Chapter 4 #2
At a table laid out with a dozen or more pairs of kid gloves, Maggie stroked the buttery-soft leather, letting her fingertip rest on one perfect pearl button.
The atrium of the store was devoted to all matter of fabric and fripperies—buttons and ribbons, laces and linens, embroideries and trimmings, as well as a whole aisle of stationery items—creamy paper and elegant fountain pens, scented sealing wax and pots of ink.
Dark-frocked clerks and sober-looking saleswomen assisted the many customers, almost all of them women, who fingered this velvet or that satin, their gazes appraising, but also full of enjoyment for the whole experience.
When Maggie had mentioned Marshall Field & Company at dinner last night, Sarah Whitman had talked knowledgeably about the store’s success, how Marshall Field and his second-in-command, Harry Selfridge, had transformed the store with their stunning window displays, full-page newspaper advertisements and cloth-covered catalogs, staggering annual sales, and, most of all, their exceedingly customer-friendly policy.
“Give the lady what she wants,” Sarah had stated with a smile.
“It’s what Field himself has said, and it’s sacrosanct. ”
Maggie could see that in evidence now, as she overheard the respectful and sometimes obsequious tones of the salesclerks, who flattered each customer while waiting with remarkable patience for a decision on which frippery or furbelow to buy.
Maggie wondered if she would have such forbearance.
Well, she knew, straightening as she turned away from the table of gloves, there was only one way to find out.
She headed up the grand staircase to the second floor, which the directory affixed to a pillar by the staircase proclaimed held the women’s costumes, shawls, wraps, and millinery departments, as well as gentleman’s clothing and children’s furnishings.
The third floor, Maggie noted, was taken up by coats and furs, along with a tearoom that offered cakes and biscuits, as well as light lunches for hungry shoppers.
The fourth floor had carpets and upholstery, and the fifth dressmaking.
It seemed, she thought, you could buy absolutely everything in this store, even more than in New York.
Her heart leaped and her mind buzzed as she ascended the staircase.
Harriet O’Malley had been right, she reflected as she emerged onto the second floor, Field’s was better than anything she’d seen in New York, and certainly anything she’d seen back in Ireland.
The building was more elegant, the displays more dazzling, the atmosphere more energetic and electric.
She simply had to work here, Maggie thought with a lurch of desperate determination. This was the sort of place where she could begin to recapture her old dreams, a place where she could dream new, and even bigger. The question was, how?
She found the millinery department on the western side of the store, its long, arched windows facing the street.
The walls were lined with silk, the wooden hat stands with their offerings taking pride of place, while a woman stood behind a wood-topped counter, smiling in a friendly yet professional way as Maggie approached.
“May I assist you, madam?” she asked courteously. “Is there something madam is looking for in particular?”
Flustered to be treated with such respect, despite her modest dress and obviously humble background, Maggie hesitated.
She did not want to deceive the kindly salesclerk and pretend she wanted a hat, but she wished she’d had more of a plan, instead of bumbling right into the department where she wanted to work!
“I’m looking for a position,” she blurted after the silence had gone on a few seconds too long, and the woman’s welcoming smile had started to falter. “I have some experience in millinery, and I was hoping to find work in this department.”
“Ah.” The woman eyed her appraisingly. “Well, they’re always looking for diligent workers, but it’s Mr. Woodcock who does the hiring.
He’s Mr. Selfridge’s assistant. And Mrs. Attlebury is the head of this department—one of the only women to head a department,” she added proudly.
“She’s fair, but she’s strict. She has to be. ”
Maggie nodded, taking it all in. “And where might I find Mr. Woodcock?” she asked, her heart fluttering with anxiety at the prospect of approaching a strange man and asking for a job. Would she be considered too bold, especially considering her lack of experience?
The saleswoman looked dubious. “The directors’ offices are upstairs, but I don’t know that I would go up there without an appointment.”
“But then how I am to ask for a job?” Maggie asked with a touch of despair.
“I suppose you could speak to Mrs. Attlebury…” The woman looked around the department, as if her superior would suddenly materialize, while Maggie considered whether she dared approach the directors’ offices upstairs on her own.
