Page 20 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

Now I employed six women. Oti, with her fierce pride, held everyone together, directing the workload, keeping all our work on schedule. Simone and Rebecca, a perfect partnership, complementing each other, their skills improving every day, one better at cutting, the other more skilled at tailoring. Yulia, a loud Russian mother of five girls, was our quickest worker, always able to complete those rushed jobs to the deadline, always able to sew and tell us a stream of funny stories about her family all at the same time. And then there was quiet Anna, still too traumatised by the night of the factory fire, who rarely spoke, but her ability to focus was beyond anything I’d ever seen, to block out any noise, including Yulia’s stories, and concentrate fully on her work. And finally there was Flavia, who was taking on much of the embroidery work, who absorbed everything Oti taught her, looking up to her as if she was a big sister. These women made up my studio, brought together by the designs, the fabric, the colour, cocooned behind closed doors. When we were working – fitting, stitching, designing, folding, packing, tidying – we were safe, nothing bad could happen to us; we fitted together like the pieces of a dress pattern. I had all I needed in these extraordinary women. But they were kept away from our customers, kept hidden from those white judgemental eyes. I knew that many of my clients would not appreciate their garments being handled by a black woman, would be frightened by the disfigurement of Flavia, would worry at the sadness in the eyes of Anna. But now I was opening the doors and letting Mrs Marshall and her band of influential women come within ten feet of my mixed, troubled workforce.

Aidan arrived at the studio the next day at ten o’clock, exactly as asked.

‘Good morning, ladies. I trust you’re all well?’ he inquired as if he’d been in there twenty times before.

They all muttered an embarrassed greeting. Men were almost never seen in the studio, the landlord, Mr Franke, only ever able to hover by the door, seemingly too uncomfortable to come in, almost as if he thought the room was full of women only wearing their underwear.

‘Miss McIntyre. What a delightful studio.’ He began to walk around the room, looking out of the windows, inspecting the tailor’s dummies, scrutinising the pinboard and finally looking up at the overhead glass domes, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘I have never seen such a fine example of ceiling lanterns. They really are magnificent. You must find this the most welcoming studio to work in.’ He brought his gaze back down to me. ‘I now understand why I can never prise you out of it.’

I let those words sink in. Looking across at Oti and the others, I could see there seemed to be a silent letting out of held breath, a collective sigh of relief. I’d had no need to worry. He understood the situation immediately.

I didn’t have to open my mouth before he said, ‘I’ll keep her distracted. Both of us will tell her that there simply won’t be room for her in the studio whilst your mannequins are being dressed, whilst you are seeing to the finishing touches, whilst you keep everything running to time. I will ensure she is kept busy entertaining the ladies, checking everyone is in their correct seat and is well lubricated with champagne. She can oversee the waiting staff and the food – that should keep her distracted. She’ll have no time to worry about what’s going on in the studio. And then, if necessary, we can give her some excuse that everyone must be out by a certain time, as dictated by your landlord.’ He then turned to the door that led into the salon.

‘I suggest we build a mini corridor with a second door into the studio from the salon. That way anyone who comes in and out of the studio will have to go through two doors and that negates any possibility of your girls being seen when the first door is open. It also means there’s a holding room for the waiting mannequin to come in, whilst she waits for the girl who is already walking through the salon. This will give her a chance to have a moment to gather herself after all the mayhem that’ll be going on in the studio.’

I stared at him. He had read my mind, understood exactly what needed doing.

Laughing at my speechlessness he said, ‘You’ll come to understand, Miss McIntyre, that those of us who have secrets have learned very well how to conceal them.’

It should have been a disaster. After the final pinning, checking, last-minute sewing, the nerves and the waiting for guests to seat themselves, the excitement in the studio, the riot of butterflies in my stomach, we then had a power outage. No light.

That moment of silence as we were held in terror. What could we do? Beautiful outfits could not be seen without light. But I had Oti, and I had Aidan, and all worked out better than I could have ever imagined.

