The Fashion Designer

by Nancy Moser

  Since it had been less than three weeks since she’d washed her hair, she was safe from that chore. For Mrs. Mixter declared washing more often was detrimental, as was washing hair when it was cool or cloudy. Yet looking in the mirror, Henrietta could see her hair was oily. So she took out her jar of fine corn meal. A little sprinkle and a good brush would keep it another week.

  The jars in hand, she took some clean undergarments from the dresser, her nightgown, and her dressing gown to give some sense of modesty while walking down the hallway after her wash. Her comb, toothbrush, and tooth powder came too.

  Henrietta walked to the bathroom and was relieved to find it unoccupied. Once inside she perused the room with disdain. She was right to forgo the bath and noted she would also need to buy some sort of scouring agent before she could indulge in a good soak. The sink could use its own scrub. And the loo…all she could say was that it was better than using a chamber pot.

  There were plenty of hooks for her clean garments, and she hung them up. She turned on the sink faucets and held her hand under the water until it was hot. Then she began to get undressed. Only she couldn’t.

  Her dress unbuttoned in the back!

  On shipboard there had been a stewardess to help and then a maid at the hotel. Now that she was alone…she tried to contort her arms to free herself but could not.

  She shut off the water and began to cry. It’s not like she could knock on the door of a stranger’s flat and ask for assistance. That would make a grand impression.

  And so Henrietta used the loo, washed her face—soaking her sleeves and neckline—brushed her teeth, and went back to her flat. Exhausted by the act of surviving, she ignored Mrs. Mixter’s list of beauty to-dos for the first time in two years.

  She removed her shoes, fell upon the bed, and began to cry again, missing her mother and father. Missing home. She’d risked everything to come here. “Lord, thank You for getting me this far and for the amazing friends You’ve given me, but I need help!”

  With the request made, she had no choice but to trust that the Almighty had heard her and would answer her prayers. He would forgive her faults and frailties.

  But would Mrs. Mixter?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Annie took a second look when Henrietta came into the workshop. Her hair was disheveled, but it was more than that. Her clothes—which were usually impeccable—were horribly wrinkled and she was wearing the same dress she’d worn the day before. Neither point was the norm for her former mistress.

  She didn’t have time to ask her about it, as Gert had not shown up to work at all and a new shipment of fabric was delivered just in time for the third dress in their line to be constructed in all sizes. Annie was especially proud of this dress. It would be a perfect dress for work: the fabric a steel blue rayon chambray. The sleeve length was three-fourths—the length of choice for most of Annie’s designs. The neckline had no collar, but a facing that was squared off six inches below the neck, with two strips on either side of the square continuing down the front of the bodice halfway, ending in two points. Within the center squared-off area the bodice sported tucks to provide ease over the bust, with matching tucks at the shoulders. Top stitching added ornament to the facing and the edge of the comfortable sleeves. The skirt was made in six straight panels that opened into six pleats at knee level providing ease of movement. The top of each pleat was adorned with a column of three silver buttons that matched the silver buckle on the matching belt. The dress had a side zipper and a small opening at the back of the neck.

  “I appreciate all your designs, Annie,” Henrietta said as she helped Maude pin the pattern pieces to the fabric, “but the detail of this one is a favorite.”

  What an odd choice of words. “Appreciate?”

  “I appreciate that they don’t have buttons down the back.” She turned around to reveal her current dress.

  “So that’s why you’re wearing your yesterday dress today,” Annie said.

  Henrietta nodded sheepishly. “I couldn’t get out of it.”

  Maude swiped a hand across the air. “Headline: Woman Held Prisoner by Dress!”

  “It’s not funny,” Henrietta said. “Actually it is very funny, and rather pitiful.”

  “Men designed those dresses,” Maude said. “I’d bet a hundred dollars on it.”

  “If you had a hundred dollars,” Edna said.

  Henrietta moved to a dress on a mannequin and pulled the ample sleeves outward. “My mother and grandmother used to talk about narrow sleeves that were designed so tight they couldn’t raise their arms above shoulder height. It was almost a sign of wealth to be unable to do work.”

  “How silly,” Annie said.

  “I agree,” Maude said. “Think of the absurd styles over the years. Side hoops, circle hoops, bustles, hobble skirts…none of which allowed a woman any comfort or ease of movement.”

  “From what I’ve heard, the styles a hundred years ago were comfortable,” Edna said. “High waistlines right under the bust, flowy fabrics, no hoops at all.”

  “Why did fashion revert back to hoops?” Maude asked. “If women were free of them, why go back?”

  “It’s a mystery,” Annie said. She thought of something she’d always wondered about. “Did they have corsets in that era?”

  “I believe fashion has always constrained women with corsets,” Edna said.

  “There are brassieres now,” Maude said. “I saw some in France.”

  “I’m not aware of any woman actually wearing one,” Edna said. “Are you?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “How hypocritical are we to complain about corsets yet continue to wear them,” Maude said.

  “We have no alternative,” Vesta said, “but to go…naked.”

