Page 18 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

I’d always loved to watch people come and go: the old widows in their black attire, sipping their tea with the measured gentility of aristocracy; the well-groomed wives, with their healthy complexions and shiny hair; the young debutantes, some shy and self-conscious, others loud and silly; the aloof literary ladies who wore too many scarves; the artistic women, actresses and showgirls, who glittered, all too aware of the effect they had on the room.

I brought out my notebook and drew, sketching whole outfits with small insets showing the tiny details on a hem, neckline or a sleeve, made notes on some of the fabrics I saw, noted the accessories, experienced an increasing rush of excitement, my whole body thrilling at this stream of creativity. It was as if the walk, the fresh air, the new dress, the lace tablecloth, the elegant cake on the delicate tea plate, all produced some kind of stupor, allowing me to wholly focus on my designs, forgetting about my tea, not considering whether I was a spectacle sitting on my own. My fingers were tingling as they sketched.

My pencil became blunt and I needed to ask the waiter for another, but as I looked up I was confronted by the sight of Mrs Marshall standing right in front of me, just a little too close.

‘Miss McIntyre? Yes, it is you. What on earth are you doing here?’ That girlish voice, so penetrating and loud, pulled me abruptly out of my design frenzy, as if I was being hauled out of a deep, profound sleep.

‘Mrs Marshall, how lovely to see you,’ I stumbled, my voice croaking.

She sat down beside me. ‘Darling, are you here by yourself?’ she whispered, as if she was ashamed of my loneliness.

I smiled at her, regaining my equilibrium. ‘I am. This is a good place to think about new designs, to get inspiration.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I think you still have some work to do on those new ideas you had for me. They weren’t quite right, were they?’ Her brow furrowed slightly. ‘You are a strange creature, Miss McIntyre. I can’t fathom you at all.’ Then her face cleared and she leaned forward, her eyes now bright. ‘But there is an argument that women should have some mystery about them. It works a treat when you’re trying to catch a man.’ Suddenly she gasped. ‘Talking of which, now that we’ve sorted out that little issue, it’s high time you found a suitable man and settled down.’ She patted me on the hand. ‘You see, a single woman beyond a certain age begins to look ugly. How old are you now?’

I almost choked on my tea. ‘I’m twenty-two.’

‘Oh, darling, some would say you’re already on the shelf.’ She leaned in as she spoke, her voice again low. ‘I hadn’t quite understood how urgent this was. Well, thank goodness I’m on the ball. I told you I’d found just the man, listen, he’s even from Scotland,’ she panted. ‘His uncle, that darling old Randolph, is one of our very own minor railroad barons, who just happens to be a great friend of my own Rex. The nephew, you know, he’s quite a catch. He’s just finished at Columbia and is now wondering quite what to do with himself. I’d say finding a good wife will do him the world of good. And now that you’re back to your old feisty self, I think he’d benefit from a woman who challenged him a bit.’ Here the horse-like laugh rang out across the room, a few heads turning.

‘Really, Mrs Marshall, you don’t need to go to the trouble.’ I was beginning to feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

‘Dear, it’s no trouble. Anyhow, in a few weeks’ time it’s our annual Fourth of July picnic on the yacht, I’d just love you to come. I’ve invited him especially. It’ll be the most idyllic situation in which to meet the man of your dreams.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Just think how marvellous it would be to be wooed on a yacht on the Hudson, the sun shining, the girls in their summer frocks, the men in their boater hats. Oh, it’s just too delicious an opportunity to pass up.’ She gave a little squeal before pulling herself upright and picking up her parasol.

‘Must dash, my darling. Sukie will be wondering where on earth I am.’ But as she was about to leave me, she stopped to say, ‘Now that dress, you’ve outdone yourself. Very fetching. You clever thing.’

‘I didn’t design this one,’ I said, rubbing the fabric on the sleeve between my finger and thumb.

‘Well, I’d like to meet whoever did. They’re obviously very talented,’ she gushed.

I smiled. ‘One day, I will definitely introduce you.’

The next morning Oti found me fast asleep on the small sofa in the studio.

‘What’s all this?’ she said as she surveyed the mess, her mouth twitching with irritation.

