Page 19 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

There was nothing Mrs Marshall liked more than a matchmaking project. She thrived on her ability to successfully pair up a girlfriend of hers with one of the many single men in her set. There was an art to her endeavours, I will give her that. She checked each person’s background thoroughly to ensure there were no unexpected skeletons and she made it her business to understand their likes, dislikes, political leanings and hobbies. Listening to her discuss these marriage projects used to make me smile, that world of weddings and children and setting up a home so far away from my own. But now I was the focus of her artifice.

I was flattered to be asked to her annual Fourth of July picnic, women of Julia Marshall’s set rarely even considered socialising with her couturier, and I welcomed the break from the hot and humid city. And, perhaps, I might find myself a new customer or two.

The day was idyllic, a slight breeze accompanying the cloudless sky, the Hudson River calm and asking to be admired. I wandered the deck of the Marshalls’ yacht, glass of champagne in hand, considering my luck. Here I was, again pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. I could dress as well, if not better, than every woman on this boat, I’d learned to hold myself in the correct manner and speak with just the right kind of soft Scottish accent to be appealing. What would Maw think of me now, passing myself off as a woman of note? I could hear her cackle of laughter, see her pat my hand. Thinking of her gave me a sudden feeling of freedom, a realisation that I was no longer that girl from the Edinburgh tenement, no longer the girl who had to share a bedroll with her sister; I would never have to wash a sheet again. I was Maisie McIntyre, couturier.

The ladies lounged so easily in their pale, flowing chiffon dresses and broad-brimmed hats trimmed with wide satin ribbons. Their comfort in the situation was a little unnerving, their smiles, gestures and conversation all seeming so effortless. The gentlemen were perhaps a little more buttoned up, as if they were all in uniform: pale long trousers, dark jacket, white collared shirt, tie and boater hat.

‘Daaaarling.’ Mrs Marshall wriggled up to my side. ‘Don’t all the ladies just look a picture?’ She patted me on the shoulder. ‘And aren’t you glad to see there are more than a few Maisie McIntyre designs here?’

I nodded, shading my eyes from the sun.

‘Darling, you must wear a hat. It’ll do your complexion no good; you’ll look like you’ve been working out in the fields.’ She drew out a length of my hair. ‘And it’ll turn your hair to straw, you know.’

‘I’ve been indoors for six days in a row, I think I’ve earned the right to a little sun.’ I gave her my sweetest smile.

She took me by the arm, and we began circulating the deck. ‘You know, I really think you should start calling me Julia from now on. You’ve seen me in my underwear, after all. I think we can drop the formalities.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Now, there’s someone you simply must meet.’ She squealed like an excited schoolgirl and pointed to the one man on the boat who was not wearing a dark jacket. ‘Mr Cruickshank.’

Something about his name and the way he held himself made me stiffen. I pulled away from Julia.

‘What is it, honey?’ Mrs Marshall laughed. ‘Oh, my dear Lord, don’t tell me you’re scared? Now, where’s the decisive Maisie McIntyre when you need her?’ She took my arm again, patting it gently and we continued on our walk.

‘Please don’t worry, I’ve thought this through very carefully,’ she continued, taking my silence as approval. ‘I told you his uncle is one of the minor railroad barons. Not a Vanderbilt, but he’s the third son so they’re not expecting him to marry from the very highest of society, nor do they need him to marry for money. He’s intelligent, just finished at Columbia.’ Julia Marshall gazed at him. ‘I think he’s a dream. If I wasn’t married to Rex…’ She trailed off, her expression wistful and far off. ‘Oh, but listen to me,’ she said hurriedly, reddening slightly. ‘The best part, as far as you’re concerned anyway, is that he’s a great lover of the arts. I’m always bumping into him at the theatre and the opera, at concerts and art galleries. So, you’ll see, he’ll love you for all that creativity. A match made in heaven.’

She pulled me towards him.

‘Aidan, darling. I need you to meet the world-famous Maisie McIntyre. Miss McIntyre, may I present Mr Aidan T Cruickshank.’

‘Miss McIntyre.’ He clicked his heels together and gave a slight bow. ‘I have been hearing great things about you.’

The rakish, slightly too long dark hair, the hooked nose, that easy confidence, the cut of his suit that I’d noticed on the ship. I recognised him all too well.

‘Mr Cruickshank.’ I gave him a very slight bow of my head whilst all I wanted to do was run. But we were in the middle of the Hudson River and I couldn’t swim. As the panic began to bubble up I suddenly wanted to laugh, realising that the whole preposterous situation called for an entirely preposterous response.