  “We shan’t have that now, shall we?” Maude laughed. She pointed to Annie’s midsection. “How are you faring with your maternity corset?”

  Their interest spurred her to make an adjustment for more comfort. “Better than a regular corset to be sure, but life would be much easier if we didn’t have to cinch everything in.”

  “I can’t imagine that will ever happen,” Henrietta said. “To wear no structure…it would seem scandalous.”

  “It would be such a relief,” Vesta said.

  As if on cue, each woman made corset adjustments—which brought about laughter.

  “Back to work, corseted ladies,” Annie said.

  While the women began to discuss some detail of dress construction, Annie asked Henrietta out to the hall.

  “Yes?” Henrietta said, once they were alone.

  “This is awkward, but since you offered…”

  Henrietta nodded, anticipating the subject of the conversation. “Money. You need money?”

  “We will shortly. I used the last of the funds from the Sampsons to purchase the fabric that was delivered today and to pay some wages.” Annie looked so hopeful.

  “I suppose the wisest action would be to go to a bank and deposit it there. But I’m not sure how to do that,” Henrietta said.

  “Sean could go with you.”

  “Doesn’t he have to work the same hours as the banks are open?”

  “He could come home on his lunch hour and take you. Or perhaps Steven could help. His school is not far from here. Perhaps he could come over during their lunchtime.”

  She liked the idea of Steven’s help. The only way she would be able to truly find out if he had any interest in her was to spend some time with him. “Whoever is willing and available. I would appreciate the support.”

  “I’ll call the school presently and leave a message.” She smiled, as if remembering something. “Make sure they spell your name right.”

  “What?”

  Annie shared a story about Lena Bryant Malsin going into a bank and her first name being misspelled to Lane.

  “That one mistake changed everything,” Henrietta said.

  “Mistakes often do.”

  Henrietta cocked her hea
d, curious. “You have a personal example?”

  Annie hesitated then said, “None that come to mind. None that I can share.”

  “You tease me with a good story.”

  Annie shrugged away her secrecy. “Actually we are living the story. I hope my business choices do not turn out to be mistakes.”

  Henrietta felt compelled to offer encouragement. “We need to remember that God can use anything for His purposes.”

  “I count on it.”

  Steven came into the workshop, bringing with him the spicy smell of autumn. “Afternoon, ladies.”

  Henrietta found herself touching her hair. She tucked in a stray wisp.

  Edna looked up from her lunch. “Steven. What are you doing here?” She handed him half a sandwich, which he declined.

  He looked directly at Henrietta, and she felt herself blush. “I’ve come to help Henrietta with some banking.”

  “Really.”

  “Annie left me a message.”

  Edna turned her gaze to Annie and flashed a mischievous smile. “Really.”

  Henrietta didn’t want the conversation to continue, so she wrapped up the last portion of her bread and cheese, retrieved her jacket and reticule, and addressed the others. “I will be back as quickly as I can.”

  “No hurry,” Edna said.

  Henrietta heard their giggles from out in the hall even after they closed the door. She was mortified. “Forgive them,” she told Steven. “They like to tease.”

  She had hoped he would say he didn’t mind, but instead he said nothing and followed her down the stairs. Obviously he wasn’t happy about his assigned task.

  Only when they reached the street did he speak. “Do you have the money with you?”

  “I do not,” she said. “I didn’t know I would be doing this today. We will have to stop at my flat and get it.”

  They walked in silence. Why did she always find herself without words around him? She was thankful the walk was brief. She assumed he would wait for her at the street, but he held the door and followed her inside.

  “You can wait here.”

  “I would like to see how you’re faring.”

  She was glad she’d unpacked. At least to the casual guest she would appear moved in. She opened her door. “See? All settled—thanks in part to your mother’s additions of dishes and towels.”

  His eyes scanned the room. “It’s chilly in here.”

  “Yes. Well, I decided not to start the fire.”

  He stepped to the grate. “You have no wood.”

  She sighed, beaten. “A good point. And I also have no kindling or matches.”

  “Why not?”

  A plausible story surfaced, but she pressed it down. “Because I don’t know where to get them. And honestly, I also don’t know how to make a fire.”

  “You’ve never made a fire?”

  “I have not done many things.”

  His forehead furrowed as if her words annoyed him. So much for ever thinking he would find her amiable.

  She tried to think of a defense. “I had never crossed an ocean to a foreign continent on my own either, or found my way through a city, or checked into a hotel, or lived on my own. My everyday skills may be lacking, but I do believe I have shown some measure of gumption and courage, Mr. Holmquist.” She hoped he caught her formal mode of address.

  “I apologize. I do not mean to disparage you. But if you need help, Miss Kidd, please ask.”

  She didn’t like their banter and backed down. “Thank you, Steven. I did ask. And now you are helping me with my banking.”

  “Actually, Annie asked.” His face looked hopeful. “Though at your request?”

  His need for affirmation made her soften. “I am very glad for it.”

  “As am I, Henrietta.”