I sat up and rubbed my face. I hadn’t been home, I’d hardly eaten since breakfast the day before and was in the same clothes I’d worn to the St Regis, the beautiful dress Oti had made, now rumpled and creased. I’d been designing and constructing new gowns and outfits most of the night, finally falling asleep at about five o’clock in the morning. I felt a little light-headed. My hair fell down onto my shoulders and my breath smelled.

‘It’s the new season of Maison McIntyre designs,’ I said standing up, walking stiffly around the cutting table and picking up a sheaf of papers. Each piece showed a design that had been worked into a detailed coloured illustration, with cuttings of fabrics affixed to the edge of each drawing, along with suggested finishes and adornments. ‘We’ll work from a book of designs for each season. I believe Lucile calls it her Book of the Season. When these are completed, I will bind them into our own book, and we can show it to our customers. We will also make up a sample of every design and employ a mannequin to show them off, walk around the salon, showing the dresses as they should be seen.’ Now I was talking fast, excitement bubbling up, going through each design, explaining how every dress should be made, the type of body shape each would suit, where we could change the colouring to flatter each customer.

Oti’s face was difficult to read. There was interest, the occasional twitch at a detail that she’d never seen before, but there was also a threat of annoyance in her stance, her hands on her hips, her lips puckered, her brow deeply lined.

‘So, let me make sure I’m understanding you,’ she eventually said, clearing her throat. ‘We’re no longer simply dressmakers and seamstresses. No longer making dresses that our ladies have asked for. We’re now making gowns that we need to persuade them that they want.’

‘Just like the couture houses – like the House of Worth, and Paul Poiret’s maison de couture, like Farquharson this season we’ll have twenty designs to work to rather than a different design for every single customer. Each gown will still be bespoke, will fit each of our ladies to their exact measurements. But, Oti, you’re right. I no longer want to be just a dressmaker or a seamstress. I want us to be a couture house, I want to design dresses that matter. That’s what I’ve always wanted to be.’

‘Maison McIntyre, huh?’ she asked, pulling back as if to get a better look at me. ‘I haven’t seen you like this for a while, headlong, nothing but work, not thinking about anyone else. There’s some kind of madness that takes over you, turns you into this wild creative machine. You scare me when you’re like that.’

I smiled, almost blushed. No one, not even Netta, had ever understood me so well as Oti did. ‘I’d forgotten how much I want to do this, how much I love to design, how I love to make someone look the best they possibly can, how I love to make them feel better about themselves. I’ve drifted back into accepting requests to copy designs from Paris or London. I don’t want to do that. I want to be an original. I want people to copy a Maison McIntyre dress because that’s what they want to be seen in.’

Slowly a hint of approval spread across her face and she leaned forward, picking up a design for an evening gown, the skirt almost completely covered in feathers. ‘This is going to take one hell of a lot of hand work. You trying to break us?’ And then there was that broad Jackson smile, her whole face changed, all hint of doubt erased. ‘These are going to make your name, Miss McIntyre. But how are we going to get the customers to make this work? We barely have enough work as it is, now we have the new girls.’

‘I even found a solution to that last night whilst I was firing off these new designs.’ I began talking too fast. ‘We need to put on a fashion parade. Just like the ready-to-wear parades you see in some of the department stores. But this will be like the parades Lucile puts on, for invited customers only. It will be an exclusive event.’

‘Do we know enough people? Seems like we’ll have to top up the numbers with Mr and Mrs Franke and their children.’

‘Oh, I’m going to get Mrs Marshall to organise it.’ I said this in a very offhand, casual manner.

Oti almost scoffed. ‘I can’t see her doing that.’

‘She won’t be able to resist. We’ll make it an exclusive fundraising event, selling, say, only fifty tickets. The ticket price will cover all the costs of the event plus extra towards a favoured charity. That way we shouldn’t make a loss, even if we don’t sell a single dress. Once the fashion parade is over, we will serve champagne and it will become a party. The mannequins can mingle with the ladies, and they can look at the dresses up close. Mrs Marshall will love to be seen organising such a high-profile event. Everyone will want to be there, it’ll be something different, a new event for the season, something to talk about, and hopefully, we’ll come away with lots of orders. And the best thing about it is it’ll be seen as a charitable event, rather than some high society trade show.’

