“Do you want me to make an appointment with Miss Janeway?”
Mrs. Hall sniffed. “You might as well. She’s too tall to fit into Evie’s old things. Go on now,” she ordered Agnes, who gave my hand a squeeze before she left the room. “Tell Carrie she must be fit in immediately so as to have suitable clothing for her interview.”
My interview?
As Mrs. Hall looked back up at me, lorgnette poised on her long narrow nose, I took courage from Agnes’s hand squeeze.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m exactly the same height as my mother. She measured me on my birthday.” The thought that it had been the last birthday I’d ever spend with my mother sapped all the courage out of me and froze my throat.
Mrs. Hall lowered her lorgnette and stared at me. “Well, perhaps it is I who have shrunk. You look like a giant looming there. Sit down before I strain my neck looking up at you.”
She waved her lorgnette toward a footstool beside her feet. I sank down on it, next to the statue of the kneeling Moor whose eyes seemed to say, “Watch out or you’ll end up like me, frozen for all eternity at Medusa’s feet.” The notion that all the statues in the room were live creatures petrified by my grandmother’s glittering black gaze only increased my terror. What if I began raving about such notions to her? She’d think I belonged in the madhouse. Was that what the “interview” was for? Another insane asylum?
“Well,” Mrs. Hall said after she had examined me thoroughly. “You haven’t got Evie’s beauty, but perhaps that’s for the best. Have you had any education?”
I tried not to show that I minded being told I wasn’t as beautiful as my mother. Of course I knew that. Instead of my mother’s rich chestnut hair, mine was a paler, washed-out version. Instead of my mother’s emerald-green eyes, mine were a murky hazel that shifted between gray blue and olive green as if they couldn’t quite decide what color they wanted to be. Even the bones of my face were a little vague, lacking the sharpness of my mother’s classical profile. But at least my mother had bequeathed me something.
“My mother taught me Latin and Greek, and we read books together and talked about them. She had a subscription to the Astor Library even though we could ill afford it, and we spent our spare time reading there, or in the Seward and Hudson Park branches of the New York Public Library . . .” My voice trailed off as I recalled the strange books that my mother would ask for, often causing the librarians to stare. But I didn’t mention that to my grandmother.
“In the evenings while she trimmed hats I read aloud to her.” I recalled my mother’s slim white hands flitting deftly among the ribbons, beads, and feathers of her craft and felt a sudden pang when I realized that the box of her trimmings I’d kept after her death must be gone now. My landlady had no doubt sold it when she saw my name among the dead.
“But you’ve had no real schooling?”
“We moved too often for me to attend a regular school.”
“No doubt to keep your whereabouts a secret from me. It wasn’t until my detective saw your name listed among those who had died in the fire that I even knew you were in New York. Imagine, a granddaughter of mine working at a shirtwaist factory with common laborers!”
I bristled at this, thinking of Tillie and all the other girls I’d worked beside. “It was honest work,” I said, “and the other girls I worked with weren’t common at all. Some of them were quite extraordinary.”
Mrs. Hall jerked her chin back, surprised as I was at my outburst, but then a faint smile appeared on her face. “Ah, I see you’ve caught the reformist fever. Just like Evie! I only meant that I would never have willingly let my daughter and granddaughter live in poverty. Is that what your mother told you?”
“No, she never spoke of you at all,” I said quickly—too quickly to think what effect my words would have on her. I watched as the color leached out of her cheeks and her lips thinned. She looked shrunken, suddenly, and as lifeless as the carved Moor at her feet.
“Well,” she said at last, “well. I always did teach her that if one doesn’t have something pleasant to say, one shouldn’t say anything at all.” She laughed a dry, bitter laugh. “So Evangeline did heed my advice about something. Did she speak of her past at all?”