  They exchanged a smile, creating a truce. Of sorts.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Holmquist,” said the bank officer.

  Steven turned to Henrietta. “I recently opened my own account here.” He looked back to the man. “Which is exactly what Miss Kidd wishes to do today. Will you help her, Mr. Stein?”

  The man’s right eyebrow rose and Henrietta was reminded of their morning discussion regarding the rights of women. She gained strength from it. “I assume you will take my money, or do I need to go elsewhere?”

  There were no more raised eyebrows.

  “Of course, Miss Kidd. We are happy to serve you.”

  She put her stuffed reticule on the table. “My funds are in British currency.”

  “That is not a problem.”

  She pulled the bills and coins from the purse, the clatter making another bank employee look in their direction. Apparently it was fine to deal with money, just not to let others hear the process.

  Mr. Stein expertly divided the money into denominations and counted each stack, noting the total in a neatly written column. He added them together twice, to check his work, consulted another page, did some more math, and then said, “After charging a small transaction fee, you have the equivalent of $125.34.”

  She smiled. It sounded like a lot. She glanced at Steven, but his face was noncommittal. “I would like to keep out a sum for daily expenses but deposit the rest.”

  “Perhaps fifteen dollars so you have rent money and a little more for food and such?”

  “That will do.” Again, she looked at Steven. “Yes?”

  “That should suffice.”

  “Very good then.” Mr. Stein took out a form and asked her questions. She made sure she spelled her name for him. Telling him her address made her American life seem real and permanent. When he was through, he gave her a small notebook. “This is your passbook where you write transactions.” He showed her where to note the date and which column to use for deposits and withdrawals, and then on the far right, a column with a running balance. Although Henrietta had never had a bank account, she had seen such a ledger when she helped out at the family’s mercantile where she assisted customers, made change, and took inventory on occasion. Money transactions were not completely foreign to her.

  She smiled at the thought. Now they were not foreign at all.

  Mr. Stein left for a moment, taking her money with him, saying he would return with her fifteen dollars.

  Henrietta let out a breath she’d been saving. “I did it. It’s done. Thank you for helping me, Steven.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  She looked at the noted total in her passbook. “It feels very satisfying to have done this. My money is much safer here than in a stocking.”

  “You sailed across the ocean with your money in a stocking?”

  “I—I didn’t have time to make arrangements before I left.”

  His brow furrowed. “You make it sound as though your journey was on impulse, unplanned.”

  She chose her words carefully. “It was very much planned.” But there were limitations because of its secret nature.

  “I didn’t mean to cause offense or be nosy,” he said. “And it’s good your parents are available for more funds.”

  “Really? I mean, I thought this was a goodly sum.”

  “It’s quite respectable—if it only needed to cover your expenses. But as you’ve offered to help fund Unruffled…”

  “It’s not enough for that?”

  “It will certainly help. But it is good you have other resources.”

  A swell of panic rose within her. Why had she offered to pay when she had no idea how much fabric, supplies, and wages cost?

  Mr. Stein returned with her fifteen dollars. “Here you are, Miss Kidd. Thank you for your business. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help you.”

  If only he could.

  “How did you fare at the bank?” Annie asked when Henrietta returned to the workshop.

  “Quite well.” She hung her jacket and hat on a hook.

  “Steven’s gone back to work?” Edna asked.

  “He has. Your son was very helpful. He is a kind man.�
�� Henrietta didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Do you have some seams for me to sew?”

  It was best to keep busy. Though “busy” wouldn’t solve her problem. Nothing would.

  Annie was pressing the seams of the latest dress when she heard a communal gasp. She turned around to see the reason for it. Gert stood in the doorway of the workshop. Her face was puffy, and one eye was nearly swollen shut.

  The ladies ran to her.

  “Oh, dear girl.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sit down.”

  Gert eased herself into a chair. Her winces proclaimed unseen sources of pain. Memories of Annie’s family flooded back. Her bruises. Her groans. Her excuses for her father.

  Annie got to the point. “Who did this to you?”

  “Frankie. Who else?”

  Vesta put a comforting hand on her shoulders. “No husband has a right to beat his wife.”

  “Right or no right, he gives me a go once in a while.”

  “Were you arguing?” Edna asked.

  Maude scoffed. “Of course they were arguing. A man doesn’t haul off and hit his woman out of the blue.”

  Gert adjusted herself on the chair, favoring her right hip. “He drank up all me wages, and I called ’im on it. Shouldn’a done that, but it ain’t the first time.”

  “You worked hard for those wages.”

  “Aye, I did. I work harder ’n him any day of the week. If he works.”

  Again, Annie remembered her family. A drunkard of a father who couldn’t keep a job. A mother, hardened by her own abuse, who didn’t have enough left in her to love her children. “You’re not going back there,” she said.

  Gert nodded toward the doorway where a small satchel stood. “No, I’m not—at least not right away. I wanted to ask if I could sleep in the sewing room a few nights.”

  “There’s no bed.”