‘And, finally, I’m introduced to the ambitious Maisie McIntyre,’ Oti said, not unkindly. Her arms were crossed as she leaned against the tabletop, an amused expression on her face. ‘I knew you were in there, but something’s been keeping her hidden away. I’ve met the driven Maisie, the hardworking Maisie, the slightly bawdy studio Maisie, the salon Maisie who can keep up with the best of the society girls, the homely Maisie who kept my brother company, but I’ve only just now met the single-minded, slightly ruthless Maisie.’

I put the designs back down on the cutting table, considering her words, trying to understand if this was a compliment.

She unfolded her arms and came towards me. Quietly she spoke. ‘I always thought you’d leave him because of his colour. Because he didn’t fit with your plans. You work with too many influential women who wouldn’t like to be associated with a woman who has relations with a man of colour. We both understand the reason I stay in the studio when Mrs Marshall has her appointments, but you never introduced Joseph to any of your friends.’

That shame flickered at my collar.

She looked down at her feet. ‘You and Joseph did the right thing.’ Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘I prefer this Maisie.’ She pointed to the pile of drawings. ‘She’s the person I want to spend time with. She’s the person I want to work for.’

She turned her gaze back to me. ‘So, Miss McIntyre.’ Her voice now loud and confident, her smile filling the room. ‘I think we’d better go across the road and get ourselves a coffee before the others get here, so that we’re ready to break the news.’

Fuelled with strong coffee we got back to the studio just as everyone was arriving for work.

As promised, I had taken on three new seamstresses two months previously, giving Oti the opportunity to step away from some of the day-to-day sewing and allow her to find new fabric suppliers and work out ways of getting our order of works running more smoothly. We’d had a few weeks to settle them in, find out their weaknesses and strengths, just in time for my suggested changes to the business.

Simone and Rebecca had worked with Oti in the haberdasher’s and were more than competent on the sewing machine, but it was their hand sewing that had struck me: swift, neat and confident. Then there was Flavia, another distant cousin of Rosa’s, who’d managed to escape the fire, but not without terrible disfiguring burns to the right side of her face and body. The three of them entered the room, Simone talking loudly.

‘Have you seen the news? That woman who flies aeroplanes, she hasn’t just gone and got herself killed.’ Her tone was sombre but with an air of conspiracy.

I stared at her, hardly able to understand what she was saying, my mind was so filled with fabric, colours, mannequins and fashion parades.

Simone frowned at my lack of interest. She was taller than me, much like Oti, but she had a twisted smile that made her seem more approachable. She held up a copy of the New York Times . ‘This morning’s paper. The headlines are all going on about Baltimore and that professor, but why would I care about Mr Woodrow Wilson? It’s not as if I can vote for him anyway.’

‘This much smaller headline,’ said Rebecca, pointing with her tiny hands to the more obscure article on the front page.

‘ Miss Quimby dies in airship fall ,’ read Simone, mimicking a solemn radio presenter.

‘ Falling from a height of one thousand feet into Dorchester Bay soon after six o’clock tonight ,’ Rebecca continued to read. So much shorter than Simone, she had to look around her shoulder to see the article. ‘ Miss Harriet Quimby of New York, the first woman to gain an aviator’s licence in America and the first woman to cross the English Channel in an aeroplane which she operated herself, met instant and terrible death .’

‘ Five thousand spectators witnessed the accident… ’

I lost track of the story, mesmerised by the double act that was Rebecca and Simone, taking it in turns to read. This was what they did; they finished each other’s sentences, they ate each other’s food, they lived with each other, they swapped clothes. It was as if they were one and the same person.

‘ Both victims were found terribly crushed when extricated from the mud of the shallow bay, into which they had sunk deeply. ’ Simone let the newspaper drop onto the table.

There was silence in the room, everyone staring at Simone and Rebecca, until Oti picked up the paper and looked at the article. ‘Isn’t that the woman we talked about only the other week? The one who wears some kind of purple silk uniform, to make sure people will notice her?’

Harriet Quimby was a woman we’d been following in the news, a woman who dared to do the things only men had previously done. She wasn’t just a woman of firsts when it came to aviation, she wrote scripts for Hollywood films, she was a journalist, as well as being someone who wore the kind of clothes that made her stand out.

