Then they moved onto dresses, the off-the-shoulder silk faille called Freedom receiving rapturous applause, which made Estella’s mouth curve into the beginning of a smile. The Stars and Stripes—a navy jersey with thin white horizontal stripes fashioned into a dress with a flared skirt, stitched with one large box pleat at the front and back to make the skirt fuller and the waist more defined, and a red star affixed over the heart—had the women scribbling on their order forms. And the Bastille Day dress, a red cotton skirt fitted to a white sleeveless collared top with a sash of navy blue to draw in the waist stirred more cheers. Every piece was finished with a peony in red, white, or a silvery blue.
The show ended with a dress meant for the most special occasion. It was a triumph of architecture, and she’d based it on the dress she’d made for herself the night she went out to meet Alex at Jimmy Ryan’s and had first seen Lena. Sam’s cutting had achieved what Estella had imagined on paper: backless emerald green jersey with a long sash that created a halter-neck, crossed over the bust, then wrapped over the hip to tie in an arresting flounce, like a peony flower, at the left hipbone. No fastenings, which made it cheaper to produce. Estella had called it I’m Lucky because, sitting at the Barbizon out of a war zone, they all were.
At the end, the applause was thunderous. The order sheets totalled two hundred pieces. Two hundred pieces of clothing to make in just two weeks because that was when she’d promised to deliver.
She used Lena’s money to rent a proper workroom on Seventh Avenue, near 550. It didn’t take any effort at all to persuade Sam to leave his job and take charge of the workroom. She employed two women, for one-month contracts, and Janie said she’d come in every day for fittings. Babe Paley from Vogue, who’d come to the Barbizon showing and had spoken to some of the women who’d ordered the clothes, came in to interview Estella about her unorthodox approach to selling. Babe brought in Louise Dahl-Wolfe to take photographs of Estella at work and promised an article would be published the following month.
At the end of the fortnight, there was a stack of garments on the worktable. Sam’s eyelids looked as if he needed Estella to pin them open, and Janie was opening a bottle of champagne.
“We did it,” Estella breathed.
“We sure did,” Janie crowed.
Sam gave Estella a hug.
“Thank you,” she said to him.
“Thank you,” he said with a grin. “That was the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
“Let’s hope they come back for more though,” Estella said, frowning.
Janie passed her a glass of champagne. “Enjoy the moment. Worry about that tomorrow. Celebrate what you’ve done.”
Estella nodded. “To Lena,” she said, holding up her glass.
“And you,” Sam toasted.
As Estella drank champagne with her friends in her workroom, she prayed that she could keep it for the six months she’d rented it for and beyond. Prayed that Stella Designs would be welcomed with open arms by the women of Manhattan.
The orders came in slowly and steadily from the friends of the women at the Barbizon. Forsyths department stores ordered the entire line and Leo Richier, the owner’s wife, was seen out in both the Stars and Stripes and the silk faille. Then the Vogue article ran and six department stores made appointments to view the collection.
Estella ran into the workroom, grabbing Sam’s arm and hauling him away from the worktable, eyes shining, holding out the letters. “Appointments!” she shrieked. “With the buyers from Lord & Taylor, Saks, Best & Co., and Gimbels.”
“Really?” Sam said, reading over the letters and grinning too. “Hooray!” he shouted, taking her by the waist and twirling her around. They both began to laugh and the women in the workroom stared at them.
“We’re in business,” Estella declared.
“You were the only one who ever doubted it would happen.” Sam kissed her cheek.
As he released her and she looked around at the seamstresses, so like Estella and her mother and Nannette and Marie had once been, she felt her smile collapse. This is what her mother had wanted her to do, had urged her to do when she’d put her on the train out of Paris almost two years before. And she’d done it, but she couldn’t write to tell her mother, didn’t even know if she wanted to write and tell her mother, didn’t even know if her mother was alive.
