Chapter Seven
I stand before the small crowd with my body sheathed in delicate white silk, the material soft as water as it clings to my curves and seeps to the floor.
My loose curls, almost to my waist since Mamma and I have not cut my hair in so long, tumble over my bare shoulders, lending a touch of welcome modesty to the gauzy neckline.
Mrs. Dawson looks on with unabashed approval, as do Violet and Rachel at her side.
It’s a sunny day with plenty of light coming through the tall windows, and Violet is explaining how she’ll create the glow of a halo around my head with shards of gold-colored glass.
Kit, who lost interest in the art and my posing long ago, is playing at the kitchen table with some blocks Rachel conjured. He’s building an Eiffel Tower, inspired by the large map of France, which Rachel was showing him.
The only person scowling is Mamma, but she’s been unhappy for months.
Even this prestigious job, posing as an angel for something as tops as one of Mr. Tiffany’s stained-glass windows, hasn’t been able to draw Mamma from her gloom—her frustration that after over a year at Wanamaker’s, she still hasn’t been permitted to try her hand at stitching some of the ladies’ gowns.
“I haven’t been to Paris,” she’ll gripe at the end of her long shift, her face pinched with frustration and fatigue, and dislike for the floor manager who has told her of her inadequacies with the thread and needle.
“I haven’t studied at an academy. These folks don’t recognize my talent when it’s right before their eyes. ”
What’s more, Mamma feels that Wanamaker’s is draining her time and ability to pursue her dreams outside of the store.
Twelve-hour shifts every day but Sunday.
Serving women who either look right through her or harangue her with their complaints over merchandise she didn’t make.
She hasn’t hidden her irritation that my work is wrapped up in about seven or eight hours each day and yet brings in much higher wages.
In spite of all that, she’s made the effort to be here with me this evening, on the last day of this job, after which Violet plans to travel back to Manhattan to present to Mr. Tiffany the sketches she’s completed of his “angel.” Manhattan!
Tiffany’s! It all sounds so impossibly glamorous.
I hope Mr. Tiffany loves what he sees. Violet assures me he will.
Rachel has insisted that we all stay late for a celebratory dinner.
She’s been cooking for most of the day, in and out as we’ve worked, and the studio is filled with mouthwateringly delicious aromas—a chicken roasting in lemon and rosemary, crispy potatoes drizzled in parsley and salt, and something else that smells like sweet stewed fruit. Suppertime can’t get here soon enough.
At the end of my final pose, when Violet and Mrs. Dawson declare aloud to the studio, “That’s it.
We’ve got it,” and Mrs. Dawson tosses her hands into the air, the three women erupt in applause.
Rachel hoots as she twirls her wooden spoon overhead.
Mrs. Dawson claps, then exchanges a hug with Violet, each of them looking over the sketches like a pair of proud parents.
Their celebration makes me feel even more bashful, so I retreat behind the screen to change back into my blouse and skirt.
When I reemerge, Rachel is uncorking a bottle of red wine, and she pours a glass for Mamma, then one for Violet.
She doesn’t ask me, but when she extends a glass in my direction, I pull back, shaking my head. “Oh…I don’t partake.”
But Rachel is undeterred, still holding the glass out to me as she urges, “One glass, Evelyn. To season the food.”
I throw an inquiring look to Mamma. Coffee, which I drink by the gallons some days, is one thing, but wine is quite another. With the eyes of our entire small party on her, Mamma lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Just one glass. But it won’t do to make a repeat thing of it.”
“I know, Mamma,” I say, biting my lower lip to stanch a smile and eagerly accepting the offered glass. Rachel flashes me a quick wink and then says to Mamma: “Only for tonight’s celebration, here with us. After all, she’s worked like an adult on this.”
Mamma grimaces at this but offers no reply. I turn to Mrs. Dawson to ask where she’d like me to put the angel robe costume, but she cuts me off: “Call me Leah, please.”
This catches me by surprise. Rachel has only ever wanted me to address her by her first name, but Mrs. Dawson has never been anything but the formal Mrs. Dawson while we’ve worked together.
And yet, I can see that in this moment, with our labors complete, her expression is affable, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen, and she adds: “Tonight you are here as a guest in my home. You’ve done great work as a true artist, and we all wish to celebrate you.”