‘If the résumé that Mrs Marshall gave you about me was as thorough as the one she just gave me about you,’ I quipped, ‘then there’s hardly a thing we need to tell each other. I suggest we set the wedding date right away.’

There was an awkward silence and Julia Marshall’s eyes widened with concern as she looked between the two of us. A slight twist of his mouth hinted at amusement. But despite my own anxiety at being caught out, being discovered as a fraud in front of all these important guests, my attention was caught by his jacket, made from an olive-green lightweight material with the slightest hint of yellow threaded through the weave. It was refreshingly different and stood out amongst the sea of dark-blue blazers.

‘You see,’ I hurried on, trying to catch my rapidly disappearing breath, ‘I have no mother who’d interfere with the arrangements and no father whose permission you need to ask; you only need mine and, well, it seems I’ve already given it.’

I was trying to keep my voice playful, as if I was flirting, but in reality it was the only way I could fend off Mrs Marshall. I wasn’t in the habit of being herded around, however well-meaning her intentions may have been. But I was attracted to this man: the mischief in his eye, the cut of his suit, his Scottish roots, despite that ever so languorous English accent. It didn’t seem to matter how much of a threat I knew him to be, however much I wanted to thwart Mrs Marshall’s plans. He had film star looks, a voice that felt like oil being poured on my rusted heart, and a dress sense that turned my head.

Aidan T Cruickshank let a slow and generous smile take over his face, whilst Mrs Marshall frowned with confusion before looking down at her feet.

‘Why, Miss McIntyre, I’m glad to see that you are not predictable, no blushing or false pretence. I cannot stand that in anyone, let alone my chosen wife. Thankfully Mrs Marshall has kindly filled me in on all the details I could possibly need to make an informed decision for my future nuptials.’ He mirrored my playfulness, and I thought I could detect an echo of my own annoyance at being played by our hostess. ‘I understand that you are a woman of independent means and will not be marrying me for my money. I’ve learned that you have a brilliant creative mind and are a hard worker. God forbid that I would have a wife who only wanted to stay at home and entertain. If that was the case, I can’t imagine what we would talk about. You are from Scotland, not Manhattan. Halleluiah! Us Scots must stick together. Why, surely there is nothing more for it? I insist that we set the wedding day for two months from now.’

We glared at each other without saying another word, eyes gleaming. Mrs Marshall looked from me to Mr Cruickshank and back again. I could see that she had no idea whether we were joking or not until, finally, she said, ‘Well, that’s settled. I’ll leave you two to go over the finer details.’ And she fled.

I was glad of the offshore breeze as I was beginning to feel too hot. Finally, I broke his gaze and looked across the water at distant Manhattan, letting a discreet giggle slip out. I had to squint at the reflection of the sun on the water. The brilliant colours of summer, the sparkle from the sea, the feel of the wind on my skin: all these sensations had heightened my perceptions, had made me feel a little reckless.

Keeping my eyes on the horizon, I flattened my lips, trying to suppress another snigger.

‘I think, perhaps, on second thoughts, a long engagement is preferable.’ I did my best to sound contemplative, the feigned nonchalance scattering into the sea. ‘I need to reacquaint myself with how life must be when there is a man in tow.’ Finally, I turned to him. ‘And you would probably like to know what it’s like to be with a woman who spends all her time at work, who is self-centred and ambitious. I suspect you’ll find these traits abhorrent and call it all off. So, it would be sensible to give you that opportunity.’

He turned his back to the sea, leaned against the boat’s highly varnished railings and folded his arms. He watched the party in progress, the high-pitched laughter, the clink of glasses, the slow current of sexual tension under the surface of good manners and polite conversation.

‘Miss McIntyre. I don’t wish to be in tow to anyone. Nor do I wish to have my marriage arranged by Mrs Marshall any more, I suspect, than you do. But.’ He turned to face me square on, patting down his tie as the wind caught it. ‘She might just have a point. There’s something here, a spark, a whisper of what’s to come. Why don’t we act upon it? What do you say?’ And now a smile, the annoyance gone, those dark eyes plucking at my heartstrings, making something inside stir. The playfulness, the light-heartedness, the semi-earnest petition, those dazzling good looks, the beautifully made clothes, all making me feel as if I’d taken off a particularly tight corset and let my posture relax.

‘When did you inherit the T in your name? Or is that just something Mrs Marshall likes to do, to give you some gravitas?’ I said, avoiding the question.

‘When did you become world famous, Miss McIntyre?’

Touché.