But, standing in her own workroom at last, Estella knew that, despite everything, all she wanted was for her mother to survive. And Alex too. How long would it be before she heard anything of the fate of either of them?
One year passed by. How could it be March 1943, Estella wondered as she opened the door of the offices at 550 Seventh Avenue, offices with a sign in silver lettering that read Stella Designs Incorporated. She walked through the front reception, where a receptionist dressed in Stella clothes greeted her. She peeped into the salon, which was decorated with an Art Deco chaise, three chairs, coffee tables, and photographs on the wall of Janie wearing Stella Designs.
Then she walked into the workroom where thirty women sat around tables, the chatter rising up like optimism as clothes were cut and sewed and embellished and finished, as deliveries came in and went out. Sam stood in the center of it all, making sure everything was perfect. He waved to her as she walked over to her worktable, placed right beside the window, and looked through the designs she’d begun working on for the summer collection.
On her desk sat a letter from Elizabeth Hawes, inviting Estella to take her place in the Fashion Group as Elizabeth was stepping down. Estella had received it a week ago but hadn’t yet replied; did she really know enough, was she really successful enough to sit beside those other women who were far more expert than she? Beside the letter was a photograph of Xander, who’d fitted into Estella’s life like a button into a buttonhole. It didn’t take him long to look for Estella, to search for her in a room, to recognize her, to prefer her to all others. It didn’t take him long to call her Maman, because that was what Mrs. Pardy called her, despite Estella’s protests that she wasn’t his mother.
“You’re more like a mother than anyone he’ll ever have,” Mrs. Pardy had replied firmly.
He needs a father too, Estella didn’t say, but knew the truth of it. She hadn’t heard anything from Alex, didn’t know where he was. The war had only gotten darker and dirtier and more dangerous. Stay alive, she prayed every day. Stay alive so I can bring Xander to you when it’s all over. And you too, Maman.
Xander spent his mornings with Mrs. Pardy and his afternoons with Estella, toddling around tables, picking up pins, playing with buttons, doing everything that was probably unsafe but he emerged at the end of each day unscathed. His hair had grown in dark like both his mother’s and his father’s and he, hauntingly, had Alex’s dark eyes and Lena’s fine bones. The smiles and the happiness and the laughter were all Xander’s own.
Manhattan had been told, via Babe Paley and Leo Richier, people Estella had trusted to clarify the situation if it was gossiped about, that Xander was the son of a relative who had died. It was a risk she had to take because she couldn’t run a business and be an unmarried woman with a child; nobody would have dealings with a woman thought to be so unchaste. Luckily, Estella had been so very obviously not pregnant at her first showing in 1941, which coincided with the birth of the child, so society had no choice but to believe her.
That day was going to be a little different from usual because she’d been invited to attend the American Fashion Critics’ Awards. She, Sam, Janie, and Nate all intended to go and have a damn good time. She’d decided to wear the emerald green backless jersey dress that had won her so much success from the Barbizon showing. She’d made Janie a dress from tulle—tulle was cheap, off-ration, and underused, perfect for Stella Designs—in a bright yellow, sunny like Janie. It was strapless, showing off Janie’s figure to full advantage, with a love heart neckline, ruched horizontally through the waist and flaring out into a full and long skirt so that Janie looked every bit the princess she was.
Estella left the office just after lunch and actually had her hair styled properly, eschewing an updo, but allowing the black length of it to be rolled into glossy curls that even she had to admit were rather spectacular.
Sam collected her and even though he’d cut the dress and seen it a thousand times, he still whistled. “You look beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheek and she smiled, knowing Sam would say that no matter what she wore. He’d proven himself over and over to be her true friend, and every day she was grateful that she’d had the good fortune to catch a boat with him to New York.
“You should start dating again, now that the hard work is done,” she said as she stepped into the cab with him. Over the past year, they’d all been working so hard that she suddenly realized Sam’s love life, which had always been steady but fluid, never fixing on any one woman for too long, had become nonexistent. “Otherwise I’ll feel like I’m ruining your life.”