Oti had a large stash of candles (‘I’ve never trusted those electricity companies’) and sent me out to the salon to set them out around the room, whilst Aidan kept the ladies entertained and reassured that our show would be imminent. Oti gave each mannequin her own candle and when we were ready, they were sent out, in our new Maison McIntyre creations, lit by candlelight.

An unexpected evening of shadows, each dress, coat, and jacket seen in a new way. The candlelight picking out only the sharpest of lines on a purple velvet gown, the lighter fabrics given an added depth and a quality of boldness that might have been lacking in the electric light, the dim light on the sharp pleated sleeves of an evening shirt enhancing its two-tone effect. An evening of ethereal images, pale chiffon appearing ghostly and mysterious, the lace given added dimension on the sleeves of an organza blouse, the sculpted folds of an apricot silk taffeta displaying an illusion of fire. The contrast between pale skin and the sheen on a duchess satin gown became more obvious, the gold and silver beading on an evening dress noticeably more eye-catching. Our guests were stunned into silence at the atmosphere we had created, meaning the swish of a dress became the background to the evening, the whispers of the silks, the murmur of the velvets.

By the end of the night forty dresses were in the order book and more promised.

Afterwards, Mrs Marshall, so different from the woman I’d met two years previously, worked the room: sparkling when chatting with the congressman’s wife, holding forth with Elizabeth Jordan, the editor of Harper’s Bazaar , giggling with the models, ensuring no guest was left unattended to. I’d made her a pale-pink silk dress with a swathed skirt and high waist, and mid-grey silk stole creating a satisfying contrast. She had outshone a host of bright starlets and authoritative women, no longer the wallflower she had once been.

Putting on her coat to leave, she’d said, ‘Maisie, darling, I can’t tell you what a time I had tonight. My mother-in-law will go on that I don’t have the stamina that she has, that I’m simply not clever enough.’ She pulled herself up straight. ‘Well, do you know, she’s just goddamn wrong!’ And then she shrieked at her own audacity. ‘Yes goddammit, she’s just wholly wrong.’

‘Did you have a glass of champagne tonight?’ I asked her, amused by her language.

‘Oh, dear Lord, no. I haven’t touched the stuff since our honeymoon. But you’re right, I do feel quite drunk.’

I began to usher her out of the door. ‘I think you’d better get home, before Rex discovers what’s been going on.’

‘I’m far too excited to go home. Rex can be such an old fuddy-duddy in the evenings. All pipe and slippers and some dusty old book. No, I’m off to my club to have a victory dinner with my girlfriends.’ With a triumphant smile, she turned and flew down the stairs.

‘What have you done to that woman?’ Aidan asked from behind me as I leaned over the banisters to watch the whirlwind that was Julia Marshall disappear.

‘I do believe she’s discovered her confidence,’ I said, walking back into the salon.

Two hours later I sat at the head of our dinner table, hastily set up in the salon after all the chairs had been cleared away, the waiting staff dispatched, the gowns carefully hung on the racks in the studio, the order book returned to my desk.

Oti, Simone, Rebecca, Flavia, Anna, Yulia and Aidan were seated around the table, their plates almost empty, their glasses half-full of leftover champagne, a row of candles down the centre of the table, reminding us of the ordeal we’d just been through. For the first time in weeks, I’d simply stopped and was just soaking up the sound of friendly chatter and laughter, enjoying the fire that was keeping us warm. I had a glass of single malt in my hand and felt full up, replete with achievement. Aidan had completed his duties to perfection, keeping Mrs Marshall busy and away from the studio. He’d played the chaperone and the fixer, as if he did that kind of thing all day long, relishing his role in the event. Oti had masterminded the behind-the-scenes schedule, keeping all the mannequins on time, each one of the seamstresses had been assigned a number of outfits and had been responsible for dressing the mannequins and ensuring they kept to Oti’s strict timetable. There hadn’t been a single hitch, despite the power cut. And now here they all were, being entertained by Aidan, as if he’d known them all his life. The light of the fire flickered across their faces as they laughed at the memories of the evening, the noise of knives clattering on plates, glasses being filled, the creak of the chairs as they sat back in satisfaction.