I couldn’t explain my immediate attraction to him, when my heart was still so sore, when I had so vehemently decided that I had no need of male interaction in my life. He was dangerous and knew things about me that no one else did. It would have been sensible to stay away, but sensible wasn’t a word that I used very often.

But perhaps the wiser thing to do was keep him close to me, where I could see what he was doing, maybe keep him under control.

‘If we’re going to be seen together, if we’re going to show Mrs Marshall that we can do her dance of courtship, then perhaps we deal with the important stuff right away.’ I kept up the tone of joviality, as if we were talking of things of no consequence. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what you were doing on that ship, tell me why you were not being truthful about who you were? You seemed to have some idea that we were “like two peas in a pod”. How so?’

‘Isn’t everyone around here being someone they are not?’ he retorted, equally as offhand.

‘Oh, come now, Mr Aidan T Cruickshank,’ I said, mimicking Mrs Marshall’s southern drawl. ‘You have likened yourself to someone who was passing herself off as a rich widow, a single woman who grew up in the tenements of Edinburgh and should have been in steerage.’

A broad smile before he gave me a formal bow. ‘Miss McIntyre, you a one-off. No wonder Julia likes you.’ He turned back to the water, looking down at the effervescing foam as the boat’s keel glided through the water.

‘I’m the wayward child of a wealthy man of the cloth, sent to the Americas to atone for my sins and be put out of sight where I can do no harm.’ Leaning heavily on the handrail he continued. ‘My father thought it was a punishment to banish me to the New World.’ He turned his head to me. ‘In reality he sent me to a land that is more forgiving than my strict Presbyterian homeland, leaving me to mix with the very people he sent me away from.’

I pictured gambling debts, family shame, the problem hidden under the carpet. ‘Does Mrs Marshall know about this?’ I asked, tipping my head to one side in mocking wonder.

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘My dear uncle Randy is the very definition of discretion. Our Mrs M believes I’m squeaky clean.’

‘So glad to hear you aren’t. How dull would that be?’ I teased.

‘Well, well. There’s no lack of spirit in you, Miss McIntyre. Perhaps we can discuss that as we do a turn of the deck, along with answering my questions about how a tenement girl from Edinburgh suddenly finds herself on one of the largest yachts on the Hudson.’ He held his elbow towards me, indicating that I should take it.

Aidan Cruickshank was a welcome distraction, but I didn’t have the time for what Mrs Marshall called ‘the serious business of courtship’. I had a fashion parade to prepare for, designs to finalise, fabrics, buttons, ribbons and gauzes to source; I had to find the right women to use as mannequins, more seamstresses, more tables, more sewing machines, more tailor’s dummies, more of everything.

I put up barriers, my head filled with colour, thread and sketches, but he battered those defences, wooing me with that lazy English accent, that clean, well-dressed smell of sandalwood and leather, those deep-set brown eyes with their hint of mischief, those perfectly fitting suits. There were suggestions of a train ride to Long Beach, a trip out to the newly fashionable Hamptons, taking tea in one of the coastal tearooms, offers of an evening at the theatre, a concert at Carnegie Hall, dinner on the rooftop garden at the Waldorf Astoria. Occasionally I would submit, enticed by his sense of humour, his wit, always able to liven up a dull party.

‘How I hate these parties,’ I sighed as we stood by the bar of yet another Coming Out ball. ‘I wish you wouldn’t insist I trail along behind you. I’m not entirely sure what they’re for.’

‘Drumming up business, you know that.’ He looked at me incredulously. ‘Silly debutantes, ingénues, sparkling society women, serious wives of serious men. You’ll find them all here. It’s just like the first-class salon on the SS Furnessia . You just need to find your mark.’ His eyes teased. ‘This’ – he gestured towards my dress – ‘is the best kind of promotion a girl could find. Don’t knock it. One or two of these a month will make all the difference. We’ll have those women running through your doors.’

‘Just the people I wanted to speak to.’ Mrs Marshall burst into our little bubble, her voice urgent and serious. ‘Now tell me, when are you two going to announce your engagement?’

‘All in good time, Mrs M. There’s no point in rushing these things.’ Aidan batted the question away before taking me by the hand and bowing to my patron ‘You must excuse us. I’ve been promising Maisie a dance all evening and can put it off no longer.’ Leaving Julia Marshall with her mouth open he pulled me away and led me past the dance floor and out onto the terrace.

‘That woman is persistent; I’ll give her that,’ he muttered, dropping my hand, continuing down the steps and onto the lawn.

‘At least it means I’m no longer introduced to the most unsuitable men I’ve ever met. All those hideous mothers think I’m spoken for.’