“Estella, you’ve done the exact opposite of ruin my life.”
He sounded like he meant it but she told herself to be sure to give him some space at the party so women could approach him without Estella getting in the way.
They arrived at the Met at the same time as Janie and Nate, and when Estella saw the way Nate was eyeing his wife, she knew Janie’s dress was definitely one she would put into production. She slipped her arm through Sam’s and walked through the doors of the museum.
The first person she saw was Alex.
The shock was so acute that she stopped walking and the person behind ran straight into her.
“Sorry,” she heard Sam apologize because Estella was incapable of speech.
Alex—it was most certainly Alex—stood across the room looking devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, laughing with someone, jaw more stubbled than it should be, as if he’d only arrived in the country that afternoon and had come straight to the party. Indeed, his eyes looked tired and his face harder, as if he’d seen things that had changed him. Given everything he’d witnessed in the past, Estella dreaded to think what more he could have seen to make him look like that.
Sam followed her gaze across to where Alex stood. “Oh,” he said.
“I didn’t know he was in Manhattan,” Estella whispered.
At the same moment, a blonde in a white dress in the bustle style that Estella hated slid her arm through Alex’s. He looked up at the same time and saw Estella. The shock on his face seemed to be as acute as it had been for her and he actually stepped on the toe of the blonde, who pouted. Sam turned Estella around and led her in the direction of the bar.
“A large sidecar,” she ordered.
“Estella! Bonsoir.” Babe Paley kissed her cheeks and nodded at her glass. “You look as if you plan to have a good time.”
“I do,” Estella said cheerily as if nothing at all was the matter and she was simply at a party to enjoy herself.
“Let me introduce you to some people,” Babe said. “Sam, you don’t mind if I borrow Estella for a moment do you?” As she asked it, Estella realized that Babe thought she and Sam were an item.
Sam must have had the same realization because he grinned at Estella. “See you soon, lover,” he said as he waved her off, which at least made Estella laugh. That was a good thing because, for some reason, Babe was zeroing in on the blonde who was staring up at Alex with simpering adoration. They reached the group far too quickly for Estella to properly compose herself.
“Eugenie, this is the woman I told you about. Estella Bissette, who created my dress for tonight,” Babe said to Alex’s date.
“I’m sorry I haven’t heard of you.” Eugenie’s faux-apologetic smile was flashier than a billboard. “I don’t want to offend you by saying that but I’m just so used to my Parisian designers. Of course with this horrible war on I can’t get my hands on anything remotely fashionable and I keep telling Daddy to convince all his Senate friends not to ration anything and to let us all have the dresses we want but he just laughs as if I haven’t a clue.”
Estella could have sworn she saw Alex wince at Eugenie’s use of the phrase “horrible war” just as Estella herself had winced. But she was keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Eugenie and not on Alex. “Enchantée,” she said, being as French as possible for reasons unknown but feeling it was essential to keep herself together.
“Oh, you’re French!” beamed Eugenie, as if that had elevated her opinion of Estella considerably. “What on earth are you doing all the way over here?”
“Making mischief and beautiful clothes,” Alex interjected, clearly having recovered himself and using the suave tone Estella hated, his on-show voice, the one he’d used at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, the one he used when he was working, which she hoped he must be tonight as it would be the only possible reason for him to escort a woman like Eugenie to a fashion party.
Which was entirely unfair. He was allowed to date whomever he chose.
He leaned over to kiss her cheek, which she supposed he couldn’t get out of, his lips touching her skin as quickly and lightly as possible but it still made her feel as if he’d actually run his hand over her cheek, along her neck and all the way down to her stomach.
“Well, definitely the latter,” she said. “I leave the mischief to you.”
He laughed and instantly looked more like the Alex she knew, guard let down by her smooth rejoinder.
