Margaret shared Hanna’s troubles, with more siblings to care for than Hanna could count. Sometimes Margaret’s pale face bore purple shadows beneath her eyes. Like the other Irish immigrants, Margaret’s father worked a paddy wagon, digging up the earth to carve roads from the hillside. And, like Hanna’s father, whiskey was his poison.
“How much will it cost?” Hanna asked.
Margaret frowned. “Twenty cents.”
Hanna reached into her coin purse. “Here,” she said, handing Margaret two silver dimes. “Take it.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “Oh, Hanna. Thank you, truly.”
Mrs. Cunningham appeared, the lace collar of her dress tight against her neck and fastened with a large opal brooch.
“Stop chattering and get to work or you’ll both be out of a job.”
Hanna worked deftly, reattaching buttons and sewing knife pleats until her fingers bled. How could a woman wear so many frills? The ribbed bustle cages, corsets, coats, skirts, and hats were as elaborate as costumes in an opera. Women in the street sometimes snickered at Hanna’s dirndl. The cotton dress with its floral print was respectable in Hanna’s farm town, but here in America, it was nothing but a rag.
Margaret’s calico day dress had been tailored closer to the day’s fashions, though made of modest cotton in a simple brown. The way Margaret looked longingly at the satin ribbons, pearls, brocade, jet buttons, and lace collars of these fine gowns, Hanna knew Margaret also wished to wear something beautiful, just once.
The bell of the shop door jingled and two men stepped inside. From their top hats, gold watch chains, and fitted waistcoats, Hanna discerned they were men of importance. With silver flooding into the city from the Comstock Lode mine in Nevada, men like these became millionaires while immigrant families starved.
The elder man looked at Hanna, and ice ran through her veins. Verdammt! She’d forgotten to close the door to the back room. Though he had a handsome face, his green eyes sent a chill down to her bones. His long fingers, adorned with gold rings, wrapped around the head of his cane, radiated power—and the darkness beneath it.
“Hello, we’ve brought in a few suits for repair,” the younger man said, handing the jackets and trousers to Mrs. Cunningham. His blue eyes sparkled in the light. As he removed his hat, his thick, golden curls defied the pomade he had slicked through them.
“This is women’s work, Lucas,” the elder said, knocking his cane against the floor. “Throw some money at the old crow, and let’s be on our way.”
“Have some respect, Robert,” Lucas said.
In her haste to sit down, Margaret knocked the table leg with her knee, spilling a jar full of pearls onto its side. Hanna covered her mouth as they rolled to the floor. Gasping, Margaret looked at Hanna with wide eyes. “Oh, Christ! She’ll can me.”
Hanna darted forward, crouching to avoid the gaze of the men as she hastily picked up the pearl beads, one by one.
Mrs. Cunningham glared at Hanna, yet managed to maintain a pleasant tone. “Oh dear! I apologize, gentlemen. It appears I have quite a clumsy little fool in my shop.”
“Forgive me,” Hanna said. “It was my fault.”
Soon Margaret appeared at Hanna’s side, scouring the floor on hands and knees for the precious pearls. “Thank you,” Margaret whispered.
“Here,” Lucas said, bending on one knee and holding out a pearl to Hanna. “You’ve missed one.”
Hanna looked into his eyes, blue as a summer sky. “Thank you.” She opened her palm. When Lucas set the pearl inside, Hanna warmed from his touch.
The older man, Robert, who’d been standing impatiently by the door, turned and stared at Margaret as if she were a juicy piece of flank steak.
“Girl,” Mrs. Cunningham snapped at Margaret. “Make yourself useful and take these suits while I write up a receipt.”
Lucas smiled. “Thank you. I’m afraid I was dancing too vigorously at the Regatta Ball. The stitching on the shoulder is torn.”
Margaret giggled. “You ought to see me dance a jig. It ain’t easy not to rip a seam or two!”
Mrs. Cunningham shot her a look and Margaret scuttled away.
Mrs. Cunningham turned to Hanna. “What are you lollygagging for? Put those beads away before someone slips and breaks his neck.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hanna said. Hurrying into the back room, Hanna turned the jar upright and opened her palm, pouring the pearls inside.
