Page 23 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

1914

Aidan was right in one respect. Finding a financial backer was difficult. I visited at least fourteen banks, all of whom turned me down merely for being a woman. I couldn’t possibly be responsible for owning a building, running my own business and employing many staff. But the fifteenth banker, a Mr T J Capriani, welcomed me into his office and took me seriously. He loaned me all the money I required at a good rate, acting as my guarantor. He treated me exactly as if I was a man and never once considered I couldn’t do what I was setting out to do.

Mr Capriani was from an Italian immigrant family and set up a bank which served the many immigrants who couldn’t get loans from other American banks. Of course, in New York, he was a busy man, serving the many Italians, Russians, Poles, Irish and British. A short, rotund man, with a bald head and round glasses, he was a jolly, reassuring presence for all those customers who were nervous that they wouldn’t be given access to money. He was a fastidious dresser with a neatly waxed moustache, a deeply lined forehead and a shiny face, sitting behind a mahogany desk that was too big for his stature, always courteous and respectful. I may not have been his first woman customer, but I believe I might have been his most profitable one.

May 12th, 1914, I sat across the desk from Mr Capriani in his tiny and overcrowded office. He always sweated a little too much when he was excited, wiping his face with his pristine white-cotton handkerchief. Just as I signed the document he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out a small bottle and two tiny glasses.

‘A little limoncello. To celebrate your future, Miss McIntyre, and that of Maison McIntyre.’ He handed me my glass and held his own up towards me. ‘Let’s hope this is the first of many beneficial investments.’

He took a sip and put his glass down and wiped his face again, more sweat beading on his forehead. ‘As a banker I am not supposed to feel any emotion about my transactions. But every now and again I get a sense that I am doing something good, something that is going to matter. And I have one of those feelings today. You’re not just about making clothes for important ladies, Miss McIntyre. I think, perhaps, that there is a bit more to the eye than we’re able to see. I look forward to finding out what that is.’ And with that he downed the contents of his glass, handed me the deeds to 130 MacDougal Street and ushered me out of his office with a grand bow and a flourish.

At twenty-four I owned a whole building: a studio, salon, two floors of sewing and cutting space, a basement for storage and an apartment all to myself, I now employed fourteen women and needed to find more, the orders were backing up. I was a woman who had no family money, no husband to hold the trapeze artist’s net. Five years previously I had lived in a tenement in Edinburgh with no prospects other than a lifetime of colourless grind.

Standing outside Mr Capriani’s office on East Houston Street I couldn’t move, stunned by my achievement. Suddenly I craved my sister’s company. I wanted to be back in the bed that we’d shared, telling our whispered dreams to each other before we fell asleep, Netta wistfully murmuring her craving for thick gravy on a hot roast dinner, peppermint creams and somewhere she could warm herself by a roaring fire. She’d curl my hair around her index finger, willing my straight locks into a hopeful and elegant twist as she told me of her dreams of working in an office as a clerk or as a companion to one of Edinburgh’s old ladies, I’d tell her of the luxurious gowns I would make, the sumptuous fabrics, the complicated embroidery, the frivolous feathers and unnecessary fur trimmings, we’d laugh about the ladies I would dress, the great houses they lived in, the ostentatious carriages they rode in. Now all I wanted to do was let her know I’d done it, I wanted to send her a cable: MAISIE McINTYRE STOP BUSINESS OWNER STOP. But it wasn’t worth it. Despite my sending the occasional letter, offering to send money to help out or presents for her girls, she’d never replied, most likely still furious with me for leaving. I knew I needed to work harder to win back my sister, but sending a triumphant cable wouldn’t do the trick.

However, I needed company. I needed to celebrate my triumph. Aidan was keeping to himself, regrouping after the devastation of his pal Joe Fitzwarren’s engagement, licking his wounds after my rejection. Rosa would have understood how to mark the occasion. We’d have had the whole family around her tiny kitchen table, there would have been a cramped, noisy dinner with comforting food and enticing smells. There’d have been a warm sisterly hug, sensible advice mixed in with enthusiastic declarations. I touched my tortoiseshell necklace, pressing my thumb against one of the teeth of the broken comb, pressing as hard as I could to remove that absence, like sewing up a tear in a fabric that no one sees.

Suddenly I realised who I wanted to be with.

Across the road was a delicatessen Yulia had introduced me to, full of every kind of Jewish food imaginable. I have never been a good cook. As soon as I discovered places like this I had resolved never to attempt to cook again.

