The Pattern Artist

by Moser, Nancy;

  Annie was more at ease talking about the shoe business. “It’s a short list,” she said. “I’ve only worked at Butterick a week, and before that, I worked at Macy’s.” She looked down at her dress. “This dress isn’t even mine. It’s borrowed. I don’t own anything near this nice.”

  “Wearing your work clothes would have been fine,” Mrs. Sampson said. “Just be who you are, Annie. Who you are is enough.”

  “But I want to know more, be more.”

  “You can add wisdom to your list of accomplishments.”

  Suddenly the flattery was too much. “I appreciate your kind words, but really, I know very little about a very little.”

  “More wisdom.”

  She sighed. “Why did you invite me here?”

  Mrs. Sampson shared a laugh with her husband. “To the point. I like that.”

  “You warned me she was a feisty one.”

  “That she is,” Sean said.

  The three of them continued the discussion a few moments longer—as if Annie wasn’t even there. It made her nerves rise to attention. The stress of the invitation coupled with the tension of borrowing the dress … “Stop. Please.”

  Silence.

  “We don’t mean to upset you, dear,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  “I’m not upset,” Annie said. “Just confused. You talk about talent and being feisty and accomplishments when I haven’t done anything to deserve your praise. Truly, I’m just starting out, trying to wend my way from being a maid to a working girl. I know bits about life, and am scared to pieces about all I don’t know.” She took a breath. “Why am I here? Tell me. Please.”

  Mrs. Sampson took her hand in hers and let both rest upon her knee. “You may be feisty, but I have been accused of being a whirlwind.”

  “Or a hurricane,” her husband said.

  She continued, “We speak of talent. My talent is identifying a spark in people. When I see it—as I saw it in you during our brief encounter the other day—I waste no time fanning that spark into a flame.”

  Annie was still confused. “What spark did you see?”

  “The spark of practicality, creativity, and conscience.”

  Annie tried to remember the circumstances of their first meeting. “We were talking about hobble skirts.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “You pointed out how ridiculous they are. Impractical. And I believe you called them—”

  “Silly,” Annie said, remembering. “They are silly. How is a woman supposed to live a normal life, hobbled in such ridiculous fashion?”

  Mrs. Sampson looked at her husband. “You see, Harold? I told you she was the one.”

  Annie blinked. “The one what?”

  “The one to champion our cause.”

  “What cause is that?”

  Mrs. Sampson opened her mouth to speak then closed it and raised a finger. “Have you ever heard of the Reform Dress Movement?”

  “No.”

  “It started in the 1840s, rejecting the unhealthy confinement of the female form, and promoting practical clothing. Harold and I agree with its principles.” She stood and set her plate and glass aside as if needing her hands free to make her point. “If women want the freedom to vote, then shouldn’t they be allowed to wear fashion that offers them freedom of movement? Now is the time to let women break the bonds of corsetry and the confinement of petticoats!”

  “Step off your soapbox, dearest,” her husband said.

  Mrs. Sampson nodded and took a fresh breath. “It’s a steep step down. I apologize.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Annie said. “I like what I hear.”

  “Actually, I do, too,” Sean said. “At least in theory.”

  “But there you have it,” Mrs. Sampson said. “It has to be more than theory. Freedom of dress needs to become the new wave of fashion. And you, Annie Wood, are just the one to bring it into being.”

  At that moment, the butler entered the room. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”

  Sean accompanied Mrs. Sampson, and Mr. Sampson offered Annie his arm and a whispered “To be continued.”

  She wasn’t certain whether to be eager or petrified.

  Every surface of the Sampsons’ dining room was embellished with carving, tile, mother-of-pearl, gold, brass, or silk. The item that was most unadorned was the top of the enormous dining table, which had its own decoration within the swirling grain of the polished oak.

