live with the assurance that someone older and wiser would handle whatever needed to be handled.

It was Sofia who roused the adults from their beds.

“Up, everyone!” Sofia jumped down from her sling, sending it swinging wildly. “We’ll be late for church.”

Amid moans and much stretching, the family rose and got dressed. The lines at the outhouses—five stories below in the alley—were long, as usual, for everyone worked six days a week and went to church on Sunday. Lucy had heard about modern buildings that had such necessary rooms inside. What she wouldn’t give for such luxury.

“Why are you so quiet?” Sofia asked as they walked to the service at St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Lucy answered.

Yet as soon as Lucy gave the answer, her thoughts turned in its direction. There was plenty of reason to worry, because a place for them to stay wasn’t going to fall from the sky—no matter how hard they wished for it or even prayed for it. Someone had to make an effort to find an apartment. They only had a week.

Looking at her uncle walking with her aunt and mother a few steps ahead, she knew he wouldn’t be the one to accomplish such a thing. In the nine years since his family had come to New York, he’d never once offered to find his wife and son a place of their own. Lucy knew this had been a point of contention with her mother and father, and had heard the two of them speak of it in hushed tones on many occasions. When the Scarpellis had invited the three newcomers to stay with them back in 1886, they’d always assumed it was a temporary situation. Her father had even been instrumental in getting Aldo and Vittorio jobs on the docks where he worked, and Mother had let Francesca be a part of her at-home work of making flowers for hats.

But as one year flowed into the next, as temporary became permanent, her parents’ private complaints stopped. Family was sacred.

And perhaps it
had
been for the best. For when Papa was killed, the presence of Aldo and his family was a blessing—both for their company and for their income. And a year later, though they could have used Vittorio’s income too, Lucy wasn’t bitter about her cousin leaving to find a better life out west. Family was family, but . . . she also knew there
could
be a proper time to be a bit selfish. There was nothing evil about having your own dreams.

What if I leave? Just go away like Vittorio and start over?

She shook her head against the thought. If she were a man, she might consider it. But as a woman, with few ways to make a living, she needed to choose a safer route.

Which was . . . ?

Fulfilling her promise to find them a new home. Lucy caught up with her mother just as they turned toward the entrance of the church and tugged on her sleeve. “Mamma, I’m not going in with you. I have—”

“Of course you’re going in. Come—”

“No.” Lucy lowered her voice. “I have to find us a new apartment.”

“That can wait.”

“No, it can’t. I can’t risk time off from my job to look for one. We need a place to live. Now.”

Mamma motioned for Francesca and Aldo to go on in, and to take Sofia with them. “And how are you going to do that?” she asked. “On the Sabbath? Today is a day of rest.”

There was no time to rest. Surely the Almighty would forgive her for helping her family on this one and only free day. “I have to try. You pray and I’ll do what
I
can do.” Besides, God listened to Mamma’s prayers much more than Lucy’s.

Mamma’s eyes skirted past the people to the endless streets beyond. “A girl alone? It’s not safe.”

“A woman alone. I have no choice, Mamma.
We
have no choice.”

Mamma cupped Lucy’s cheek with her hand.
“Dio sia con voi.”

Lucy was glad to have God’s company. If He would do His part, she would do hers. If He was busy elsewhere? That was all right too.

Lucy’s line of vision alternated between the left side of the street and the right, searching for elusive
FOR RENT
signs.

She’d knocked on a few doors but hadn’t found many people home. Those who had answered were asking too much, or blatantly told her they didn’t rent to her kind.

Regarding that . . . she’d purposely avoided their old neighborhood around Five Points. Most of the buildings were in as horrible condition as their own. Would they also be torn down to make way for some park or factory? Lucy couldn’t risk being moved twice.

And so she’d walked north, past the Jewish neighborhood running along Bayard, past Grand and Stanton . . .

The buildings were better there, more solid, and often made of brick. She turned onto a street that was full of shops—real shops. She was used to the pushcarts of Mulberry Street that dappled the street like pebbles interrupting the flow of a stream. The pushcarts sold common goods like pans and baskets, and fruit, bread, and flowers. But these shops had their goods displayed in the windows: cheese, sausages, crocks, books . . . and dresses. One window showed a mannequin wearing a gorgeous blue gown of satin brocade with pink bows at the bottom of the sleeves and at the neckline. Lucy was used to the rather bland work of sewing sleeves and linings into coats whose colors did nothing to brighten her weary days. Once in a while, they were given women’s blouses to work on, but even then the colors were depressingly neutral.

Remembering the task at hand, she forced herself to move on, yet her eyes rebelled at the thought of looking anywhere but at the prettiness of the—

With a start, she ran into a man exiting a door.

“Scusi,”
she said.

“Pardon me,” the man said as he tipped his hat and took a step back. “I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”

He had a ring of keys in his hand. He fumbled for one in particular and tried the key in the lock. Lucy saw that the door was not to a store, but was nestled between two storefronts.

“This blasted lock.”

“May I?” Lucy was used to finicky locks. The one on their apartment only worked if she tilted the key in a downward angle. She tried the same method and it worked. The door locked.

“There you are,” she said, trying the door as evidence.

He looked surprised by her success. “With all the rentals I own, you’d think I’d get used to the idiosyncrasies of the locks.”

“Rentals?”

“I have a small apartment above the store here. I have rentals all over Manhattan.”