As the conversation faltered, Rebecca stood up.

‘I could be one of those mannequins. It can’t be that difficult can it? Just watch.’ She began walking up and down the room in the style of our mannequins, hips slightly forward, left hand on left hip, a swinging walk. Being egged on by the other girls at the table she made a comical sight, her short, squat shape seeming to mock the whole process of modelling.

As she walked, Aidan piped up. ‘Miss Rebecca Styles is modelling our most à la mode uniform. A white over-jacket made from the very best cotton, with mother of pearl buttons down the front, a pocket on each side as well as a breast pocket for holding items such as thimbles, sewing scissors and tailor’s chalk. To complement the jacket, Miss Styles is wearing our prescribed dark-blue serge skirt, with darts at the front for additional flattery and a dark-blue belt to ensure everything is kept in place. The whole outfit is finished by a pair of brown leather lace-up boots with a small heel, just enough to ensure that Miss Styles reaches the height of her esteemed friend’s shoulder.’

Rebecca could no longer keep a straight face and collapsed back into her chair, hand over her mouth, eyes crinkled.

Goading her on, Oti said, ‘You’d make the perfect mannequin.’

Rebecca retorted, ‘Now you’re just plain lying to me, Miss Oti. I know I’m too fat. Even if I wasn’t, I’m certainly too black. Can you imagine one of our skinnier sisters taking part in the parade this evening? Especially that purple evening dress where there’s a lot of flesh showing. Someone we know would be having an opinion right now.’

Everyone laughed, but there was an edge to it. Yulia, perhaps having had one glass more than she was ever used to, perceptively jumped in with another of her stories about one of her girls. She was a large round-cheeked woman whose smile never left her face. Mother of five daughters aged from sixteen down to four years, living in a tenement apartment with her husband, mother and sister, she would always have some story that would keep away the gloomy world of bad landlords, rotting tenement apartments and the price of coal.

‘I must tell you the latest about my little one, Katarina. Last Sunday, we were listening to the sermon being given by Father Antonov and he was getting a bit heated, you know, throwing his arms around and raising his voice. In our house, whenever someone shouts, which you know I don’t like at all, I will always say “Keep your voice down, God can hear you.”’ Here she shook her head. ‘After a while Katarina got up on the pew and said, “Keep your voice down, Father, God can hear you already.” Can you imagine my embarrassment? Well, at least I didn’t swear like that Mrs Marshall. What would her husband have said?’

I sat back watching these women who now made up my life as the steam from Yulia’s famous shchi soup, with its warming sauerkraut and hint of dill, mingled with the pepper and spice from Simone and Rebecca’s stew. When Anna brought out her torta margherita , the sweet sponge reminding me that Rosa had been there at the beginning of this family, this family that were at my workroom table, their voices, languages and foods weaving together just like the threads we worked with each day. These women who helped me shape fabric into dreams had, stitch by stich, sewn themselves into my life.

Forty dresses turned into fifty-five – word of mouth and a good write-up from the editor of Harper’s Bazaar helped the orders flow in. We took on more seamstresses and already we’d outgrown the studio; we were tripping over each other, too many tables, too many sewing machines in too little space.

The apartment below the salon came up for rent. Before Mr Franke had drawn breath from telling me, I took it, turning it into an open-plan space filled with cutting and sewing tables, ten more tailor’s dummies and a large blackboard showing each customer’s order and where in the schedule of work it was. The light-filled studio became the finishing space, making the most of the natural daylight provided by those extraordinary ceiling lanterns. This was still the room I loved, the room that reminded me of where it had all started, the room where I felt most at home.

Julia Marshall continued her patronage, always recommending us to her friends, but we were now garnering customers from all over New York and beyond.