“She spoke very fondly of Blythewood,” I replied, wracking my brain for some shred of comfort I could offer up. I had always assumed that it had been my grandmother who had severed ties with my mother, not the other way around. I knew my mother could be sensitive—and proud. In recent years she’d become suspicious and fearful, and in the last few months of her life her eyes had taken on a hunted look. Perhaps the fault hadn’t all been on my grandmother’s side. And so I added, “I’m sure she was very grateful that you sent her there.”
Her face froze as if she were Medusa, and Perseus had just held up his shield to freeze her with her own reflection. In the silence that followed even the carved Moor seemed to shrink lower into his crouch, and the ormolu clock on the mantel seemed to miss a beat.
“If she had been truly grateful,” Mrs. Hall said at last, speaking through a clenched jaw, “she wouldn’t have disgraced me by leaving as she did.” She lifted her lorgnette, regarding me through its crystal lenses as if I were a rare species of insect. “Perhaps you shall do better there. But we shall speak of that later.”
She raised her gloved hand, palm out, as she had before, to forestall the questions bubbling up inside me. “Here’s Agnes, come to show you to your room. Let us hope you are right about being the same height as your mother so you’ll find something in her closet to wear—and let us hope it is the only trait you have in common with her.”
I left the drawing room feeling as though I had been drained of every ounce of vitality. Agnes steered me up the grand staircase and down a long hall lined with portraits of stern-looking men and women who glared at me with disapproval.
The room we entered woke me up. Unlike the dim and cluttered drawing room, this one was light and airy, its walls papered in a yellow floral print, the furniture and bedstead painted white, the windows lightly swathed in white lace and open to an interior courtyard with a pretty garden. A book lay open on the window seat as if its reader had just lately left the room. I picked it up and saw it was open to Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott,” my mother’s favorite poem.
“Mrs. Hall kept the room just as Evangeline left it,” Agnes said, picking up a framed photograph from a grouping of many on the desk.
I looked at the photographs. Girls in white shirtwaists, long dark skirts, and straw boaters frolicked around a maypole, wielded hockey sticks, drew bows, or posed like Greek statues in a garden, all of it like something out of Mrs. Moore’s girls’-school books. I picked out my mother because she was the tallest in every group, but I wouldn’t have recognized her carefree expression otherwise. In one she stood arm in arm with a blonde girl below an arched doorway engraved with the words “Blythewood Academy—Tintinna vere, specta alte.”
Ring true, aim high. It was Blythewood’s motto, which my mother had often quoted to me.
I noticed a box sitting atop the dresser. Looking into it, I saw it contained books, ribbons, a blue-and-white willow-pattern teacup, an untrimmed straw hat, feathers—a long black feather among them—and a familiar-looking green bottle.
“I got your address from the Triangle Company and went to your lodgings,” Agnes said. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of collecting your . . . things. Some of them looked like mementos of your mother. I thought you’d want them.”
I held up the green bottle. It looked wrong in this yellow-and-white room. How had the girl who grew up here ever ended up as the woman who drank from it?
I looked around the room. A pink-and-gray pennant hung above the bed. A bow and quiver of arrows leaned against the bureau. Bronze trophies for archery, Latin, falconry, and “bell ringing” lined the bookshelves. Everything in the room referred somehow to
Blythewood.
“Mrs. Hall mentioned an interview,” I said, almost too afraid to ask the question. “Did she mean . . . ?”
“An interview for Blythewood,” Agnes replied. “Now that you’re sixteen you’re just the right age. The interview is in three days. You’d better get some rest. The next few days are going to be trying. We have a lot of work to do to get you ready.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief that the interview wasn’t for an insane asylum, but then, looking at the pictures of happy, smiling girls, I wondered if the gulf between them and me wasn’t even wider than the one between the girl who had grown up here and the woman who’d died drinking laudanum. A gulf far too wide to bridge in three days.
