by Maya Rodale
“Do you have it with you?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll do it right now.”
Theo paused at the shocking proposal. When had he become so propriety-minded? Women didn’t wear cosmetics and they certainly did not apply them in public, especially the middle of the Fifth Avenue Hotel lobby. It wasn’t done and he wanted to stop her from ruining her career on stage over some lip paint. She had so much promise; she had worked so hard.
“Annabelle—”
“I know my own mind, Theo. I don’t know if it will help you for the likes of me to be seen applying lip paint, but I can guarantee that it will get people talking about it. At the very least, the theatrical people might start using it.”
“Talking about it is all we need.”
Daisy had explained her idea to him. If they could just harness the power of women—their connections, their conversations, their ladies’ pages in the newspapers, then everyone they wished to appeal to would start talking about it. And so here was Theo with Annabelle Jones, whose forthcoming stunt might make an appearance in the gossip columns. Daisy and Harriet would prevail upon their newspaper reporter friends to include favorable mentions of it in the ladies’ pages they wrote and edited for.
It was entirely possible that Theodore Prescott the Second would never hear of it.
Because ladies’ stuff was beneath him.
While Theodore Prescott the Second could shut down a store, he had no say in the manner in which Miss Harriet Burnett used the mailing address of her privately owned town house. They could run the Dr. Swan mail-order business from her kitchen table and there was really nothing Prescott Senior could do to stop it.
There was a way forward.
It depended entirely upon women.
Women like Annabelle Jones, ready to put her lips on the line for him, his lady, his love.
He handed her the little pot of lip paint he brought for the occasion.
“Compliments of Dr. Swan herself,” he said, sliding it across the white tablecloth.
The outside was lavender paper. Inside, the color was red.
But red was so insufficient a word to describe this hue Daisy had created. When Theo looked at this shade of fierce crimson, of hot vermillion, he thought full-scale rebellion. He thought last night’s scandal. It was a thoroughly unapologetic, take-no-prisoners shade of red.
It was shocking. Scandalous. Sensational. Downright revolutionary.
The ones they had first experimented with were pale pink—light, sweet, verging-on-innocent pink. They were sorry for being daring; they were politely inquiring for an opportunity to go out discreetly, during daylight, with a chaperone. If a traditional, respectable matron was going to wear a lip color it might, one day, be that shade of maybe pink.
But perhaps he hadn’t understood the who and the what and the why he and Daisy were attempting. The woman who was going to take a chance on wearing color on her lips in this day and age was not some high-status, proper matron. It was a woman who wasn’t afraid to flirt with scandal, break the rules, or be the subject of conversation. The woman who would take a chance on this had nothing to lose and everything to gain. This was a red for women who wanted more from the world and fearlessly reached out for it—no matter the cost.
Theo watched in shock and in awe as Annabelle held up a small silver tray on the table—polished to a high shine—and in that murky reflection, she brazenly applied the lipstick to her lips. She pressed them together. Puckered her lips. Blotted them on a linen napkin.
Theo was aware of a hush stealing over the room. His back was to everyone in the room but that silence told him everything he needed to know without turning around to look.
She applied Dr. Swan’s Lip Paint in full view of everyone in the restaurant.
Which is to say she had, essentially, performed this scandalous act in full view of everyone in New York. Theo had hoped she might mention it in a newspaper interview or maybe convince the theater to use it. This dramatic display left him speechless.
“How do I look?”
Beautiful wasn’t the right word. Pretty wasn’t, either. Theo didn’t know if he liked what he saw or not. He only knew that he couldn’t look away from her full, red lips. She looked arresting.
“Who knew such a little pop of color on a woman’s lips could cause such an uproar,” Theo mused.
“Oh, it’s not just a pop of color.”
“What is it, then?”
Annabelle smiled as she pocketed the container of lip paint. “It’s the suggestion of pride in one’s appearance. It’s a suggestion that a woman believes she is worthy of adornment and feeling beautiful and put-together. It’s the suggestion of money of her own, probably that she earned. It’s not just lip paint. It is a declaration that a woman is not content with what God gave her and she believes that she can do better. It’s a command to look at her mouth and listen to what she has to say. And that is why it’s so shocking.”
There was another skirmish among ladies today, this time at Delmonico’s . . .
—The New York Post
Meanwhile, at Delmonico’s . . .
Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Sixth Street
On Wednesdays the ladies went to protest. On this particular Wednesday, the Ladies of Liberty had conspired to protest the pesky rule that women were not allowed to dine in restaurants without a male chaperone.
Ladies could not dine alone. It simply was not done.
Not without questions being asked about their virtue.
And what could a woman do without her good name and impeccable reputation? Nothing good. Nothing decent. Or so it was understood. Because once the lines were blurred between Angels of the House and Fallen Women, how would one make sense of the world?
What if Fallen Women took up residence at home and what if Angels took the world by storm? The world would surely go upside down and topsy-turvy. But perhaps that wasn’t the worst thing.