‘Glad to be of service.’ He bowed towards me as he spoke, his voice a little caustic.

‘Watch out. I believe our hostess is on the warpath,’ I warned.

Mrs Aston, rake thin with a permanent look of disapproval, swept down the stairs and headed straight for Aidan.

‘Mr Cruickshank.’ She held out her hand for the obligatory kiss.

‘Mrs Aston, may I introduce Miss Maisie McIntyre. I believe your daughter-in-law is a patron of hers.’

She peered at me as if she was having difficulty seeing me. ‘Ah, yes. The woman of colour.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘You… mean my use of colour,’ I stammered.

‘Yes, you’re the one who put Tattie darling in those fabulous bright colours. What a clever girl you are. Now I need to introduce this darling boy to my niece, Minty.’ I was immediately forgotten as she turned to reveal a young woman, perhaps of sixteen or seventeen, with enormous doe eyes and tumbles of brown curls. She wore a tastefully alluring, pale-yellow evening gown that showed her slender figure to its best, her jewels discreet but notable.

The girl fluttered her eyelids, a blush rising up her pretty cheeks. ‘Mr Cruickshank, my aunt has told me so much about you.’ She held out her hand.

Minty, despite the name, was easily the most beautiful woman at the party, but a minimal shift in Aidan’s manner showed me that he wasn’t struck by her, the telltale sign being the undoing and doing up of his jacket buttons, the amused smile on his face. But only I could tell this as he did his duty, kissed her hand, bowed and held her gaze, ensuring she almost melted into the ground.

He seemed to be holding back, hiding something, and it was this knowledge that held me to him. We were both hiding something; perhaps that was why we made such an appealing couple to the outside world.

‘Miss Aston, I do hope you’ll join me for a dance later. But would you excuse me just now? I have promised Miss McIntyre an introduction to some dear friends, and I must do this before it’s too late and we miss them.’ Again, he kissed her hand, let her swoon over his touch, whispered in her ear, ‘I’ll come and find you later.’ He gave her a conspiratorial wink before turning to me and indicating we should walk to the end of the garden.

‘Oh, how I wish these mothers, aunts and grandmothers would stop trying to muscle in.’ He turned to me. ‘They’ve backed off you. Why haven’t they backed off me? Aren’t we supposed to be an item?’

‘Are we an item?’ I asked. We occasionally went out together, he was attentive and alluring, but he never went a step further, never tried to kiss me, never stared at me with a look of hunger, never quite set my heart alight. I didn’t long for him like I had with Joseph, my stomach didn’t twist at the thought of him, I never daydreamed about his smile, about the way he’d hold me during a dance, about how we might, one day, be together. He was entertaining, good company, but in a best friend kind of way.

He walked ahead with his hands in his pockets before turning back to me. ‘Maybe we should just get married, then all of this would stop.’ He threw out his right arm gesturing to the crowd.

‘Not quite the marriage proposal I had once dreamed of,’ I said, trying to keep my voice light as a sudden sadness descended on me, an image of Joseph, and then me in the yellow dress, flickering behind my eyes.

Still with his hands in his pockets he looked down at his feet and kicked the gravel like some petulant schoolboy. What did he want? Despite the fact that I must have known him better than anyone else, there was part of him that he kept locked away, fiercely guarded as if it would do him harm if let out.

‘Anyway,’ I said, shutting away the emotion, ‘I have an important question for you.’

‘Fire away.’ The sulky expression left him, interest took over.

‘I need your help with the fashion parade.’

‘How are the arrangements going?’ All thoughts of marriage quickly abandoned, thank goodness.

‘Everything is going to plan. Mrs Marshall has done as I asked, inviting fifty of the most influential women in New York. The editors from Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar are expected, even a few politicians and their wives are on the list. She’s organised floral arrangements, champagne and canapés for the after-party, there’s a seating plan and we’ve discussed the order in which the gowns should be shown. We’re frantically busy in the studio, but it’s all coming together, everyone having worked so hard. But there’s a problem I need to deal with.’

He turned to me, an expression of amused surprise on his face. ‘Finally, the inimitable Miss McIntyre asks for my help.’

My mouth twitched, a thread of annoyance catching my heart.

‘What do you need? An injection of cash? Entertainment for the mannequins?’ He was enjoying himself, his voice a touch patronising.

‘No, I need you to make sure Julia Marshall never makes her way into the studio.’ I held his stare.

‘Ah, I see. Something to hide, some little secret that will have Mrs Rex Marshall running for the hills. Am I right?’

‘Come to my studio tomorrow and you can see for yourself.’