5
AGNES WAS RIGHT about the next few days being trying. I felt as if I were trying out for a part—and one I wasn’t even sure I wanted. It had always been my dream to go to my mother’s alma mater, but without her here to see me realize that dream, going there seemed cruelly ironic. And while the pictures of frolicking girls certainly made the place look like fun, when I studied those girls—as I did closely for the next few days—I saw the cosseted daughters of wealthy families. It wasn’t their dress, which seemed to be some sort of uniform, but their carefree expressions. Even though Agnes assured me that Blythewood was a finishing school for girls ages sixteen to nineteen, the girls in the pictures looked younger to me. I couldn’t imagine any of these girls working in a factory or delivering a hat by the back door or explaining to the landlady that the rent was late again. How would I, with my work-coarsened hands and haphazard schooling, ever hope to fit in?
Even at the dressmakers’ I felt as though I were being measured for more than a wardrobe. Miss Janeway’s establishment was a small first-floor shop off of Stuyvesant Square with elaborately feathered hats displayed on wire forms in the window, and white paneled cabinets, mirrors, and robin’s-egg-blue hangings and carpet in the discreet showroom. I could hear the hum of sewing machines and women’s voices coming from a workroom in the basement, a sound so familiar from my days at the Triangle Waist Company that I felt a pang for those lost girls.
But this was a very different sort of place from the Triangle. It was exactly the kind of smart establishment my mother sometimes dreamed of running, but I was surprised that Mrs. Hall didn’t patronize one of the more glamorous French dressmakers.
“All the Blythewood women use Miss Janeway,” Agnes explained in a whisper as a shop girl escorted us into the dressing room. “Caroline Janeway went to Blythewood on a scholarship, as I did, and she still practices the old ways—at least when it comes to clothes,” she added, her lips quirking.
The old ways again. What did that mean in a dress shop? I wondered. Was I going to be outfitted in leg-o’-mutton sleeves and stiff crinolines? I was expecting an antiquated fossil, but Miss Janeway turned out to be quite young and pretty. She wore a crisp white smock, a slim gray skirt, and a red beret pinned jauntily over her smooth dark hair. When Agnes introduced me to her, Miss Janeway held out her hand and shook mine briskly, then folded it in both of hers.
“I was very sorry to hear about your mother, Miss Hall. Evangeline was a legend at Blythewood. I’ll make you a dress to do her proud—I think a French blue tea dress with white lace trim for the interview, don’t you, Agnes?” She snapped her fingers and a shopgirl appeared with a little gold notepad affixed to a chain around her neck, identical to the one that hung from Miss Janeway’s neck.
“Mabel, check that we have enough of the white feather-patterned lace and the French blue serge. I heard you worked at the Triangle Waist Company, Miss Hall,” she added, as though it were an afterthought.
“I did,” I said, holding my chin up, determined not to be embarrassed. “I was a sleeve fitter.”
“A difficult job,” Miss Janeway said, making a note in her little book and turning to Agnes. “Shall we also make three Blythewood skirts and matching shirtwaists with the Bell and Feather?”
“Leave off the Bell and Feather for now,” Agnes said.
“Of course, we can add the insignia in a trice. You know, Miss Hall, I worked as a seamstress in a factory before I went to Blythewood,” she said, leading me toward a raised platform in front of a set of triple mirrors and unceremoniously helping me strip off my dress down to my loose cotton chemise.
“Really?” I asked, encouraged that someone from my own background had made the transformation to Blythewood.
“Yes,” she replied, a smile quirking her lips. “Not all of us Blythewood girls come from the four hundred. I remember only too well the dreadful conditions in the factory, the long hours with no breaks, the stifling heat, the humiliating searches at the end of the day. When I think of those poor girls locked in, unable to escape the fire, forced to jump from the windows . . . Well, it makes me so angry I could spit! And how many women among us are forced every day to make such horrible choices? Without the power to determine our own fates we are like those poor girls, choosing between fire and the street, which is really no choice at all, now is it?” She looked up at me and I realized she was waiting for an answer.