‘Darling,’ she said during another fitting, ‘I noticed a woman leaving that I’ve never seen before. Who can she be? She can’t be one of your customers, maybe she’s one of your girls, one of those seamstresses you keep so well hidden away. But she was so well dressed, I can’t imagine you let your girls dress as well as your clients.’ Her voice was a little sour, as if she had bitten into an unripe plum. ‘Aren’t all your customers friends of mine?’ She peered at me, a little too closely, as if she was trying to see into me.

‘Oh, that was Miss Hineman. She’s visiting from Boston; I expect that’s why you don’t know her.’

‘She came all the way from Boston to see you ? What extravagance.’ She sniffed with disapproval, but then seemed to dismiss the thought as soon as she’d had it. ‘Anyway, darling, I need to have a little heart to heart.’ She was sitting on one of my sofas holding a half-drunk cup of tea. Putting down the cup she clasped my hands as if they needed warming up, looking at me earnestly. ‘It’s about you and Aidan. I do think you two should be getting on with it and naming the day. What happened to all that sudden enthusiasm when you first met? Here we are eighteen months later and all I see you do is talk to each other at parties, the occasional dance and that’s it! Where’s the engagement ring? Where’s the big announcement? I do so want to preside over your big day. Since you don’t have a mother to take control of the wedding, I can do that for you, darling.’ Here she patted my hand, as if I was some poor orphan who’d been left out in the cold.

‘Maybe we don’t want to get married,’ I retorted, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

‘Now, darling, don’t be so ridiculous and stop trying to pretend to be so…’ here she hesitated as she looked for the word ‘…modern. Every decent young woman needs a decent young man. And our Aidan T Cruickshank really is a decent young man. If you don’t succumb to his advances some other gorgeous young thing will swoop in and take your place. Now, take my advice and force the issue, threaten to cut him off or flirt with another man. That always does the trick.’ Her concern was replaced by a look of triumph, as if she’d solved all my problems.

The truth being that he was decent – kind, attentive, funny and entertaining but also interested in the way my business was going, often giving me useful advice – somehow he’d become sewn into my life. One day I’d find him in the studio, entertaining the girls, making them laugh with stories of great society downfalls and disgraces, the next he’d be looking at my books to see where I could be more financially efficient, then he’d be in Mrs Vanderbilt’s salon, talking with her as if he’d known her all his life. He was as at ease with the likes of Mrs Vanderbilt as he was with the seamstresses in my studio. His ability to switch from ballroom to storeroom was a trait that I could admire, something I’d always wanted for myself.

‘That man, he’s just like you,’ said Oti one afternoon, as we were both embroidering the cuffs of a woollen winter coat. ‘There are so many sides to that Mr Aidan Cruickshank, and I can admire that, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on, there’s something that’s missing. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate having a man around here sometimes, but I just can’t figure out what he wants with you, Maisie?

‘But what I do know is that you don’t love him. I can see that. And I don’t think he loves you. He’s just useful – charms that Mrs Marshall when she’s in the way, butters up our girls when they’re in need of a bit of attention, even buys us food when we’re too busy to eat. But you’re not like you were with Joseph. I see that once he’s out of the room you’ve forgotten all about him, whereas sometimes I see you still thinking about our poor old Joseph.’ She let out a little laugh, almost as if it were for herself only. ‘You think I haven’t seen you wanting to ask after him, wondering what he’s up to. I can see those questions on the tip of your tongue, but I can’t tell you. I won’t tell you ’cos I know that it won’t help, it won’t make any difference. He still doesn’t want to see you.’

Only Oti could be so outspoken, only Oti was able to articulate what I couldn’t. Her plain-speaking made it so obvious; Aidan was a handy man to have around, he played a part in my little business, he looked good on my arm. But he never made my heart skip a beat, I never once anticipated his visits as anything other than whether he could do something for me. What did I do for him, why did he spend so much time with me? I had no idea. It was as if our relationship was mutually convenient, a strange symbiosis existed with no recognition of what it was for.