by Peter Troy
Mrs. Simms spoke no French at all but beamed to hear her granddaughter speaking it so well to Mary, whom all the ladies assumed was a native speaker. The ladies were soon seated in two comfortable armchairs, watching Mary mix and match fabrics on the counter, holding court as she created the dress for the bride of one of the following year’s biggest social events. And Mary was perfectly at home through it all, as if she were the native French speaker, the elegant couturière, the artiste. She had played this game, or a variation of it, almost from the moment she was brought to Richmond. And though it could be quite tricky at times, she managed to straddle a delicate social high wire without much stumbling.
Mary was just twenty years old, but had as firm an understanding of the world and how things worked as people two or three times her age. She was well aware that what made Parisian lace and dresses better was the fact that they came from Paris, that in some shop over there, a poor girl embroidered her designs just like Mary did. And based on what Mary could see of the French dresses that used to come in to the store, Gertie had been every bit the seamstress that that French gal was, and Mary was pretty sure that by now she’d become at least as good as Gertie was. But Gertie’s designs were stitchin’s, not embroideries, and Mary quickly learned that the difference between the two—once you reached the talent level of that French gal, or Gertie, or even Mrs. Fenton—had everything to do with the presentation. That French gal and Mrs. Fenton were white, which made their work better than Gertie’s by nature, the way folks—colored and white alike—saw it. And that French gal spoke French, of course, and when she was finished with a dress it was put in a big box with a fancy ribbon and carried clear across the Atlantic just so some society lady could spend a great deal of money on it and tell everyone how much it cost without coming right out and saying so, just letting it slip somewhere in the conversation with one friend and letting gossip take over from there. Mrs. Fenton’s dresses might be just as nice, but she didn’t speak French, and when her work was finished it was put in a carriage and brought to the store and didn’t cost nearly as much, so it couldn’t be as good as the one that came all the way from Paris, and it certainly wouldn’t be as much fun for the lady who bought it to talk about and accidentally let slip how much it cost.
But by now many Richmond women were beginning to forget about that girl over in Paris and sought out Mary instead. And that had everything to do with the one thing Mary had over that French gal … she could do her presenting in person. She flattered and curtseyed, spoke beautiful French, and never had to be told a lady’s name or position in society more than once. She knew every social occasion and knew which ladies would want to impress or show up which other ladies and might let slip herself that Mrs. So-and-so will be so envious when she sees you in this, or Mr. So-and-so will not be able to take his eyes off of you, slipping it in of course, accidentally on purpose. And just to make sure the ladies of Richmond knew how special Mary’s work was, she suggested to Mrs. Kittredge that they charge the same price as the French dress, and that was just fine with her and Mr. Kittredge, especially with how Mary made it seem like it had been their idea all along.
The white ladies who came into the shop didn’t speak to Mary at all like a slave. It was part of the illusion, and they had to hold up their part. If Mary’s work was to be special, she couldn’t be seen in the same light as a Cora or Gertie or Lilly. She had to be unique. Exotic. Imported. And after a while nobody ever asked her where she was from—they just assumed it was from someplace fashionable and exciting because that’s what they wanted to believe. Even Mrs. Kittredge added to the illusion, introducing ladies to Mary as “our little French gal,” and never letting on that she was anything but a free colored gal who’d come over from Paris or some exotic French colony and somehow decided to work at a dress shop next to the store where the hayseeds bought flour and tobacco. Silly as it all might have seemed, everyone had somehow embraced the audacity of such a notion, and by now Mary was almost as well known amongst society ladies as any lady actually in society.