  Where the oak left off, the painted china took over, as each gold-edged plate—there were four different plates so far—presented a different exotic bird in its middle, with sweeping leaves and floral sprays surrounding it. The goblets were intricate cut glass, and the sterling silver flatware was far from flat as the handles were created through an interweaving of curlicues dotted with flowers.

  Although awed by the decor and finery, Annie was heartily glad she knew which knife and fork to use. Although she’d never sat at such a fancy meal, she’d been exposed to a proper place setting at Crompton Hall. Sean seemed less informed and looked to her for guidance. She picked up the proper utensil, and he followed her lead. It was rather satisfying to know something that he did not.

  The conversation about freedom of fashion did not resume until well after the fish course, as they were enjoying a fine cut of lamb.

  “So, Annie,” Mrs. Sampson said. “May I call you Annie?”

  “Please.”

  “And you may call me Eleanor.”

  Annie was taken aback. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Why not?”

  She raised a hand a few feet off the table. “You are here, and I am …” She lowered her hand to just above her plate. “Here.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Sampson said. “Harold told you about our humble roots.”

  “It was very nice of you to share that. I like to hear such stories. They give me hope.”

  “A question, Annie. Do you wish to have a house such as this?” Mr. Sampson asked.

  She knew the answer straightaway but didn’t want to offend, so she chose her words carefully. “I wish to be successful at something, but I don’t much care if it brings me wealth.”

  “What would you like it to bring you?” Mrs. Sampson asked. “Satisfaction.” She let the word stand on its own.

  Sean had his own requirement. “And a sense of purpose. I’d like to think I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.”

  “According to whom?” Mrs. Sampson asked.

  Sean glanced at each of their faces before answering. “God.”

  Mr. Sampson slapped a hand on the table, making them jump. “Well said, sir. Well said.”

  Annie was surprised. She’d been taught never to talk about God or politics or the latest cricket match at the dinner table. The butler and housekeeper at Crompton Hall had been very strict about this during the servants’ meals.

  Mrs. Sampson leaned back in her chair so the footman could serve her more brussel sprouts. She nodded after receiving four. “So you believe there is a divine plan, Sean?”

  “I do.” He looked at Annie and nodded once. “I believe we each have a unique purpose—a God-given purpose. The trick is to find out what it is.”

  “Now that’s a good trick,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  “But not impossible,” he said.

  It was Annie’s turn to ask a question. “So how does one know they are on the right path?”

  Sean answered with confidence. “Practice and peace.”

  Mr. Sampson cocked his head. “You have my attention.”

  Sean’s face reddened, and he refolded the napkin in his lap. “I am no expert, but from what I’ve ascertained from personal experience is that I need to pray for direction, be aware of the nudges the Almighty sends me, and act on those nudges to the best of my ability. If I’m on the right path, I feel a sense of peace.”

  “A very businesslike way of approaching the spiritual,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  “It’s practical. And it works. I am proof of it.”

  Mr. S
ampson made a motion to the footman to replenish the drinks all around. “I love a good story. Proceed.”

  Sean’s blush deepened. “I didn’t mean to take the attention away from Annie. She was the one you invited here. I am simply her dinner companion.”

  Mrs. Sampson smile was a wee bit wicked. “Oh, I think we have all determined you’re more than just that.”

  Annie deflected her own heated cheeks by taking a drink of water.

  Sean looked across the table at her. “If it’s all right with Annie for me to tell my story?”

  “Of course it is,” she said with full sincerity. “I’d love to hear it.”

  Sean set his fork down and took a cleansing breath. “My life has been a series of stepping-stones, one step leading to another until I reached a door.”

  “A door you opened? Mr. Sampson asked.

  “And walked though.”

  “In order to tell the story, I need to go back eight years. I was thirteen and working at my father’s general store in Brooklyn. I was good at sales. He’d order in too many match safes and would ask me to push them until our stock was depleted. Or bowler hats. Or wire whisks—he overbought terribly the wire whisks.”

