The Dressmaker (22 page)

“Everyone is working at top pace—” began James, looking nervous.

“I’ve been alone in the ocean, struggling to survive, and nobody here is making sure the gowns for the show are ready?” Lucile waved her hand, taking in the lush array of flowers filling the room. “My friends are my clients, and my clients are my friends. They cannot be subjected to incompetence.”

Tess saw a couple of people in the room exchange glances. One arched an eyebrow and rolled her eyes. This, then, was standard behavior; obviously Lady Duff Gordon knew showmanship.

Unexpectedly, the designer pointed at Tess. “Now here’s someone
who knows something about competence,” she declared. “May I introduce Tess Collins, my fellow lifeboat survivor?” She grabbed a silk dress from the arms of one of the seamstresses, shook it out, and held it up. “Tess, what do you think? Should this have been cut on the bias or not?”

All eyes were on Tess. She studied the dress, wondering what she was expected to say. No matter, the weight of the heavy silk gave her the correct answer. After all those years sewing with her mother, she knew something about fabric. She could do this.

“No,” she said firmly. “The draping will sag with one wearing.”

Lady Duff Gordon triumphantly tossed the dress back into the arms of the seamstress and turned to the balding young man who had spoken first. “James, if you’re not careful, I will replace you,” she warned. “Take Tess to the drawing table—let’s see her draw this design the way it should be cut.”

Tess wasn’t sure of her drawing abilities; she had always done rough sketches, holding the patterns in her mind, not on paper. She told James this the minute they moved out of the room, which was obviously a great relief to James, who then more kindly began to initiate her into the eccentricities of Lady Lucile.

“She likes to throw out little challenges that make people scramble, which is usually fine. But we’ll do anything to keep her diverted this morning.” He sighed. “Everyone showed up with a copy of the morning
Times
today, and it was hard to get them to work. I told them to be sure they stuffed them into the waste bins before she came. Nobody’s talking about anything else around here. That’s why things started slow today.” He glanced at Tess soberly. “Haven’t told her yet we’ve had some orders canceled. Important ones. She’ll be furious.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” Tess confessed.

“Madame likes to keep new hires off balance,” he said. “I’ll start you on the presser.”

The shop was magical. When she wasn’t ironing gowns, Tess wandered among the tables, fingering the wonderful fabrics, watching the skilled seamstresses sew. At one table an elderly man sat
painstakingly sewing buttonholes, separately knotting each stitch and pulling each one exactly as tight as the last. She was riveted when the fittings began. Watching as the pinning and tucking of one of Lady Duff Gordon’s floating creations on a human body brought it to life. And staring at the feet of the seamstresses on the pedals of their Singer sewing machines was like watching an intricate dance. She wished her mother could see this. The memory of her—those nights beside the fire, sewing aprons and shirts for her children, the needle flashing in and out of the goods—gave Tess a fleeting stab of pain. She was totally, hopelessly, in love with this place and all that was in it—every sound, every smell, every morsel of light and movement.

Through the glass walls of her office, Lucile watched Tess carefully, allowing herself a measure of satisfaction. The girl’s eyes were round as melons. So she was swept up in the glamour of it all, which was precisely what should happen when all was fresh and new. It had been wise to pull Tess away from the censorious carnival taking place back at the Waldorf.

At that moment Tess glanced up. For an instant their gazes locked. And Tess saw the triumph in Lucile’s eyes.

This is what you want, and I have it to give
.

Tess felt a sudden chill. She turned away first.

WALDORF-ASTORIA
SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 20

It was only nine in the morning, but Pinky could feel the sweat turning her hands sticky as she waited for the second day of hearings to begin. Chairs were jammed into every corner of the room, and the air was thick and sour with the smoke of dozens of cigars. Every newspaper
had extra editions out on the street now, all filled with stories of bravery and cowardice and death, but the hysteria of the reporters was getting funny.

The room was filling rapidly. She half expected the Duff Gordons to send somebody to launch a counterattack, maybe get their friends to freeze her out. But everyone was picking the story up. Just put together the words
bribery
and
millionaires’ boat
and there were stories for a week of good sales. She didn’t see Tess, either, but that was no surprise. Lady Duff would have made sure to steer her away from today’s hearing. She took her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead, gratified by the glances of envy from her colleagues. It wasn’t just getting a good story—all the free-floating anger over who lived and who died on that ship now had one more big focal point. A coup, of course, but she knew how things worked in this business. Today Lady Duff was the villain; tomorrow someone else would be. Already the men who survived were apologizing, cringing almost. How good could it get?

“Well, young lady, what are you grinning about this morning?” Senator Smith had walked into the room and paused by her chair.

“Being here, Senator,” she said, recovering quickly from her surprise. “You know it’s the only place in town.”