Still, she was aware that all of that could change quite easily if she wore her talent too proudly. Whether she was free or slave, from Paris or the fields of Carolina, she was still colored. She was always humble and accepted compliments on her work with statements such as Well, ma’am, I’m sure ANY dress would look beautiful on you. And she only spoke this way around the society ladies in the dress shop. There were degrees of her field-hand drawl that could be readily reinstalled into her speech when the situation called for it, such as that spring when she had first met Mrs. Simms. Mary had put on only a fraction of the airs she displayed today, but the Southern gentle lady, once upon a time married to one of the most prominent men in the state, made her displeasure quite clear by slapping her fan against the counter and opening her eyes wide. A few not-so-elegant curtseys from Mary and a momentary return to her North Carolina plantation dialect restored tranquillity.
But by now Mrs. Simms had been brought up to speed. Indeed, Mary found the toughest part of her present life to be the constant tracking of where she stood with the people around her. She was a chameleon in an ever-changing environment, one moment speaking fluent French with a woman the manner of Miss Anna Simms, then the next needing to resort to a near field-hand drawl so as not to offend the wife of some hayseed who wanted to look around the place while her husband bought the flour and chewing tobacco next door. In truth, she was busy as any field hand, practically running the store during the day and working with Lilly and Beatrice making the dresses and embroidering the tablecloths and handkerchiefs sold at the store in whatever quiet moments could be found. Then there’d be the rest of most evenings, spent with Justinia in her room, where Mary heard all about Juss’s day, then got to talk about her own, but only for a few minutes before one of them grew too sleepy to stay awake.
It wasn’t all artificiality though. Her affection for the Kittredges was quite real, and she genuinely loved Juss and knew her love was returned, despite Justinia’s lingering immaturity and self-centeredness. The delicate line Mary walked with them had changed over the years. There was no more “Miss Justinia,” it was either “Miss Juss” when others were around, or “Juss” when it was only the two of them. But all of this constant changing made her feel quite alone despite having people around her constantly. Her fellow slaves mostly despised her, feeling that she was putting on airs and somehow getting away with it because she could sew and had learned French when she wasn’t supposed to, and the Kittredges looked the other way because she was making them so much money. And the rest of the time it was always the show, the illusion. The only time she felt she could be herself was when she was alone with Juss, and now that had become the smallest part of her day. So somewhere along the way, Mary realized, she had become an island.
But that autumn afternoon, when the Simms ladies had picked out the combinations of chiffon and lace and silk to adorn Miss Anna’s dress, Mary took out a pencil and long piece of blank paper and sat in between them. She sketched her ideas for the dress, as much as possible making them appear to be the ladies’ own.
“Oh yes’m, Misses Simms, I know you don’t want Miss Anna showin’ too much shoulder,” Mary said as she filled in the top edge of the gown with some lace. “But Miss Anna’s got such a pretty face and with just the tippy-toppa her shoulders showin’ … like so … she gonna look like the Venus de Milo in a weddin’ dress.”
From Mrs. Simms’s expression, it was clear that she didn’t know the first thing about the Venus de Milo, but Mary had deferred just enough to make it appear elegant and yet unthreatening. As for Anna, Mary knew she was classically trained by a tutor every bit as refined as Miss Randall. She knew Mrs. Simms would be appalled to have her granddaughter compared to a nude European statue, but she also knew that Anna would revel in it. A little French kept the matter just between them and sealed the deal for both ladies.
“Merci, Mary,” Anna said with a knowing smile. “Mais ne mettez pas trop de
dentelle sur le sommet là.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle Anna. Je le laisserai juste comme cela ainsi votre grandmère sera heureuse maintenant. Quand je le fais, j’omettrai un peu.”
And she smiled at Anna, having assured her that she’d sketch it higher in the picture in order to please her grandmother. But when the dress was made, it would lie off the shoulder, the way Miss Anna wanted it. Of course Mrs. Simms and Mrs. Kittredge were none the wiser for any of it, and they were soon engaged in a conversation about the future of the store. Actually, to call it a conversation was a loose sort of way of saying that Mrs. Simms was busy telling Mrs. Kittredge what needed to be done, while Mrs. Kittredge listened intently.
“You’ve got as talented a seamstress as there is in the state of Virginia,” Mrs. Simms said, “and yet you don’t have a proper fitting room or a parlor area or anything like the fine shops in Paris.”