  “You were a salesman then as you are a salesman now,” Annie pointed out.

  “It seems that is my talent.”

  “Your purpose,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  “Not completely. Just a part of it.”

  Mr. Sampson motioned for the dinner plates to be removed. “Don’t interrupt him, ladies. Let the man continue.”

  Mrs. Sampson made a locking motion to her lips, which made Annie smile.

  Sean took up where he’d let off. “I befriended Ebenezer Butterick, who lived in Brooklyn, too.” He must have seen Annie about to speak because he added, “Yes, the founder of our company. He was retired then, in his mid-seventies. A frail man, but very wise and sharp of mind. He lived quietly and simply, and gave much of his wealth to good causes. He had a soft heart for children—he created the first sized patterns to fill a need for home-sewn children’s clothes.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mr. Sampson said.

  “Shh!” Mrs. Sampson said with a wink.

  “Ah. Yes. Hush.”

  Sean smiled, too. “Mr. Butterick created his highly successful company from a single idea. In the early years they’d cut and package the patterns on their kitchen table in Sterling, Massachusetts.”

  “More humble beginnings,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  There were nods all around.

  “The year we met, the company was constructing the building where Annie and I work. Mr. Butterick was very proud of how the business had grown, and attributed its success to God.”

  “A wise man.”

  “Very wise. That spring he grew ill. I made deliveries from the store to him, and he said I reminded him of his nephew, and we would talk. A lot. He seemed to need someone to talk to. His wife had died decades earlier, and his son in infancy. His only daughter, Mary Ellen, came to visit, but he seemed to like my company.”

  “I understand that.” Annie’s compliment was heartfelt.

  “We talked about business, and sales, and using our success to help others.”

  “He sounds like a wonderful man.”

  Sean confirmed this with a nod. “We also talked a lot about God and how there’s no such thing as a coincidence. He said that my making a delivery to his house was God’s plan to bring us together. And when his health grew worse, he made me promise to go to his company and apply for a job. He even wrote a letter of recommendation.”

  “You went, and you got the job,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  “I did—against my father’s wishes. He saw no reason for me to take a job in Manhattan when we lived in Brooklyn and I had a perfectly good job in the family store. But I really felt this was the path I was supposed to take, so I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge—and back—every day for five years until I got my current sales position, which allowed me to afford my own apartment closer to work. I was in the stockroom at first, but I worked my way up to sales. It all came about from me working in my father’s store, from me making a delivery to Mr. Butterick instead of the other boy who worked for us. One thing led to the other. One stepping-stone led to the next and to the open door.”

  “And you felt it was right,” Annie said.

  “I knew it was right because of the peace I felt inside. I still feel that peace.”

  “What a marvelous story,” Mrs. Sampson said.

  Sean looked to his plate, which now contained a piece of multilayered chocolate cake. “I don’t know if it’s marvelous, but it’s my story.” He looked at Annie. “I think Annie is on her right path, too. The door to Butterick opened for her just as it did for me.”

  “Because you recommended me,” Annie said.

  “How could I not?” he said softly.

  “I will not contradict you, Sean,” Mrs. Sampson said. “But we asked you here tonight to open another door that leads to another room.”

  Mr. Sampson nodded. “I do believe it is time to get to the point. Go ahead, my sweet.”

  Mrs. Sampson took a large bite of her cake, pushed the plate aside, and then dabbed at her mouth. “Harold and I have been looking for a new beacon in the fashion industry, someone who can design for real women who live real lives. Someone who dares to be unconstricted by the designs of others who show more care for fad over function.”

  “Ooh, I like that, Eleanor,” Mr. Sampson said. “Fad over function.”

  “Thank you, dear one,” she said before continuing. She looked directly at Annie. “We believe you are that beacon.”

  Annie was confused. “You met me once—on my first day on the job. You know nothing of my talent or lack of it.”

