The Dressmaker (27 page)

WALDORF-ASTORIA
NEW YORK CITY
MONDAY, APRIL 22

The sun was barely up when Tess left the hotel, glancing anxiously around as she made her way out to Farley in the waiting car. Good, no reporters yet. What a dark night it had been, haunted with dreams of throwing herself onto railroad ties, trying to protect Lucile from an oncoming train; walking into a room and seeing Jordan Darling’s body hanging from a silk drapery sash—from what had her fevered brain created
that
?

The reality of today would be even more frightening. It was now her job to hold things together at the shop, Elinor had said late last night, after an almost catatonic Lucile finally fell asleep. She didn’t have to know everything; she just needed to be there as a calming influence. There was no way Lucile’s presence outside this room wouldn’t result in more terrible stories. She could do it.

With her stomach turning cartwheels? Impossible. “I’ve only been in the shop once,” Tess protested, trying not to panic. “I don’t know anything about how the place is run.”

“You’re going to learn some quick lessons tomorrow, but remember, you have James to help you. He knows a lot,” Elinor said soothingly. “This is just for a couple of days. Life is an act—most of it, anyway. Get out there today and pretend you’re in charge, for goodness’ sake. Do you hear me? Lift up your head and
pretend
.” A flicker of a smile passed over her face. “It’s the secret to everything.”

As she left to go to her own room, Cosmo handed her a set of keys on a small steel key ring, folding the cold metal into her hand with
a scribbled address on a piece of paper. “For your flat, Tess,” he said quietly. “It will be ready on Tuesday. The bed will be made, towels there. Some food. Let me know what you need.” His face had been pinched tight as a withered plum—her first realization that he, too, was suffering. He looked not at all like the polished, calm man she had first met on the dock at Cherbourg. That, surely, had fed the turbulence of her dreams.

There was no grin on Farley’s face this morning, but, rather, something of a watchful, wary look. “So no Lady Duff today?” he asked, opening the door for her.

“No, she’s resting.”

He pulled the car out into the street and did not speak for the duration of the trip. Tess stared down at the notes she had taken from Elinor: Check the runway, inventory the gowns for the show. Make sure the embroideries and the finishing details were being done properly. Check the final fittings on the models.

This was crazy, impossible.

“I’m not the person to put in charge of this. Why don’t you go?” she had protested.

“The press would love that,” Elinor said, rolling her eyes. “They’ll have Lucy’s name smeared all over their stories on Darling’s suicide. No, I’m keeping my head down, too; I don’t need that sort of attention. You’re the one to do this, Tess. Nobody’s after you.”

The sound of buzzing sewing machines reassured Tess as she stepped off the elevator and walked into the loft. A few glances came her way as she walked back to Lucile’s office, but no questions. It took her a moment to realize that there were fewer people than there had been on Saturday.

James was waiting in the office, looking nervous. “Where is Madame?” he said.

“She’s been working too hard and is taking a rest today.” Tess looked around at the many bouquets of wilting flowers, her nose wrinkling slightly at the sickish smell of decaying blossoms, and hoped she sounded matter-of-fact enough.

“We know what that’s about, don’t we?” he said. “Nobody wants
a death on their hands. On top of everything else that’s toppled her reputation.”

“I think it’s up to us to get done today what needs to be done,” Tess said, hoping her voice held a shred or two of confidence.

James turned his back to the glass wall, and Tess realized that he didn’t want the seamstresses to see his face. “I’ve got bad news,” he said. He walked over to a long table and pointed. A creamy gown covered with intricate beading lay on the table—the wedding dress, the centerpiece of the show.

“It’s beautiful,” Tess said, reaching out to lift it up. To her horror, the skirt slipped away from her fingers. It had been slashed open and only half of it remained attached to the bodice.

“What happened?” She could not believe it. All this beautiful work, destroyed.

“Somebody hates Madame,” he said. “It’s monstrous. Nothing like this ever happened before.” He didn’t look at Tess, just stared down at the gown as if at a dead body. “Nobody liked what they were reading in the papers; she wasn’t sounding too nice, but still—”

“We have to remake it.”

He shook his head. “There’s no time for that. And there’s no way to mend it—it’s too fragile.”

“Who knows about it?”

“The beader—she left in tears. She said she couldn’t work here anymore. Everybody out there knows what happened now.”

Tess fingered the ruined silk and the broken bead strings, remembering a stitch her mother had taught her for mending torn curtains: two loops and a twist; the trick was in the twist. If that wasn’t enough, she could try gathering the fabric in with tiny bits of elastic.

“James, could you bring in a seamstress, someone you trust?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I think I can fix this, but I need your help with everything else. I can’t run this shop. I don’t know how.”

“Nobody can, except Madame. It’s a lot of smoke and mirrors, you know. But you can count on me to help.”

Tess gave him a shaky smile of gratitude. “Maybe we should tell
everybody that the dress will be repaired and the show will take place as scheduled, and not pretend that nothing happened.”

“Sounds good to me.” He looked relieved. He started out the door and stopped when she spoke again. “What else?”

“Choosing which model wears which dress?” she asked uncertainly.

“Sounds good.”

“And maybe somebody could clear out all the wilted flowers; they look too sad.”

“Will do.”

It was a few minutes before she realized, bending over the torn dress, that James had called her “ma’am.”

SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, APRIL 22
5 A.M.