“I thought the same thing,” I said softly, my voice quavering, “when I saw the girls jumping . . . that they were like butterflies trapped between panes of glass.”
“Exactly, Miss Hall,” she said with shining eyes, “butterflies trapped between panes of glass. I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s high time we broke that glass, don’t you think?” Then she turned to Agnes. “You’re right, Aggie, she has the fire in her. She’ll make a fine Blythewood girl. Maybe she’ll shake things up a bit there. The bells know the old place needs it.” She snapped her fingers and another shopgirl appeared with a measuring tape and began taking my measurements.
“You’ll scare Ava with your radical talk, Carrie,” Agnes said. “She hasn’t even gotten through her interview yet.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Janeway said briskly. “A girl who’s survived the Triangle fire won’t scare easily. And it’s time things changed. If we continue adhering to the old ways simply because of tradition we will end up preserved like old Euphorbia Frost’s specimens behind glass, as Miss Hall has so aptly put it.”
I started to object that I hadn’t been talking about Blythewood, but Agnes was heatedly replying. I had a feeling that this was an argument that the two women had had before.
“You know I want the same things you do, Carrie, but I believe we have to work from the inside. These things take time. Violent measures will not win our cause. We must be patient.”
Were they talking about the vote for women? I’d heard such debates between Tillie’s friends, some advocating the rock-throwing violent measures that the British suffragettes had adopted, others maintaining that peaceful, decorous protest was the best way to persuade the men in power to give women the vote.
“How can we be patient when so much is at stake?” Miss Janeway objected. “Have you heard about—”
Glancing down I intercepted Agnes giving Miss Janeway a warning glance. “Perhaps we should discuss this later,” she said, sliding her eyes from Miss Janeway back to me.
“Of course,” Miss Janeway said, “you’re right as always, Aggie. Now, what do you think about an archer’s costume?”
“But I don’t know how to shoot arrows!” I pointed out, distracted from their argument by the idea that I might be expected to shoot arrows at my interview.
“You’ll learn, my dear,” Miss Janeway said, snatching the tape measure away from her assistant and stretching it across my back. “You’ve got the shoulders for it and”—she stretched out my right arm to the side—“the arms.” Leaving my arm extended midair she pulled back my left shoulder with one hand and turned my chin to the right. “There! You have the natural stance of an archer.”
Out of the corner of my eye I stole a look at myself in the triple mirror. Three Avaline Halls drew three invisible bows. In
my loose white chemise I looked like the statue of Diana in my grandmother’s foyer. I looked, I dared think for a moment, like a Blythewood girl. I could see from the expressions on Agnes’s and Miss Janeway’s faces that they thought the same. All their disagreements seemed to vanish, replaced by fond memories of their school days.
I began to turn to them to share Agnes’s triumphant smile, but a movement in the mirror drew my attention back to its reflective surface. A blur of wings, as of a black bird flying through the dressing room, passed over each of the three panes and then vanished. I whirled around, nearly knocking over the shopgirl still taking my measurements, to see where the bird had gone.
The only feathered creature in the dressing room was Agnes’s plumed hat, which bobbed as she bent over a pattern book with Miss Janeway. But that feather was white. The black bird had been as much an illusion as the image of myself as brave hunter and Blythewood girl.
Before we left her establishment, Miss Janeway and Agnes slipped into “the office” to settle the bill and, I suspected, finish in private whatever they’d been arguing about earlier. Perhaps they were discussing my chances of getting into Blythewood with such a checkered past. Even if Caroline Janeway had also been a factory girl, she probably didn’t have a mother who drank laudanum.
We went from Miss Janeway’s to Ladies’ Mile, where we ordered a puzzling assortment of items, including a bow and quiver and set of arrows, a falconer’s glove, and a hand bell. Many of the establishments we visited seemed to be owned by Blythewood alumnae, but Agnes was careful to squelch any conversation concerning old ways in my presence and contrived to have a private word with each of the Blythewood women before we left.