“You two know each other?” Eugenie interrupted, her voice a notch higher than before, head turning back and forth between them, stepping a little closer to Alex as if that would give her the right of possession.
“Eugenie is Senator Winton-Wood’s daughter,” Babe interjected. “She’s interested in fashion and is spending a month at the Vogue offices. We’re educating her in American fashion. Perhaps I could bring Eugenie to your showroom tomorrow so she can see what Stella Designs is doing?”
“Certainement,” Estella said magnanimously. “J’ai hate de vous voir a demain.” Of course she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Eugenie tomorrow but she owed Babe at least that small favor.
She opened her purse, searching for the distraction of a cigarette, and then put one in her mouth only to discover that Alex was leaning across to light it for her. It was such an ordinary gesture, something men did for women all over the country every day. But now it seemed the most intimate of gestures, the way he had to move closer to her, the way he had to watch her, the way both her face and his flared in the light, the way she had to be silent until she’d inhaled, and was then able to turn and exhale the smoke away, hoping her hand wasn’t shaking, wishing she could exhale away every last piece of attraction she felt for Alex.
“Excuse me,” she said to Babe and Eugenie.
As she walked away to find a bathroom she didn’t need, she heard Eugenie call out a garbled mix of French words that she assumed were supposed to mean lovely to meet you, but which made no sense at all. In the bathroom she sat in a chair and smoked her cigarette slowly, wishing she could stay there all night.
She finally took herself back to the party and this time she ran straight into Harry Thaw. But rather than quail, Estella suddenly realized he could do no more harm. He’d revealed the secret. She’d lost Alex. There was nothing left for Harry to destroy.
“Well, if it isn’t Harry Thaw,” she said in a loud voice that was meant to carry. “Who are you going to shoot tonight?”
The maniacal smile froze on his face as every set of eyes turned their way. He clearly hadn’t expected her to be so openly combative. There was an imperceptible and clearly hostile movement of the crowd toward Harry.
He tried one of his laughs, but Estella now saw it as the action of a bully who didn’t know how to fight the strong, a madman who assaulted the young, a coward who’d been allowed to get away with too much. She didn’t intend to let him get away with anything more where it concerned herself and Lena. “You’re standing in a room full of women. I know better than anybody how you molest and abuse women. So unless you want me to start documenting ever
y despicable thing you’ve done, I suggest you leave the room, and leave every woman who crosses your path in the future, alone.”
For one long minute, she and Harry stood with gazes locked. But this was her patch. Here, she was the strong one. He had no more power over her.
He was the one to look down at the floor.
“Good-bye, Harry,” Estella said. She knew it would be the last time she’d see him, that he wouldn’t come back for more, not now.
He walked away, the wall of the crowd opening to let him through then closing behind him, circling Estella, offering her, not Harry, their protection.
Before Estella had time to recover, the room was called to order. Everyone was asked to take their seats. Sam, with a worried look on his face, escorted her to their table at the side of the room.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. And she was. The worry of when she’d next see Harry had gone. She’d met him again and she’d survived. She had other things to think about now. Like Alex’s back, directly in her line of sight, held rigid, leaning over occasionally to smile politely at whatever Eugenie was saying. Eugenie seemed to have no trouble finding excuses to pat his arm, or to dangle her cleavage in front of him.
Speeches followed, mildly interesting. Then Babe took the stage, diminutive and delightful, and everyone clapped because Babe was impossible not to like.
“This is my favorite part of the evening,” she announced. “We have a new award to give out, for a designer who has caught the eye of the fashion world, a designer we believe will be back here again next year, will be the name on the lips of every woman on Manhattan’s sidewalks. One whose clothes you must all rush out and buy tomorrow because, by next year, you’ll need to spend twice as much on them. Someone who has shaken us up, someone who brings an unerring sense of style to clothes women actually want to wear. Estella Bissette, come up here right now and claim your award.”
The Paris Seamstress Page 37