“An apartment, you say?” Her heartbeat strengthened. This was a good street with nice shops.

“Are you looking for one?”

“I am. My mother, my sister, and I are being evicted.”

His long face lengthened even more. “For nonpayment—?”

“No, no, sir. We’ve lived in the building for twenty years. But now they’re tearing it down—tearing down an entire row of buildings to make a park.”

The man studied her as if assessing her character. She was glad she was wearing her best navy dress for church but felt the need to persuade him further. “Does the apartment have good light? My mother makes flowers for hats and works at home.”

“Hats?”

She nodded. “And my sister and I work in the garment business.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re a seamstress?”

Of a sort.
“For twelve years now. My sister is only fifteen, but she’s worked four years in the trade.” In the sweatshops. The horrible, disgusting sweatshops.

He put a hand to his mouth and shook his head. But beneath the hand he was smiling. “Come with me, Miss . . . ?” He waited for her name.

“Scarpelli. Lucy Scarpelli.”

“Come with me, Miss Scarpelli. Today may be your lucky day.”

She hesitated. Although he looked to be a man of fine bearing, she didn’t know him.

He laughed at her uncertainty. “Five steps, Miss Scarpelli. Ten at the most.”

He walked up the sidewalk and motioned toward the doorway of the shop that contained the beautiful dress.

She’d get to see it in person? Lucy walked after him and noticed the sign painted on the window:
Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium.

“Is this a dress shop?”

He laughed. “Don’t let Mrs. Flynn hear you call it that.”

“Who is Mrs. Flynn?”

“The woman I hired to run the place. Irish through and through, but she’d like people to believe she’s Madame Moreau.”

“Where is Madame Moreau?”

He cupped his mouth with a hand. “She doesn’t exist. I thought a French name would be a lure to our society customers.” He fiddled with the ring of keys, finding the correct one for the door. “Come inside.”

The warning of Lucy’s mother intruded.
A girl alone? It’s not safe.

The man sighed. He was running out of patience. “My name is Thomas Standish and I’m happily married with three children—who are waiting for me to get home for Sunday dinner. If you need more references than that to trust me, I—”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ll come inside.”

He swept an arm toward the interior.

The main room had numerous dress ensembles displayed on mannequins, making her forget the initial blue one. Scattered about were lush velvet chairs, a sea green settee, and two full-length gilded mirrors on stands.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, well, the upper set expects sumptuous surroundings, so that’s what we give them. There are two private fitting rooms over there, but when the dresses are near completion, the women do love to come out here to see themselves.”

Lucy glanced at the window. “And be seen?”

“Is that not the point?”

Lucy fingered the lace on a sleeve with huge leg-o’-mutton sleeves. She wasn’t keen on the trend—it made women look ridiculous to have puffed sleeves twice the size of their head—but the sleeves were popular because their volume made the wearer’s waist look tiny in comparison. And like it or not, the style wasn’t the fault of this shop. Fashion was declared elsewhere and women followed. She turned the cuff over and saw that the stitching was straight, and the presence of interlining gave the cuff body. It was obvious the sewing standards were high. She turned to Mr. Standish. “All the work is done here?”

“Indeed it is. In the back.” He walked through a curtain and lit a gas lamp inside the next room. Then he held the curtain aside for her to enter. “Come in, Miss Scarpelli.”

The workroom was set up with many work stations. There were two treadle sewing machines, a large cutting table, and a wall of spindles, filled with spools of thread. It was a far cry from the dingy sweatshop where she and Sofia sat shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other women, under minimal lighting and the weight of boredom, as they sewed the same type of piece over and over and over.

“So all the dresses are custom-made?”

“Every one. With stores like Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, and Tremaine’s luring women to buy off the rack, we live on our reputation for extraordinary custom-made clothing for society’s elite.”

The notion of creating something beautiful and using good-quality fabrics and trim was enticing. Lucy longed to be creative, and often, during her tedious work, daydreamed of how she would design a dress or a blouse or skirt. “So the outfits are custom designed too?”

He put down the scissors he’d been playing with. “Are you a designer?”

She almost said yes, but decided truth the better choice. “I’ve never had the chance. But I would like to try. I would like to learn.”

His gaze moved from her face to her toes and back again. “You didn’t design the dress you’re wearing, did you?”

Lucy knew her outfit was marginal. Her dress was at least six years old. It had the distinction of being her “best” because it was the least worn looking, yet it was very old-fashioned, with narrow sleeves and an out-of-style bustle.

Mr. Standish was waiting for an answer. “I didn’t design my clothes, and I certainly know their shortcomings in both design and quality. But when a family needs food and the rent is due, the desire for something new and fashionable is set aside.”

“To pay the rent.”

“On time.”

He made an odd sound, as if he didn’t believe her, a notion that was dispelled when he said, “Then that makes you a better tenant than my last two—the last of which moved out without notice and left the place a mess.”

“I know of such people, but I assure you, Mr. Standish, my family shares none of those vices.”

“I believe you.” He strolled around the cutting table that sat in the middle of the room. “And perhaps . . .” He stopped. “Perhaps your lucky day is also mine.”

Lucy held her breath. Was he talking about an apartment, a job, or both? She forced herself to act calm. “How so, sir?”

“I’ve wanted to expand our offerings to hats.”

“My mother could handle that expansion with ease.”