“Mmmm … yes, I’ve been after my husband telling him how we need to expand,” Mrs. Kittredge conceded.
“Well Mary here is a treasure that will only take you so far.”
Anna Simms looked at Mary with a closed-lip smile beneath raised eyebrows, as if to let Mary know that such praise from her grandmother was as scarce as desert rain. And Mary reveled in it as much as she could in that moment or two, before Mr. Kittredge came from next door.
“Mrs. Simms, how good it is of you to come and see us,” he said. “Miss Anna too—we thank you for your patronage. And what a momentous time it is.”
The ladies seemed to have no idea what he meant, and Mr. Kittredge had to remind them that tomorrow was the national Election Day.
“Mr. Kittredge,” Mrs. Simms said with disdain, “I do not think you realize how serious the matter is.”
“Oh I do, ma’am,” Mr. Kittredge responded. “The talk in my shop next door has been about almost nothing else for a few weeks now.”
“Really?” She jerked her head back slightly, surprised to hear the news. “Well, I should say that at least some people have a sense of propriety. So what are you going to do about it, Mr. Kittredge?”
“Well, my patriotic duty as a Virginian, of course.”
Mrs. Simms had never had much patience for anyone beneath her elevated social status, but a self-made man such as Mr. Kittredge seemed less tolerable than others who knew the station in life into which they were born. And all that disdain was summoned in her expression toward Mr. Kittredge, along with a healthy amount of confusion.
“I have no idea what the state of Virginia has to do with it, but do you intend to make the necessary renovations to the shop or not, Kittredge?”
Anna was able to laugh out loud, but Mary had to turn her face away from Mr. Kittredge’s view, at least, before she could let out a few stifled chuckles. Mrs. Kittredge could perhaps have acted as interpreter, but she was content to have Mrs. Simms detail all the work she felt should be done. It was only then that Mr. Kittredge was able to get to the point of his visit in the first place, to ask Mrs. Simms what her son had heard in the House of Delegates about the upcoming election. What would Virginia do if the Republican Lincoln was elected over Breckinridge or even Douglas? But Mrs. Simms only looked at Mr. Kittredge with even greater condescension.
“A woman of any breeding does not get mixed up in politics,” she said. “That is for men such as my son to conduct and … for lesser men … to discuss.”
And with a single abbreviated wave of her hand, she dismissed Mr. Kittredge from the shop, banishing him to the mercantile next door. Her smile returned, however, once she rejoined Anna and Mary.
“Now Mary, it will not be just my granddaughter’s dress, you know,” she said. “I will need one as well.”
“Oh Misses Simms, I was hopin’ you might say so,” Mary answered, throwing in a little extra drawl after the incident with Mr. Kittredge. “We got some fine blue satin cloth almost as blue as yo’ eyes …”
MARCELLA
NEW YORK
NOVEMBER 8, 1860
It was as impetuous and even childish a moment as any she could remember in half a dozen years at least, and not at all the way she had envisioned her long-awaited triumph. But it certainly achieved the cold and seemingly permanent severance she had convinced herself was necessary, even deserved.
She would turn twenty-one before the month was over, and had been prepared to break away that very day. She had two trunks to carry the last of her clothes and books, the last of the things she hadn’t already surreptitiously transferred to Mrs. Carlisle’s over the past several months, a book here, a kerchief there, and on grander occasions, perhaps an entire dress brought along under the guise of being unable to decide which she would wear. Of course, turning twenty-one meant nothing special to a woman in general, and where Marcella was concerned, it would only mean that she would at last inherit the thousand dollars or so that Abuela had left for all her grandchildren, the sad remains of an estate her husband had left in debt. And Marcella had never been dependent on that money, having accrued a small fortune by her own guile over the years, begun with the slow trickle of Papa’s unwitting contributions and exponentially increased at the expense of Miguel and Bartolomé and card games with their friends until she had amassed over two thousand dollars in all.