“I do apologize, gentlemen,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “One of the girls will make you a cup of tea while you wait. It shall only be a moment.”
Robert cleared his throat. “None for me. Thank you.” He looked to Lucas. “Let’s be out of here. We’ve a meeting at the Palace Hotel in fifteen minutes.”
“Actually, I’d quite enjoy a warm cup of tea,” Lucas said.
“You,” Mrs. Cunningham hissed at Hanna, poking her head into the back room. “Make the gentleman a cup of tea at once!”
Hanna’s hands trembled as she poured the steaming brew from a silver pot into a porcelain cup with a gold rim. Her stomach rumbled. How nice it would be to have hot tea on such a cold winter’s day. But it was meant only for customers.
“Cream and sugar, sir?” Hanna asked.
“Yes, please,” Lucas said.
Hanna felt Lucas’s fingers brush hers as she handed him the saucer. Her cheeks tingled. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” he said. “May I ask your name?”
Her throat felt dry. “Hannelore Schaeffer, sir.”
“My, that is a mouthful,” Lucas said, raising his eyebrows. He sipped his tea. “Do your friends call you Hannelore?”
She noticed the dimples that framed his smile. They gave him a pleasant, boyish appearance. “No. My friends call me Hanna. You may call me that too, if you like.” Hanna’s face grew hot. “Oh, sir, I am so sorry. I did not mean . . .”
Lucas laughed. “What, we can’t be friends?”
Hanna smiled. “I suppose we could.”
Robert snorted, and Lucas’s smile began to fade. Straightening himself, Lucas seemed to remember his position as a man of society. He cocked his head, eyeing Hanna quizzically. “You’re not from here, are you? You have an accent.”
“I am from Bavaria,” Hanna answered. “Now I have lived here five years.”
“Your English is quite good,” Robert said, raising his eyebrow as if in accusation. “How peculiar.”
Hanna stared at the floor. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“You wear your hair differently than most women,” Robert said. “Like a farm girl. Perhaps you grew up in a barn amongst sheep and cattle?”
Hanna looked up again, touching the dark plaits she’d pinned atop her head. Heat burned her cheeks. She didn’t have money for false hair, curls worn long and bouncy over the shoulder, nor a fanciful little hat. Truthfully, Hanna thought the hats worn by society women to be ridiculous, adorned with ruffles and feathers, flowers, foliage, and even faux fruits. What use would she have for such a thing?
“I don’t have time for curls,” Hanna said.
Suddenly, Lucas’s smile reappeared, indenting his dimples. “You’re very practical.”
Hanna looked at Lucas, his expression so inviting. Unbidden, a smile began to creep across her face. But when Robert shot Lucas a scowl, Lucas’s eyes lost their sparkle. Lucas cleared his throat, straightening his ascot.
“Thank you,” he said, “for mending our suits. I’m sure they shall come back good as new. And please thank your friend as well.”
“What is her name?” Robert asked, his eyes cold.
“Margaret O’Brien, sir,” Hanna said.
“Industrious creatures, aren’t they?” Robert murmured, polishing the head of his cane with a handkerchief. “A good deal of peasant blood runs in their veins.”
Hanna’s stomach clenched, but she did not speak out against Robert’s insult. Neither did Lucas, whose cheeks flushed pink.
Mrs. Cunningham reappeared with a paper rece
ipt and Hanna busied herself, reaching for Lucas’s dish and teacup. “May I?”
He nodded, handing them to her, so their fingers brushed again. Hanna tingled at the contact, wondering if Lucas had intended it.
“Your suits shall be ready in three days,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “The total is four dollars.”
Hanna’s eyes widened upon hearing a sum so high. She and Margaret earned less than a dollar a day.
Robert knocked his cane against the floor. “Good. That’s sorted, then. Come, Lucas.”
Lucas placed his top hat upon his head. He tipped it toward Hanna. “Good-bye, Miss Schaeffer.”
Hanna nodded. “Good-bye.”