Smith smiled and let his starchy demeanor drop for just a second. He rather liked this feisty woman. “Of course, it is.”

“Did you read my story about the Duff Gordons bribing sailors not to go back? Any comment?”

His smile faded. “I would prefer you had waited for the testimony.”

“Does that mean you’re going to call the Duff Gordons to testify?”

“I’m not on a witch hunt.”

“Well, are you going to subpoena them?”

“That hasn’t been decided.” Smith turned away and took his seat at the witness table, quickly gaveling the hearing to order.

The first witness was the only surviving telegraph operator, Harold Bride. Deathly pale and surprisingly young-looking, Bride was in a wheelchair, wincing as he maneuvered his left foot—heavily bandaged—through the crowd.

Smith started his questions gently, and Bride’s responses grew stronger as he talked. He and the second wireless operator had tried to raise help from other ships. At one point, he said, he had advised the other operator to use SOS instead of CQD. “It’s the new call, and it may be your last chance to send it,” he joked. The two men had laughed; he remembered that.

The room grew still when Bride was asked to describe how he managed to survive. “I fell overboard, holding on to one of the collapsible boats, and then I slipped under it, into some kind of air pocket,” he said. “I freed myself from it and cleared out of it. There was a big crowd on top when I got on. I was the last man they invited on board.”

A tremor swept the room.
Invited?

“Were there others struggling to get on?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many?”

“Dozens,” Bride said. The word seemed not only to wrench the last shred of energy from his testimony but to strip the official proceedings of their detachment. There was a restless moving, the sound of sniffling and nose-blowing. The anguish in the young man’s voice was seeping through the room.

“Dozens,” Smith repeated. “In the water? With life preservers on?”

“Yes.”

“The word
invited
seems somewhat unrealistic,” a panel member interjected.

“That’s the way I put it. And that’s all I have to say on that.”

“What about the boats with room for more? Were people afraid of being sucked under with the ship?”

Bride stayed steady. “I estimate I was within a hundred and fifty feet of the
Titanic
,” he said. “I was swimming when she went down. And I felt practically no suction at all. Some of the boats should have come back and helped.”

So much for
that
excuse for not going back. Pinky scribbled furiously, thoroughly satisfied. Her pencil hovered at one point as a sudden, surprising thought stopped her hand. Was she angry at the whole bloody lot of them?

During a break in the late afternoon, Pinky spotted a familiar figure breaking away from a group of sullen-looking
Titanic
crewmen and walking toward her.

“You really took on the Duff Gordons this morning,” said Jim Bonney.

“So I did good?”

But his gaze had shifted; he was looking around, eyes darting from one spot to another, a worried frown on his face.

“You’re probably not the best person to ask, but I’m looking for someone; she works for the Duff Gordon woman.”

“You mean Tess Collins?”

“Yes,” he said, a little startled.

“I haven’t seen her today.”

“I have to see her,” he said. “Talk to her.”

“My guess is Lady Duff took her down to her studio. Sorry, I may be a reporter but I don’t know everything.”

He seemed to be trying to decide how much to say. “Look, the whole crew is being shipped out to Washington tonight. I have to see her before we go.”

She knew that Senator Smith was preparing to move the hearings to his home base, but she hadn’t thought it would happen this quickly. “When?” she asked.

“Late, but I guess you knew.” Distracted, he shoved his hands into his back pockets, still scanning the room.

No, she hadn’t, but she wasn’t about to say so or be closed out of the story. Maybe that’s why Smith had been so affable. He thought he was going to shake her and the New York tabloid reporters off his back. “Lady Duff has a reputation as a hard taskmaster,” she said cheerfully. “You probably won’t see Tess around here until evening. So much for romance.” It was a shot over the bow, but it was always fun to see what happened when she took a chance.

He hardly seemed to hear. “Can you reach her?”

“Sounds like something important.”

“Look, you seem like a decent sort. If you see her, tell her I’m leaving, will you?”

“Sure. If you’ll talk to me again,” she added quickly.

“Okay, but not now. Later.”

Maybe he even meant it. “You’re very talented, by the way. I liked that lifeboat you carved.” Another shot over the bow.

“She showed you?” His eyes lit up.

“Something like that.”

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to go.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” He was good-looking; it was hard not to tease.

He wasn’t unaware, casting her an amused look. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, I suspect. You’re the one covering this show, right? See you in Washington.” He turned away and strode off, leaving Pinky feeling quite pleased as she stared after him. She had confirmed not only who made Tess’s carving of a lifeboat but why it mattered. That was good. It was always delicious to know more about people than they thought you knew.

Lucile calmly surveyed her workroom as her cutters, seamstresses, and pattern-makers packed up their things and began making their way home. The fading light outside cast a wash of gold over the tables and the sewing machines, even reaching the almost finished runway at the far end.