Mrs. Carlisle had insisted that she was welcome to move into her home anytime, of course, and had become a little tearfully insulted when Marcella spoke of having enough money to pay for room and board. The delay had nothing to do with money, she most certainly assured her, and she looked forward to the day Marcella would join them, since she could then have both her “daughters living with her.” And they always cried a little when she said that. But there was a principle involved, and Marcella had the chance to make the sort of bold statement that women almost never had the chance to make. Men—white men, Catherine always inserted—came into their own when they turned twenty-one, inheriting whatever wealth they would, not unlike Marcella, but also being granted voting rights and full recognition before the law. It was the point in their lives when they were no longer a child, but a fully recognized member of society, whether at the highest or lowest levels.
“An illiterate, malingering vagrant of a man is more of a person than the most intelligent woman in the country,” Mrs. Carlisle had once said, appealing to the fire she knew would be stirred in Marcella to endure the last several months in her father’s house. And so Marcella had decided to stay, perhaps for even a few days past her birthday so she could make her announcement just as any young man of age would do, as if it were a cogent, unemotional decision. But then came the sixth of November, and the most fiercely contested and divisive election in the nation’s history.
Men like her father and brothers cared nothing for politics beyond its impact on business. There were no enduring principles to abide by, no loyalties, not even regret for supporting a losing candidate, since their money could just as easily buy influence with the man who had won. And when it had come to that year’s election, with three fully viable candidates, they had carefully mapped out which one would serve their interest most completely. There was Breckinridge, the hotheaded Democrat from the South, who wasn’t likely to win more than a handful of votes above the Mason-Dixon Line. That was because the Democrats had split, putting up a second candidate, Stephen Douglas, from the North. And then there was the Republican, Lincoln, who just might slip past the bungling Democrats and on into the White House.
His election might mean hard times for the long-term future of their business, what with how he was always harping on about standing in the way of expanding slavery into the new western territories, but in the short term his election was pure gold to Papa and Miguel and Bartolomé. They had bought up a half-dozen warehouses full of cotton in the last two years, and then held on to it, waiting for the price to escalate. They surmised that Lincoln’s election would bring a spike in the price that would triple their investment, so based on this factor alone, they backed Lincoln. “We make our money when they elect him, and the
n the country come to its sense and elect a real President in four years,” Papa said at the dinner table one night. And if there was anything that could make Marcella hope for Lincoln to lose, that was almost it.
The results of the election took two days to fully sort out, but by the eighth of November it was clear to even the most ardent Democrat that Lincoln had won. Marcella attended a celebratory tea at Mrs. Carlisle’s that afternoon and then reluctantly returned home for supper at her father’s house, dreading the idea of listening to him gloat with Miguel and Bartolomé about the great fortune they had just made. Perhaps it was because she had sipped wine and not tea at Mrs. Carlisle’s, perhaps it was because she had forty blocks of a taxi carriage ride to work herself into a minor idealistic frenzy, perhaps it was an inevitability regardless of the circumstances, but when she walked in the front door of the house, all previous plans and all customary decorum were immediately discarded. She flung open the doors to the parlor where her father and brothers were entertaining five business associates in a cloud of cigar smoke and brandy vapors.
“Mr. Lincoln has won!” she announced, walking quickly to the brandy decanter and then to the five gentlemen guests, filling their glasses as they laughed politely or stared in bewilderment at her.
“What wonderful news for you, Papa,” she continued. “And for you too, Miguel and Bartolomé—and for all of you gentlemen, I suppose. Congratulations! You will be able to sell all your cotton you’ve been hoarding and make a real killing!”
Her father was not amused by her antics, of course, but reserved his temper.
“My daughter is very high-spirit,” he said to the men gathered around. “You must know if ever you have the bad fortune to have daughters.”
And the men laughed and commented about their daughters and so on, all in the usual manner of barely acknowledging her presence in the room other than to lift their glass slightly as she approached them to fill it.