If she was turned out on her ear, she supposed there would be no going back, but at least there were other department stores to try.
And yet, she knew with a fierce certainty that she wanted to work in this one.
“Oh, look!” the saleswoman whispered. “There’s Mr. Selfridge himself! You could ask him.”
Maggie turned, her heart in her mouth, to see a nattily dressed man sporting a crisp wing collar and gleaming patent leather shoes stepping smartly toward her. His dark hair was brushed back with pomade, and he sported an enormous and well-groomed mustache.
“Mrs. Wentworth!” he exclaimed as he greeted the salesclerk Maggie had been speaking to. “And how are your former colleague’s famous chicken pies?”
Bemused, Maggie watched as the other women blushed. “Why, I think they are doing just fine, Mr. Selfridge, thanks to you.”
He laughed, seeming genuinely pleased, and then turned his warmly appraising gaze on Maggie.
“Mrs. Hering’s pies are the talk of the tearoom,” he explained.
“She worked with Mrs. Wentworth at the millinery counter, and one day shared her lunch with a hungry customer, who came back and brought friends! When I heard that, I insisted we offer the pie at our newly opened restaurant. Have you visited that establishment yet, madam?”
“No—no, I have not yet had the opportunity,” Maggie stammered, flustered again to be spoken to in such a charmingly flattering way.
Then, feeling emboldened by his obvious charm, she continued, “But I can certainly appreciate seizing an opportunity when it presents itself, Mr. Selfridge. I did the very same back in New York City, when I worked in service. My mistress was a charming lady, but she was quite at a loss as to how to dress herself. I suggested I design her a dress and hat, and she wore them both admirably, and with much appreciation. It was how I—I began my own millinery business.”
“Your own business! And where is this establishment located?” Mr. Selfridge exclaimed, seeming impressed and delighted, and, Maggie feared, taking her words at face value.
Why had she lied? She’d never had her own millinery business, only the dreams of one, and yet what dreams they had been. She glanced at Mrs. Wentworth, who was looking intrigued but also skeptical—and no wonder, considering Maggie had just told her she was looking for work.
“Alas, it was destroyed by a fire,” Maggie replied, which was, at least in a roundabout way, the truth.
“Back in New York, and so I’ve come to Chicago for a fresh start.
” She paused, and then plunged ahead determinedly, “In fact, I was inquiring of Mrs. Wentworth about the possibility of working in this department.”
“Were you?” Mr. Selfridge rocked back on his heels, his formerly flattering expression turning uncomfortably shrewd.
Maggie feared he saw through her decided stretching of the truth, but she held his gaze, lifting her chin slightly, knowing to prevaricate or apologize now would do her no favors.
And what she’d said had been true… mostly.
She had been engaged in designing a hat for Mrs. Stein, with the sure hope of future commissions, when the fire started by the Whyos had destroyed everything. That counted as a business, didn’t it?
“Well, Mrs… I’m afraid I don’t know your name?” Mr. Selfridge raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Miss O’Halloran,” Maggie said firmly. This was one area where she refused to be cornered into a deception. Single women were employed these days, and if Harriet O’Malley’s opinion was anything to go by, married women were the ones who were not.
“Miss O’Halloran,” Selfridge remarked with the same emphasis.
“I hope you are not considering a position simply to pass the time till you are married?” he continued.
“Too many of our salesclerks prefer wifehood to clerkships! It is what prohibits us from hiring many women, although I suspect our customers would prefer, in many instances, to be waited on by one of their own fairer sex.”
“I assure you, I am not,” Maggie answered with clear decision and honesty. “I have no intention to marry.”
Selfridge’s eyebrows inched higher. “Ever?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his rich, amused voice.
Maggie hesitated and then gave a brief nod. “Never,” she said firmly.
Selfridge nodded slowly, one hand tucked into his front pocket from which hung a heavy gold watch on a chain. He smiled, nodded again, and then stuck out his other hand for Maggie to shake.
“Well then, Miss O’Halloran, you have yourself a job.”