“Hear, hear,” Rachel agrees, clinking her glass to mine. “To Evelyn.”
“To Evelyn,” Mrs. Dawson and Violet repeat.
I raise my glass to my lips to hide the tug of my shy smile.
I swallow a small sip, feel the ripple of warmth that slides down my throat.
The first taste of wine, the fragrant smell of the kitchen, the congenial company of supportive and artistic women who have worked with me as respectful partners—it all feels quite festive indeed, and now I no longer try to fight back against the urge to smile as I enjoy another delicious sip of wine.
“Dinner’s ready,” Rachel announces. We make our way to their wooden table, and we help her to pass around the steaming bowls of food—potatoes seasoned with fresh herbs, green beans drizzled with butter, roasted chicken crisped to perfection.
Violet takes the seat beside me and asks, loud enough for all to hear: “Have you ever been to New York City, Evelyn?”
“New York City? No,” I answer, glancing to Mamma. Mrs. Dawson—no, Leah—is fiddling with the gramophone as music starts to play.
“You ought to visit,” Violet says.
“Your plate, dear,” Rachel interjects, and she heaps a serving of chicken onto it. Next she serves Kit.
“I would love to visit,” I go on. “Someday.”
Violet slides a look toward Mamma when she speaks next. “She’s good enough to work as an artists’ model in New York City.”
Mamma unfolds her napkin primly across her lap, looking down for a long moment. Leah returns to the table with a large pitcher of water, and lowering it, she says: “It’s true, Mrs. Talbot.”
Violet goes on, accepting a plate of food from Rachel. “Evelyn has the sort of face that you can’t stop seeing, even long after you’ve walked away. Her beauty is haunting, like a ghost.”
“Or an angel,” Leah says.
“Well, that’s right,” agrees Violet with a grin. “That much we know.”
I lift my fork, keeping my gaze fixed on my plate as they talk about me across the table. The night is darkening outside the window while we eat, and Violet goes on, explaining, “There’s more work to be had in New York City for a girl with as much talent as Evelyn.”
When Mamma does finally speak in response, her words catch me by surprise. And not only me, I suspect. “I’m good enough to be a seamstress in New York,” she declares.
The table falls silent, everybody chewing on these words along with their food. I look up, glancing first at Mamma’s pointed expression and then around the table. Rachel takes a slow sip of wine and eventually breaks the silence, answering: “I don’t doubt that, Mrs. Talbot.”
Violet swallows a mouthful of food. Then, her words slow and thoughtful, she says: “You know, it’s something to consider.
Both of you have dreams that might find their footing up there.
Particularly in Manhattan, there’s much to be done with the photographers.
” Violet raises her fork, and now she’s looking directly at me.
“When you work with a photographer, they have their image in a fraction of the time it takes a painter to get it onto the canvas. Five dollars for half a day, ten dollars for a full day. I don’t think it’s impossible to ask for that. Not with your talent.”
I break my silence: “Ten dollars a day?” My head swirls; such a sum is hard to even fathom.
Leah leans forward and props her elbows on the table, looking from Mamma to me.
I brace for what she’s about to say—will she be irritated that Violet is suggesting I seek work elsewhere?
But when Leah does speak, her tone is encouraging: “Think how much more work you could do in a day. Minutes to get your picture, rather than hours. And with that, so much more pay.”
I’m no longer devouring my food; there’s too much else to take in. I lower my fork and meet Mamma’s gaze. “To think how much less my neck would ache.”
Leah sips her wine, nodding as she does so. Violet turns back to her food, spearing herself a piece of chicken. Before she takes the bite, she points her fork at me. “Soon it’ll be a new century, Evelyn.” And then, turning to Mamma, she says, “She’s ready for a new challenge.”
I’m not entirely sure what prompts me to do what I do next.
Perhaps it’s the first taste of wine hitting me, or perhaps it’s the camaraderie of women welcoming me to the table like an equal among the adults.
Or maybe it’s the glow of satisfaction I feel at completing such a big job for Mr. Tiffany.
Or the tantalizing mention of such a large sum of money.
I suppose it’s the combination of all of it.
Whatever it may be, I feel emboldened in that moment to speak up, so I say: “I want to go to New York. I am ready.”