Page 25 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

The Colour Emporium, despite its unlikely foundations, became an overnight success. We’d never be able to use second-hand gowns again, we’d certainly get found out and lose our Fifth Avenue clientele, but it had given us the springboard for creating a different kind of homewares, that made us unusual and set us apart from the slightly stuffy and musty colours currently in fashion. Flavia took on the job of sourcing and designing full-time, we found a shop manager and lengthened the lease.

Dress commissions were running at full steam, new hand-sewers and seamstresses were employed, we started working with a new outsourced embroidery company. I had two designs to work on for the upcoming fashion fête in November.

My recently re-found creative mania suddenly focussed itself on the idea of protest. I wanted to object to the fact that a woman couldn’t hold a bank account without a male signatory or take out a line of credit. I wanted to oppose the fact that we were treated in the same manner as so-called criminals and imbeciles who were also denied the right to vote. As a woman who ran her own business and had to pay taxes shouldn’t I have the right to choose whether I agreed with them or not?

What better place to protest than at the Fashion Fête in five weeks’ time, creating a dress full of subversion. It would be a statement of rebellion and a banner of defiance, a white evening gown of sumptuous fabric but full of so much detail that admirers would need to look at it closely. And when they did they would see the insurgence, they would see my message of insurrection. They would see that I was making a statement for women’s suffrage.

But I needed to do this in secrecy. The Fashion Fête was being organised in aid of the war, it was about giving a boost to the American garment industry, making those women who would only consider French designers aware of the wealth of design and dressmaking talent in America. The press would be present along with virtually every well-known society woman within a hundred miles of Manhattan. It was an ideal moment to promote our work. It would not be seen as the time to hijack the cause and inject it with an atmosphere of protest.

There was a jury of imposing women, including Mrs William K Vanderbilt Jr, whose job it was to accept or politely reject suitable models of clothes. If I showed them my finished design they would, without a doubt, reject it. To ensure my gown would pass the inspection of these indomitable women I had to leave the subversive embroidery and beading until after the jury inspection, which would only give me a month to finish it. I didn’t tell anyone, not even Oti, what I was doing.

‘Have you seen this?’ Oti asked, bursting into my office the day after the fashion parade, brandishing a newspaper.

‘No, I decided to avoid the papers today,’ I replied, looking up from my sketches.

Oti rolled her eyes at me as she sat in the chair opposite my desk, sighing. ‘I’ll just read the bit that matters:

‘ As the model took to the floor the guests were trying to peer more closely at the detail of the dress. A white silk wrap skirt with a wide opening to show a pale-purple underskirt with a gold silk partial overskirt and a white chiffon shirt with a deep v at the front and short sleeves studded with purple beads covering a pale-purple under-bodice. The high waist was embroidered with purple beading to look like a cummerbund and a gold flower with a white centre at the waist. On close inspection, the white silk satin bow at the back had wide tails with the bold purple wording “Votes for Women” written down the length of each tail.

‘ With the model continuing to walk through the tables, murmurs began to spread until, at the model’s final turn, a large banner dropped from the ceiling and hung in the middle of the room. A highly decorated, beautifully embellished piece of needlework ran the same slogan “Votes for Women” as well as being adorned with feminine images of love, flowers, and those of historic women of influence such as Boadicea and Florence Nightingale.

‘ There was an audible gasp and some women left the room. The model was hurriedly whisked away and the orchestra was asked to strike up some rousing music.

‘ The dress, designed by Maison McIntyre, has already become known as “The Dress”. ’

‘The press exaggerating so they can sell more papers. There were no gasps, just a few murmurs of disapproval, nothing to get excited about.’

‘So much for you being all charitable and big-hearted. What happened to you wanting to look your sister in the eye?’

‘The women who went to that fashion parade paid good money, money that will help those poor orphaned children. And, thank you for asking, Miss Otella Jackson, haven’t I secured jobs for our women and some more? Won’t we be needing to hire new seamstresses as soon as possible? In fact, I believe the telephone has been ringing all morning. Don’t tell me that’s concerned friends just checking up to see if we are all well.’ I twiddled with the pencil in my hand as if it was a high school girl’s baton.

‘You make me so mad when you’re right,’ Oti said, laughter in her voice. ‘All right, we’ve already had ten enquiries this morning. It seems you’ve all too quickly become known as the Suffrage Designer and they’re queuing up to have a Maison McIntyre dress.’

I smiled. ‘What would Mrs Marshall say?’