I ran in and ordered rye bread and bagels, hot pastrami and corned beef, potato salad, egg salad, chopped liver and mustard. The store was loud, people shouting their orders, food hurriedly being packed in paper bags. I ordered more food than I’d ever ordered before, round knishes and square knishes, pickles and sauerkraut, matzoh ball soup and my favourite, chicken noodle soup, emptying my purse to cover the cost.

With an armful of food-filled paper bags and all thoughts of Rosa, Aidan and Netta pushed to the back of my mind, I strode out of the delicatessen and found a taxi cab to take me to MacDougal Street.

‘We’re finishing early today. We’re stopping for dinner. We have something to celebrate.’ Breathlessly I put my parcels in the kitchen.

Everyone was tired. We seemed to have been working endlessly to fulfil the last of the summer orders and we were already gearing up for the August show. There had been no let-up, there had been no time to stop since that evening of our first fashion parade the previous year.

‘This entire building now belongs to Maison McIntyre,’ I announced triumphantly. ‘We’re going to expand into the other parts of the building, take on more staff and if things go well, maybe we’ll open a shop on Fifth Avenue.’ This idea had just appeared as I said it, spur of the moment.

There was a general murmur of surprise and, once all the fabrics and garments were safely put away, Oti and I dragged one of the large sewing tables into the salon and set out the food. Simone and Rebecca brought in chairs, along with glasses and cups. Makeshift plates were made from the paper bags and others used the pails that they’d brought their lunch in. With hardly any effort, the room was transformed into a scene of a great, noisy feast, that loud family dinner I’d been so longing for, the food softening everyone’s fatigue. Soon there were passionate but friendly arguments, the laughter becoming boisterous, even quiet Anna could be seen giggling at some of Oti’s more riotous jokes, Yulia managing to find yet another family story to keep the laughter on tap, and Josephine, one of our new seamstresses, entertaining us by juggling the knishes, slowly popping one into her mouth until they were all gone. Flavia had rushed home whilst we were setting up and had arrived back, breathless, with one of her polenta cakes. Just as the cake had been passed around, I stood up with my glass of water.

‘Here’s to Maison McIntyre and all of you who work here. I may have just bought the building, but it would be an empty shell without you. This is a business which caters for the needs of women. Because of that I need women to help me run it, women who understand how our customers think. You are those women. Men may dismiss our business as frivolous and unimportant, they may say we’re not an industry that matters, that we’re not an industry at all. I suggest we show them otherwise.’

I raised my glass and we toasted 130 MacDougal Street. We cheered all that we had achieved, our little collective, every woman in that room with their own individual talent, be it Oti’s organisational skills or Rebecca’s tailoring, Yulia’s ability to keep our spirits up when hard deadlines loomed, or Flavia’s flourishing flair with colour. Together these women transformed my designs from sketches to reality, working together with so much goodwill and unity. They had created something rare, a place where skill mattered more than background.

As the afternoon wore on and our voices became louder, our cheeks a little rosy, our stories a bit more boisterous, we missed the knock at the main door to the studio, we failed to notice Julia Marshall slip into the salon, until suddenly there she was, standing in front of the fire, her face full of bewilderment, her mouth slightly open, those dark eyes turned pale.

Seeing the shock on her face, I was suddenly able to see the room with her eyes. Black skin, scarred faces, uninhibited laughter, and unusual accents.

Getting up from my seat, I hurried over to her, standing between her and the table.

‘Mrs Marshall. What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow morning. Is everything all right?’ I caught her elbow and tried to turn her back towards the door. Her eyes were darting from side to side, wide and alert, her face pale, her breathing irregular. It was as if she was a wild animal caught in a cage.

‘Well, I was just…’ Her voice faded out as she pulled her arm away from me, looking over my shoulder, looking at my table of unconventional women.

‘Who are they?’ she whispered. ‘Have you turned your salon over to some sort of Lower East Side soup kitchen?’ She let out a half giggle, half sob.

I held her gaze. ‘These are the women who work in my studio, my seamstresses, my Premier, my finishers.’ I battled to keep my voice calm and soft, as if I was explaining to a child. But as I spoke something shifted in me, a crack in my chest, and a feeling of recklessness stabbed at me. Grabbing her wrist I said, ‘Come, why don’t I introduce them to you?’ I turned her to face the room. ‘I’ve kept them hidden from you for so long, I should have introduced you months ago. How remiss of me.’ There was a false jollity to my voice as I pulled her towards the table, pulled her towards the silent, wide-eyed women.