‘I would have liked to dress her,’ I sighed. ‘However, we’ve got plenty to take our minds off bad news.’ I sat down at one of the tables. ‘Come over here and look at these.’ I indicated to my pile of designs.

Oti, Simone, Rebecca and Flavia gathered around the table whilst I began telling them of my plans for the future, what work they were going to need to do over the next few weeks, asking whether they’d be able to put in any extra hours and explaining how the fashion parade would work.

‘Ooooh! Real live mannequins! In here? In our salon?’ asked Simone.

‘With a roomful of society ladies in their best clothes?’ asked Rebecca.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘We’ll seat them along the length of the salon. The mannequins will come in from the studio and walk up and down so that the dresses can be seen up close, our potential customers will see how the fabric moves, how it rustles, how the light catches the glitter on the finishing. After the show, we’ll just keep the party going, make sure the women have plenty of champagne and get them to buy our designs. Simple!’ I beamed at the girls.

‘Will we get some champagne too?’ asked Rebecca.

‘Careful,’ Oti chided, playing the part of manager.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Flavia had silently moved over to the stack of designs and started looking through them, carefully inspecting each one, her face changing from its usual air of melancholy to a hint of excitement, a small upturn in her now thin lips. Eventually she looked up at me.

‘Can you show me how we’ll be attaching the feathers. There are so many, I wonder how we can do it without making the skirt seem bulky. Also, I wondered how are we going to find them in so many colours? There will have to be a pattern we work to, showing how we lay them out so that we can get the fading of the colour from skirt to hem.’

Rebecca and Simone abruptly stopped their chatter, their gazes directed towards Flavia. Nobody in the room had ever heard her speak so many words all at the same time.

I felt a quiver of exhilaration inside of me; I loved it when someone else understood my designs immediately. Flavia had by far the best understanding of complicated gown structures out of all the girls, including Oti, but she kept it quiet, didn’t shout about her abilities, unlike Simone and Rebecca, who were prone to letting me know that their ideas were superior to my own.

As the day wore on, the enthusiasm in the studio built up to a rumble of animated discussion, every design being closely examined, ideas about the best way to make each one, who would focus on which dress.

‘I think we need some of that tea,’ said Oti eventually, picking up a sheaf of papers that she’d been writing notes on. She took me into the tiny kitchenette. I added some coal to the range fire, filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

‘You know just how much work we’ve got to do here?’ she hissed. ‘I’ll need to re-work the schedules, get the fabric suppliers back in, ask everyone to do a bit of overtime. That’s okay, that’ll work to start with.’ She was talking to herself now, pacing the tiny room. ‘But we’re going to need more outworkers for the embroidery, Flavia can’t do it all herself, much as she’d like to. And we’re going to need more seamstresses. You’re gonna need to make use of your friends from the factory, those women you spent time with last weekend. Hopefully they can help us.’

I watched the kettle, noting the tarnished tin, wondering who would clean it. ‘We’ll find them,’ I said gently. I turned to the noise coming from the studio and went to the door. Leaning on the doorframe, folding my arms, I gathered in the scene in front of me. My once bare studio was now brimming with colour. Three dressmaker’s dummies stood in one corner, each dressed in a different design – a new forest-green riding habit for Mrs Marshall, a baby-blue evening gown for Miss Milholland, and my favourite, a very simple, pale-pink summer day dress. There was a low rack for the rolls of fabric at one end of the room, with a large pinboard above them, my favourite sketches pinned up, swatches of colour and ribbons decorating another wall.

Rebecca, Simone and Flavia were sitting at the large sewing table, wearing their aprons, Flavia with soft white gloves on so that the roughness of her scarred right hand wouldn’t catch on the fabric she was working on. The way she stroked the material reminded me of the evenings when I used to work with Maw on her dressmaking, when she was teaching me what she knew, when she’d show me how to understand a fabric by running my fingers over it, to feel the alternating twists in the yarn on a chiffon, the complete smoothness of a silk, or the grainy feel of a georgette. Rebecca told a joke and Flavia gave a tiny smile as she nudged Simone.

‘Just look at that,’ I said to Oti, as the kettle began to whistle.