When Mrs. Cunningham turned away, Robert pushed open the door, letting in a gust of chilly air. Lucas followed, but paused when he reached the threshold.
“Just so you know,” he said quietly, without turning around, “I like your hair the way it is.”
Hanna’s stomach felt like birds had taken flight inside of it. And without another word, Lucas followed Robert out of the shop and onto the cobbled street.
When Hanna met Margaret in the back room, Margaret’s face brightened. “Did you speak with him?” Margaret asked.
Hanna smoothed a pink taffeta gown against the table. “Yes.”
“What a fine lad,” Margaret said, a naughty look in her eye. “And so handsome! Do you fancy him?”
“He was kind,” Hanna said, picking up a needle as she felt her cheeks flush. Fabric slipped between her fingers as she stitched in neat rows. “But I’m not so foolish as to have eyes for a gentleman. I know what I am.”
Margaret poked Hanna in the ribs. “A fine seamstress and a good friend. He would be lucky to have you.”
Hanna smiled at Margaret. “Not true, you silly hen.”
They stifled their giggles before Mrs. Cunningham could reprimand them again. Hanna bit her lip. Would Lucas ever be interested in a girl like her? Leave the church in the village, as the old German saying went.
Chapter 3
Sarah, Present Day
Here’s where we should set the sculpture of Amorino,” Gwyneth said, her voice echoing throughout the marble chambers of Havensworth Art Academy’s California Street campus, one of the many imposing HAA buildings planted around the heart of the city. A small army of people dressed in black buzzed around like bees with microphones, preparing the space for the Canova by Moonlight gala.
I’d taken the morning to help Gwyneth plan her event. Hopefully she wouldn’t feel like I didn’t make time in my schedule for her charity functions. Being unemployed, I had all the time in the world. But I looked at my phone impatiently, longing to research the missing dressmakers before the spark of this new idea burned out.
“Sarah, dear, what do you think? Is the lighting too dark? Too tombée de la nuit?” Gwyneth liked to throw French words into everyday conversation.
Clueless as to what she was talking about, I nodded. “I think the sculpture will look great there. I can’t believe the National Gallery of Ireland is flying it out here for the event. Isn’t the marble really heavy? And fragile?”
She tucked a wisp of her blond hair behind her ear. “Oh yes! We had to pull some strings. But Walter is a close friend of Colin, the chairman of the Irish gallery board. The museum is also flying out some precious oils from their national portrait collection, very rare paintings from the early 1800s.”
“Really?” I said, my eyes widening. “That’s incredible.”
Her cell phone jingled. Gwyneth tapped the screen with a perfectly manicured fingertip. “Hello? Yes, Gigi, darling, hello! I was just going to call you.”
I walked down the hall, gazing up at oil paintings of nudes and San Francisco landscapes. This massive Italianate style building, in addition to the others, was no doubt valuable property, purchased by a Havensworth forefather who’d held an interest in the arts. Hunter came from a long line of bankers and real-estate moguls.
“Sarah,” Gwyneth’s voice called down the corridor. “Can you be a dear and take the stairs up two flights? At the end of the hall there’s an office. You’ll find an antique silver paperweight of an Irish setter that I’d love to put on display. It was a gift to the family from a Dublin banker.”
Gwyneth’s heels clicked down the hallway and she handed me a brass key.
“It’s pure silver, and I don’t want one of these Latinos taking it.” She lowered her voice, her eyes darting toward the workers.
“Sure,” I said, trying to hide my cringe. I imagined how my friend Nick would feel if he heard Gwyneth voicing racial stereotypes. At the magazine, a rude visitor had once mistaken Nick for a janitor instead of recognizing him as our lead designer.
She patted my back. “Thank you, dear. You know how these old knees trouble me. We have to get the elevator fixed.”
The key felt heavy in my hand. “Is the door on the right or left?”
“On the right.”
I touched her arm. “And Gwyneth? I’m sure your workers are trustworthy.”
“Yes, dear. You’re probably right. But I trust you more.”
I made my way up the winding spiral staircase and down the hallway. A chill came over me as my footsteps echoed in the dark. Muffled voices sounded from downstairs, yet I felt utterly alone.