All too quickly she jerked her arm away from me. ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly. I couldn’t possibly interrupt your…’ I could see she was struggling for the right words as she turned her back on the table. ‘Is this a party?’ she whispered, shrinking back from me, a look of disgust on her face.

Now I couldn’t control the anger as it coursed through me. I took her wrist again and spun her around to face the girls.

‘Yes, we are celebrating. Let me introduce you,’ I said too loudly.

Oti, Simone and Rebecca froze, stunned into silence, watching me with widening eyes. Anna, Flavia and Yulia and the others were all looking down at their plates, cheeks red, fists balled together on their laps.

‘No!’ Mrs Marshall gasped, recoiling, staggering back towards the door.

We all stared at this woman, who had helped make our business, who had grown in stature over the last four years, who now seemed to shrink under our collective scrutiny. As we watched the shrivelling of Mrs Marshall, I could hear the bell of a fire engine, the hum of automobiles, the clip-clop of horses, a laugh, a baby’s cry, a street vendor’s shout to get rid of his final items of the day. These familiar noises appeared to bear down on our visitor until she was unable to tolerate it any longer.

She gathered herself, pulling herself upright, holding her bag with both hands in front of her. ‘I can see I’m intruding.’ She turned, suddenly looking down at her bag. ‘I’ll come tomorrow as arranged, as I should have done all along.’ And with that she fled the room, her colour high, her hands shaking as she twisted the handle of the door.

The door slammed shut, we listened to her quick footsteps running down the stairs. We all looked at each other, no one daring to say a thing. Finally, Oti leaned back in her chair and let out a long, loud sigh, the air pushing her lips outwards, her whole body appearing to sag. Not knowing what to say I started to stack the empty plates, scraping any leftovers into an empty bowl, needing something to occupy my stunned mind. But as the bowl filled, I threw the knife I’d been using onto the table, a loud crash filling the silence.

‘To hell with her,’ I shouted, a sudden giddiness coming over me.

Oti crossed the room and took my arm. ‘Maisie,’ she hissed at me, steering me towards the studio, ‘you know why we work the way we do. This isn’t about you.’ She closed the door behind us, her voice now a rigid growl. ‘We all made choices about how to survive in this city. Don’t throw that away because you’re angry.’

I ignored her. ‘If we’re going to expand, if we’re going to employ enough staff to fill up all the rooms in this building, if we’re going to bring in enough orders to make that happen, I’d need to have you out there meeting the customers, taking the orders, maybe Rebecca and Simone too. I can’t keep you hidden away forever, it’s not fair on any of you. It’s also not fair on our customers.’

Oti sat down hard on the last chair left in the room, putting her head in her hands. ‘You’re either a damn fool or braver than I ever took you for. Don’t you know this town thrives on lies and falsehoods. Difficult to get along without them. We all spend our time hiding from someone. Why should you be any different?’

I could hear the others shuffling around in the salon, chairs scraping back, an embarrassed murmuring, perhaps packing up their bags getting ready to go home.

I put down the bowl I was still holding, full of the debris from the table. ‘Shouldn’t we be honest for once?’

A sound escaped Oti’s throat, sharp as broken glass. ‘When did you start being honest? Being honest hasn’t done you any good. Haven’t you learned that already? You’ve been spending too much time in those genteel ladies’ drawing rooms, thinking they’re respectable and sincere in everything they say. They’re no better than you are, and they’d be the first to turn on you and take away their business if they thought you’d damage their reputation.’ She sighed. ‘Black girls are going to damage your reputation, therefore being associated with you will damage Mrs Marshall’s reputation. It’s a miracle we haven’t been found out before.’

Oti infuriated me when she was so right, but I couldn’t argue with her. I knew the moment Mrs Marshall stepped into the room that evening that we were in trouble. I’d been living on a knife edge for the past two years, shutting the door to the studio whenever a customer walked into the salon, always taking the measurements myself, never delegating the front of house jobs. I was Maison McIntyre, but Oti was my Premier and should have been the one taking the orders, measuring up, discussing the finer details. But I’d never allowed it because I feared how our customers would react to Oti and the others, scared that all my hard work would come to nothing as my customers vanished.

But as I considered what might happen, I found that my fierce loyalty to every single one of those women working in my studio outstripped any unease, a ferocious determination to protect them surged up inside me. I clenched my teeth and stood up.

‘I no longer care what Mrs Marshall thinks.’