  Mrs. Sampson shook Annie’s logic away. “As I stated, my talent is having a sense about people. I am an extremely good judge of character. When good character and a zest for new ideas show themselves in a person, I will not remain silent. I must make every attempt to tap into it for the common good.”

  Annie looked to Sean for his reaction. His eyes were slightly wide, his eyebrows raised. He looked as confused as she felt.

  “I know how odd this is,” Mrs. Sampson said, “but before we move on, I need to finish it and put a cherry on its oddness. We want you to design a fashion line that combines style and utility.” She looked to her husband, who nodded. “We will provide all the funding, and Harold has the business contacts for distribution.”

  “You will be paid well for your efforts,” Mr. Sampson said.

  “So what do you think of our grand scheme?” Mrs. Sampson said.

  Annie had no idea how to respond. The idea was absurd.

  Mr. Sampson looked across the table at his wife. “She needs time to think on it, my sweet—which again, shows her wisdom.”

  “Which further increases my desire to have her work with us.” Mrs. Sampson stood, suddenly ending the evening. “We are so glad you took time out of your busy week to meet with us. And now you have the whole of the weekend to think about our proposal.”

  In minutes, Sean and Annie were out the door amid a flurry of thank-yous and good-byes.

  “What just happened?” Annie asked.

  “You were ambushed and they wanted us gone before you could object.” Sean looked at his watch. “The car won’t be here for a half hour. Shall we go across the street and sit on the steps of the church?”

  Annie was glad for the suggestion because her legs felt weak. At the cathedral, Sean helped her sit upon a step before joining her. She tucked her skirt around her legs and wrapped the shawl close. The churning inner turmoil made the solidity of the stone steps a necessary foundation. Without it she would surely walk in an aimless circle, or faint away like some weakened woman of the past.

  “They want me to quit my job—a job I just started. They want me to design clothes when I have no experience other than designing a different sleeve or collar.”

  “They want y
ou to go against the entire fashion industry.”

  Annie remembered what Maude and Mrs. Downs had said about Mrs. Sampson. “They called her a fashion rebel, a nonconformist, and a zealous malcontent.”

  “Do you want to be associated with someone like that? Now, when you’re just starting out?”

  “No. I don’t. I have too much to learn at Butterick to leave before I’ve started. Maybe at a later date, I’d—”

  “So you’d consider it?”

  She was surprised by the incredulity in his tone. “It sounds intriguing, and I like the idea of function over fad. You have to admit the hobble skirt is laughable and defies and denies all logical function.”

  “But that’s what fashion is—a fad. Women like change. If fashion didn’t change we’d still be designing hoopskirts or bustles.”

  “Two other fads.”

  Sean put his arm around her against the night chill. “Fads keep us employed.”

  “Even if what we’re designing is wrong?”

  The only answer he had for her was a shrug.

  At this point it was as good an answer as any other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There was no time to talk about the Sampsons’ offer with Edna.

  Annie had arrived home late from the dinner party the night before, and in the morning—being Saturday—she immediately dove into working on Iris’s wedding dress. Today Iris and Thomas were coming over so it could be fitted. That was the task for the day. Pondering some far-off, far-fetched future as the Sampsons’ “it” girl would have to wait.

  Edna fluttered around the apartment moving a candlestick to the right an inch, dusting some porcelain chickadees, fluffing a pillow that had NIAGARA FALLS embroidered on the front.

  Annie looked up from some seam-work on Iris’s dress. “Be still, Edna. The place looks grand.”

  “It does not look grand, it can never look grand.” She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes scanning the space for offending bric-a-brac. “I don’t get many guests.”

  “Iris and Thomas are hardly guests.”

  “They’re your friends.”

  “They are. And this apartment is far more than what they’re used to above the bakery. Remember Iris was a housemaid like me.” Annie stopped her seaming and went to her friend, taking hold of her upper arms. “Be calm. Relax. They are coming so Iris can try on the dress, not to inspect your home.”