I twisted the key in the lock until I heard a click. When I pushed the door open, the dark study smelled like disinfectant. Though it had been cleaned recently, the furniture hadn’t been updated in years. A heavy oak desk stood in the center of the room, faded green file folders stacked on top of it. I picked up a magnifying glass with a mother-of-pearl handle and then set it down, looking for the paperweight.
An Irish setter made of solid silver sat atop a stack of yellowed papers that curled at their edges. I lifted it with one hand. Wow, it was heavy. I moved the paperweight aside so that I could peek at the papers, mostly architectural plans for the building and class rosters from the 1960s.
I picked up the canine paperweight and held it from the bottom, wondering who had used this study and chosen the artwork for the room. Above the desk hung a still life: apples, pears, and oranges in a brass bowl, sitting atop a rumpled tablecloth. I took a step closer. The painting hung vertically in a 16×20 frame, but I could make out a faint outline on the wall, the lasting image of a missing rectangle. How strange. Another painting must have hung there for quite some time. Now it was gone.
Walking slowly around the desk, I scanned the other paintings. A nude had been rendered in oils, a woman reclining against a chaise longue. I squinted to make out the signature in the corner. A student named Dan had painted it in 1981.
Purple flowers burst from a vase in another frame, a poor imitation of Van Gogh. Not that I was an art critic by any means, but the painting didn’t hold any feeling in its swirling brushstrokes. It was as if the student had tried her best to copy the style of her favorite artist, but failed to bring forth emotion.
On the right wall, a large abstract piece had a series of angry red-and-black slashes, intersecting with a square drawn in a childish squiggly hand. Had Walter chosen this random sampling?
It wasn’t my place to question my father-in-law’s artistic sense. He was on the board of the National Gallery of Ireland, after all. But perhaps his college friendship with the chair and the amount of money he was able to donate meant more than his ability to curate a collection.
Angled into a corner of the room stood a tall, antique wooden wardrobe. I stepped closer, trailing my fingers along the elegant walnut. The keyhole was made of pewter and tarnished with age. Scanning the desk, I saw no key for the lock. I hooked my finger into the empty slot and tugged, but the door didn’t budge—another gateway to the past shut tight.
It was time to return to the present. After closing the heavy door to the study behind me, I turned the key in the lock, preserving the room as it had been. Making my way down the stairs, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. For reasons I couldn’t articulate, th
e study retained sadness like water inside a dam.
“Here’s your paperweight,” I said to Gwyneth. The cool air in the marble lobby prickled my sweaty skin.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the shiny object from me and cradling it in her palm. “He’s a special treasure.”
“The Irish setter was out on the desk, and I wasn’t sure he should be, especially if you’re worried about him getting stolen. If you have the key to the wardrobe, I can put him there after the event.”
Gwyneth smoothed her blond bob, avoiding eye contact. “Key? I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. The setter has always been on the desk.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, unconvinced. Finding my mother-in-law’s gaze, I pressed further. “Is that Walter’s office?”
Her blue eyes met mine, serious and cold. “Yes, dear. Walter took over the academy presidency from his father and grandfather before him.”
“I see,” I said, taking a step back.
Gwyneth smiled, her eyes warm again, her hand gently touching my arm. “His study hasn’t received my feminine touch, so pardon the decor. For now, I’ll focus on the downstairs. This academy is a big building, you know.”
I smiled back. “Yes, it is.”
Checking my watch, I realized it was nearly one P.M. I’d spent more time away than I’d meant to.
“Gwyneth, I hate to leave, but I have a meeting with my graduate advisor.”
The white lie brought a pinch in my stomach, but if I didn’t get to work on my thesis, my mother-in-law would easily keep me here all day.
“It’s all right.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t work too hard now. Give Hunter a kiss for me when you get home. And Redford too.”
“Of course I will.”
Outside on California Street, I looked down at my phone, where Jen had pinged me with a text message.
Nick and I miss you! Meet up for beers at Zeitgeist tomorrow night around 7pm? Please? We want to tell you all the work gossip!
The Dressmaker's Dowry Page 3