Pinky sat on the steps of the Senate Office Building, watching the early glow of sunrise and feeling a bit stupid for being there so early. The hearing wasn’t scheduled to start until
10 A.M.
, but where else could she wait? Van Anda wasn’t about to pay for any more nights in a hotel than he had to, so that had meant a midnight train, which put Mrs. Dotson in a tizzy. Only an extra fifty dollars had bought her benevolent services. She’d just have to tell Van Anda she could come down only on day trips after this. Pinky rubbed her aching forehead. She debated going to the Continental Hotel, where White Star was putting up the crew, and waking a few of them; maybe they’d tell her their complaints about being cooped up without any money in a strange city. But it seemed like too much effort.

She pulled her coat closer against the chill. Maybe she should have stayed in New York and followed up on the Jordan Darling suicide. Truly, though, she had no appetite for going after Lady Duff Gordon again, even though the silly woman had brought the latest
round of criticism on herself. Tess was too loyal—more than Pinky would have been, job or not. On the other hand, Darling was the one who hopped on the boat wrapped in a tablecloth; he did it to himself. She rubbed her forehead again. Sometimes this
Titanic
story made her weary. Couldn’t someone come along and open the blasted building? She wished she had worn a heavier coat.

“Hello there, young lady. I recognize you!”

A woman’s voice, hearty and full, coming from a long, sleek black car that had pulled up in front of the building. Pinky stepped closer and peered through the window. Peering back at her was the beaming face of the woman from Colorado who had rowed one of the lifeboats. Margaret Brown—that was her name. Very quotable.

“Come on in, honey, and get warm. We’re here for the same reason, that’s pretty obvious. You’re working, but I’m just curious to see how the esteemed senator handles this on his home ground.” Mrs. Brown opened the door and beckoned Pinky in, immediately offering her a cup of steaming hot coffee from a thermos passed back by her chauffeur. Gratefully, Pinky jumped in and curled her cold fingers around the cup. She’d get an interview out of this, for sure.

“You’re the girl with the funny name who works for the
Times
, right? Brash, like me—that’s what I hear. So how do you like Washington at sunrise?”

“It’s quiet,” Pinky said.

“Not for long. What’s the latest news from the city?”

“A suicide. One of the people in Lifeboat One.”

“Ah, poor Jordan Darling. Yes, I heard that back at the hotel. A fatal masquerade. The humiliation must have been too great,” Mrs. Brown murmured. “Any good news?”

“The French-speaking orphans—their mother is coming for them.”

“Ah, yes. I heard that, too—poor little things. At least the father did his best to save them. Preparing to die has a way of clarifying the mind.”

“What did it clarify for you?” Pinky asked.

Mrs. Brown laughed. “Told me to keep doing and saying what I damn well please, and not be bamboozled by anyone. Life is short—no mulling things over for a dozen years or so. What about you?”

“I wasn’t on the ship.”

“A nice reporter dodge, dear. You’ll have your choices to make, too, in due time.” She smiled, big and comfortable. “This Senator Smith—I’d like to shake the stuffing out of him. He won’t call me to testify, and I want things to go on the record. Especially how the women had to take over from the male cowards.”

“Tell them to me,” Pinky said quickly. “My paper is the paper of record, you know.”

“Yes, I read your masthead.” Mrs. Brown’s eyes were sparkling. “You know I ran for the U.S. Senate a few years ago? I’m going to do it again first chance I get.”

Pinky was fumbling in her bag for her notebook. “Can I write that?”

Mrs. Brown folded ample white arms across an equally ample stomach. “Honey, you can write down anything I say. After being brined, salted, and pickled in mid-ocean, I am now high and dry.”

“What about the Duff Gordons? Should they testify?”

“I think that’s what you’re hoping for, isn’t it?”

“I’m just a reporter.”

“No, you’re not. I read your story, and I think you care about what happened in that boat.”

A second of hesitation. “Well, you caught it,” Pinky said.

“Poor old Smith doesn’t want to, but he’ll get himself in trouble either way. We’ll see. He won’t call me because I won’t be polite and do it his way. He’s afraid if he brings in the British upper class they’ll figure out how to run the show. Good chance they will, too.” She peered out the window and up at the Senate Office Building. “Everything swishing about, to and fro—do you feel it? It’s like we’re all in a seltzer bottle that’s ready to blow. Or maybe it already has and we don’t know it yet.”

“Who’s complaining
now
?” Senator Smith glared at the aide standing in the doorway of his office in the Senate Office Building.

“Daughters of the American Revolution, sir. They’re worried about national morale.”

“Why? We didn’t build the damn ship, and we certainly didn’t sink it!”

“No, sir. It’s just—everybody seems so whipped up. The dancer’s suicide—he was quite a favorite.”

“I know, I know.” Smith shoved the mountain of mail before him to the edge of his desk, not caring that several dozen letters fell to the floor. He had been up most of the night, poring over maritime books, reading up on the dangers of ice. To find out that all his plans for the day might be upended by more scandal was too much.

Smith strode out of his office, walking toward the Caucus Room, spirits glum. Charges, countercharges—whom to believe? That sailor who claimed that the lookout had been asleep in the crow’s nest—any credibility to that? Not likely; the man was suspect. Smith had the crew, and he had Ismay for a while longer. But survivors were scattering already; they would have to be subpoenaed quickly or their testimony would be lost. And that meant he was going to have to go back to New York, which did not improve his mood.