Harriet, Daisy, and their fellow club women were of the opinion that a woman ought to be able to dine in a restaurant all alone if she wished it, with no repercussions. A woman ought to be able to satiate her appetite, alone, in public, if she wished it. They were of the firmly held conviction that a woman was entitled to life, liberty, and happily-ever-after . . . however she defined it for herself.
Lunches out on the town, included.
“Remind me again why we are doing this?” Elizabeth asked the select group of women who had donned their finest and gone to Delmonico’s at midday. They gathered outside the doors, waiting for everyone to arrive. It was important that they present a united front when they crossed the threshold. “It’s just lunch, isn’t it? Are we really putting our reputations on the line for a midday meal?”
“It is not just lunch,” Harriet reminded her. “To forbid women to dine without a man present is to convey that a woman is insignificant and hardly has a right to exist without a man.”
“It sends a clear message that women ought to stay home, out of sight and out of mind,” Ava said.
“Well, I for one am ready to do this. If only because I’m famished,” Miss Archer said to the laughter of the group.
Once ready, Harriet pulled open the heavy doors. They descended upon Delmonico’s, dressed in their finest and most fashionable attire. To their smartly tailored day dresses they added statement furs, tasteful brooches, and hats, of course. One could not make a statement with one’s appearance without a choice bit of millinery upon one’s head.
They were the very image of respectable, well-to-do women. The epitome of Proper Ladyhood.
They were immediately confronted with the first adversary: Pierre, the maître d’. He was a distinguished-looking man of middle age who took no small enjoyment from the power he wielded by virtue of his position at the fine dining establishment to the Four Hundred.
Since its founding decades earlier, Delmonico’s had been steadily moving to locations farther and farther uptown, as the fashionable fortunes had done.
It brought its prestigious reputation with it. Pierre had been there every step of the way.
He stood at the entrance ready to decide who was privileged enough to enter the private, exclusive sanctuary that was the dining room—and who was not. Pierre lived and breathed to enforce the standards and had no trouble saying no when the situation called for it. He had once blocked a Rockefeller from entering because he lacked an appropriate necktie. A Rockefeller. He answered to no one and observed the rules of the establishment like they were the Ten Commandments, and God and Moses themselves were watching over his shoulder.
He was there when Harriet and her phalanx of ladies arrived.
“Good afternoon.” He nodded politely at the group of women while scanning their ranks, no doubt looking for a man in their midst. “How may I help you, ladies?”
It was Harriet who spoke for the group. “We are here for lunch. We would like a table. There are ten of us.”
Pierre treated all ten of them to a very apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. But we only seat complete parties.”
Harriet smiled back at him. “As you can see, we are all present. All ten of us.”
But Pierre was not fazed. “Are you certain no one else will be joining your party?”
“I should think we have enough,” Harriet replied with a firm smile. She gestured to her companions. “As you can see, we are a large party.”
“I would think at least one more would be necessary to join your party,” Pierre replied coolly. In other words, would a man be appearing to dine with them and lend some veneer of respectability to this spectacle?
“Our party is complete,” Harriet said firmly. Behind her, the Ladies of Liberty stood firm. Daisy knew her heart was beating hard in her chest. She fully believed in their cause but there was nothing like a confrontation to get a girl’s heart racing. “We are perfectly suitable, just as we are.”
“I’m very sorry, madame, but it is our policy that women must be accompanied by a man in order to enter our dining room.” Pierre did not appear to be in the slightest bit sorry. In fact, Daisy had the distinct impression that he thrived on moments like this when he could assert the authority of his position.
“And why is that?” Harriet inquired. Politely.
“Delmonico’s has strict standards and rules. I am simply here to ensure they are maintained.”
In other words, he was just a man. In a position of authority. What could he possibly do to change the ways of the world?
“Are you saying that Mrs. Johnson does not meet your standards?” Harriet inquired. Mrs. Johnson was married to a prominent preacher at one of the city’s larger congregations.
Pierre’s smile faltered.
“Or is Mrs. Collins not suitable?” She was married to a wealthy philanthropist who had recently made headlines for his sizable donation to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“My apologies. I did not recognize madame without her husband.” Pierre paused to appear mournful. “I’m sorry that I cannot allow a group of women—respectable and esteemed as you all are—to dine without the presence of a male chaperone. It is only to protect the reputation of good women such as yourselves.”
So now it was a favor to the ladies. He was only helping them not make a silly little life-altering mistake. The Ladies of Liberty erupted in disgruntled chatter.
And Harriet persisted with her questions. Good, honest questions.
“Do tell, good sir, what is occurring in your establishment that ladies will need male protection from?”
“We are a fine-dining establishment. There is nothing untoward occurring.”
“It is more often the case that women need protection from men, not the protection of men,” Miss Archer remarked.
“Or is it to protect the men from the women?” Miss Lumley quipped.
“Oh, yes, the mere presence of women might upset men’s delicate constitutions and ruin their appetites,” Mrs. Collins said.
A group of men arrived now, in their suits and clouds of smoke and masculine voices and expectations for a table, immediately, to satisfy their manly appetites. They were confronted by a swarm of well-dressed, rebellious ladies.
“What is this?”
“We don’t have all day.”
“Ladies, please,” Pierre replied. “I need to seat the gentlemen.”
But the Ladies of Liberty stood firm.
They were here for lunch. Should they not be accommodated they would cause a scene instead. This was becoming clear to Pierre. His battle was lost either way.
“We are merely trying to understand why we may not patronize your establishment,” Harriet said. “As you can see we are respectable women who merely wish to have lunch.”
She dared him—dared him!—to declare that they were not respectable. She dared him to say out loud in actual words that a woman could not join the dining service. That a group of respectable matrons together could not embark on a decorous luncheon.
“What is this?” a man’s voice called out. “We have a reservation.”
The gentlemen now waiting were grumbling. Loudly.
The ladies were already ruining their lunch.
Just then another group of women arrived. Jennie Jones and a cohort of lady reporters for the various papers all burst in, breathless, with their reporters’ notebooks and pencils in hand.
“Sorry we’re late. Did we miss it? There was a fire downtown and a murder uptown. Quite a morning in the city.”
“Not yet,” Daisy replied. “We are on the verge of storming the dining room. And then the real show will begin.”
“Phew. We all rushed from other stories to get here in time. Something is always happening in Manhattan.”
Something was always happening and people here were always in a rush and nothing, nothing, was more important or valuable than one’s time. Especially a businessman of the sort who lunched at Delmonico’s.
Finally, a consensus emerged. “Oh, for God’s sake, just seat the ladies, Pierre!”
Finally, they were seated at a large round table, cheeks flushed with success and raising a glass to their determination. Their orders were placed—for Delmonico’s steaks, especially. Disrupting the status quo did give one an appetite.
And then in small groups they excused themselves to visit the ladies’ retiring room, from which they emerged with their lips painted red. Bright, unapologetic, shockingly red.
Each woman wore Dr. Swan’s newest product—privately manufactured, not yet available for purchase—a lip paint in the shade of Rebellious Red. They were wives of clergy and philanthropists and robber barons. They were daughters of politicians and financiers. They were independent women of rank and respect. And each one of them was respectable enough to be seated for lunch in the Delmonico’s dining room without a gentleman at their table.
If they were already going to cause a scandal by simply going to lunch, why not cause one more with just a dash of lip paint?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dr. Swan’s color enhancements for the lip available in Scarlet or Pink.
Some like to play it safe . . . And some like it scandalous.
From the makers of the Midnight Miracle Cream.
To purchase, send $1.50 to Dr. Swan at 25 West Tenth Street, New York
—Advertisement in all the best New York newspapers
A few days later
The newspapers dedicated inch after column inch to the shocking occurrence of women, both high status and low, donning lip paint in public. There was Annabelle Jones, applying the stuff in full view of the other guests in the Fifth Avenue Hotel lobby. To say nothing of the scene at Delmonico’s. Theo casually dubbed it The Scarlet Scandal and the press printed it and reprinted it.
Scarlet: the color of rebellion and transgression, but also love and passion.
The more the scandal was reported on in the paper, the more it was discussed and thus the more coverage in the press it merited, and all of a sudden it was everywhere, all at on
ce. It started to become commonplace.
Once it was discussed around the breakfast table, it could hardly be declared a total and absolute taboo.
Funny how scandal had a way of lessening the scandal.
To capitalize on the attention, Theo took out an advertisement in the best newspapers, to run alongside all the gossip columns and opinion pieces discussing The Scarlet Scandal. The advertisement was a simple illustration of a woman at her dressing table, a variety of Dr. Swan’s toilet preparations before her. Theo had composed the text.
The envelopes came in a trickle and then in a rush. Harriet had offered her kitchen table and address and both were put to good use. All day long the house was bustling with the work of a half-dozen lady chemists and assistants creating the preparations to fulfill the orders. It would be difficult to claim obscenity when all the best newspapers printed the advertisements, when all manner of women were purchasing the products and daring to wear them to church or charity luncheons—not just the stage or other “unsavory” places.
And so, thanks to Theo and Daisy’s friends, her creations made the world a little brighter.
At night though, the house was still and quiet. And Daisy and Theo definitely had something to celebrate.
Theo came to call on Daisy at Harriet’s town house, where she was staying indefinitely. If anyone would understand about needing a place to stay while trying to make her own way in the world, it was Miss Harriet Burnett.
“I am not usually in the habit of entertaining gentlemen callers at any hour, let alone this one but . . . Ava and I will be out for the evening,” Harriet said as she adjusted her hat and bid goodbye to Daisy and Theo. “We expect to be late.”
Daisy was not exactly invited out these days.
There was nowhere Theo would rather be.
They were gloriously unchaperoned. Daisy was now a scandal-plagued spinster of a certain age, so firmly on the shelf that of course she could—and would—idle away the evening alone with the bachelor of her choosing.
