Chapter Sixteen
“What in hell’s bells is this all about?
” Mamma stands at our window the next morning, looking down on the street.
For her to blaspheme, I know it must be something.
I join her at the window and see Dinah stepping out of a gleaming cranberry-red horseless buggy, clutching her frothy skirts in her two gloved hands, and striding up to our front stoop.
A few moments later, we are welcoming my fellow starlet into our modest room, scrambling to clear our one armchair, with Mamma in a fluster about putting tea on.
“Oh, now, please do not put yourself out, Mrs. Talbot,” Dinah says, her voice all prim and sugary, much like her daytime getup. She appears to be decorum itself as she adds, “This is a visit among friends. We are good friends now, aren’t we, my dear Evelyn?”
I try to stifle my chuckle. Dinah is acting so proper, in a way entirely unlike her sashaying strut and playful banter backstage each evening. She’s turned out in a day dress with a silk bolero bodice, and the thick scent of her gardenia perfume has filled the entirety of our small room.
“We are, Dinah,” I answer, smiling, finding this act she’s putting on highly amusing—as if she thinks Mamma is so proper. But why is she trying to impress Mamma?
“And I also come with a bit of social business,” Dinah goes on, accepting a hastily poured cup of tea from Mamma but not taking a sip. “On behalf of another good friend. Mr. Stanley Pierce.”
I tilt back where I’m perched on the edge of our bed, slanting a look toward Mamma.
I’ve said nothing about Dinah’s dressing room suggestion that I meet a friend of hers by the name of Mr. Pierce, but Mamma seems to know something about the gentleman.
A slight flush pinks her cheeks as she rearranges the folds of her skirt.
And then a moment later, with her voice sounding thin, she responds only: “Oh?”
Dinah folds her gloved hands in her lap. “You see, Mrs. Talbot, Evelyn here has been most fortunate in receiving a highly coveted invitation. To dine. At a luncheon given by Mr. Pierce.”
Mamma makes a sound in the back of her throat.
Perhaps sensing her opening, Dinah leans forward, pressing on.
“Now, Mrs. Talbot, I can assure you that everything is perfectly aboveboard. Why, I would be there. And I’m even bringing my kid sister.
Dolly’s a good friend to Evelyn, as well.
It’s a luncheon at the Waldorf Astoria hotel.
You know Mr. Pierce worked on the Waldorf for the Astors, right? The man is a genius.”
Mamma offers a tight nod, though I’m not certain to which part she’s replying.
In the face of Mamma’s silence, Dinah carries on: “Mr. Pierce is a great admirer of Evelyn’s talent.
He’s a financial supporter of our show, so he knows her from the theater, but he became even more enthusiastic when he saw your daughter dancing at a private party for Mrs. Vanderbilt… ?”
My cheeks grow warm at the recollection of that recent evening in the lavish Vanderbilt mansion.
“Oh, yes!” Mamma responds, beaming now. “Evelyn was hired as a special invitation. Mrs. Vanderbilt saw one of her pictures, Evelyn dressed up as Salome, and asked if she might offer entertainment at one of her private balls.”
“Good for you, kid, getting invites to parties like that,” Dinah says, staring at me searchingly. I clear my throat. What is it I glimpse passing behind her expression—surprise? Envy? It had been a good paycheck, to be sure, and a nifty scene to see, even if only for a few hours.
Mamma adds, her voice conspiratorial: “The fee Mrs. Vanderbilt offered, well, it was too high for us to refuse. And as it was Evelyn’s night off from the show…”
“How nice,” Dinah says, clasping her hands in her lap. Then, with a sigh, she continues, “I’d say this luncheon is another one of those invitations you’d be foolish to decline. And besides, Mr. Pierce has offered to get her there, door to door. You can see out that window.”
I glance toward the street, spotting once more the cranberry-colored vehicle, and ask, “That’s Mr. Pierce’s horseless carriage?”
“He calls it an automobile,” Dinah answers, as if she is sophistication itself.
I shift in my seat as Dinah eyes me intently, eventually asking: “Have you ever ridden in one?”
“No,” I answer.
“Would you like to?”
I don’t reply. The answer is yes, but I know better than to appear too eager. A ride in an automobile! A luncheon at the Waldorf! Why, of course I’d like to accept. It sounds bully! And I’d be in the company of two of my closest friends from the company. Why should I not?
But, bridling my hopes, I glance once more toward Mamma, whose eyes are slanted toward the floor.
I cannot tell what she’s thinking. Dinah, on the other hand, remains bright and undaunted, setting down her untouched tea.
“Good then, that’s settled,” she declares.
“Dolly and I will be here tomorrow shortly before noon to pick up Evelyn.”
—
Though she claims she doesn’t approve of the outing, Mamma is a flurry of activity that evening and the next morning, so much so that I suspect she might be changing her mind.
Whistling as she scrambles to touch up my best white blouse, she fashions a broad sailor collar around the starched cotton neckline, then selects a pleated navy-blue skirt to pair with it.
I look like a picture of a schoolgirl, skirt grazing my knees, very unlike the getups I wear as the Spanish Maiden.
An hour before the scheduled outing, Mamma pulls my hair back, wrangling my thick curls into a taffeta ribbon.
Then she grabs her own fanciest hat, a leghorn with a bow of creamy white silk, taking her time to angle the brim across my brow.
“You look simply precious, my darling,” she says, making a turn around my figure and pausing once more in front of me.
Staring into Mamma’s eyes, I see something akin to warmth, perhaps even affection.
Is it love? For me? Or pride in how well her handiwork has turned out, and I just happen to be the model?
As promised, the Goodhue sisters appear below our window just before noon in Mr. Pierce’s gleaming horseless carriage—no, automobile—waving up toward me as the sleek vehicle rolls to a halt. I can feel the nervous excitement churning in my belly.
Once down on the street and staring through the windows of the shiny machine, I get a closer view of both of them.
Dinah is in green taffeta and Dolly is sheathed in reams of snug-fitting lavender, its length covering more of her feet than her chest and shoulders.
I see Dolly’s flame-red waves are piled high atop her head in the Gibson-girl-style pompadour.
The hairstyle I helped to make ubiquitous.
As the capped chauffeur helps me into the automobile, I take a seat on the rich leather bench and look around. “So this is an auto.” I stare appreciatively.
Then I turn my focus to my companions. “Hello,” I say, offering them a bashful smile.
Dolly, up close, is a riot of textures and colors.
I can see how tight the pale purple dress hugs her curves, gleaming pearl buttons running down the tailored bodice.
A spray of fake pink flowers fills her soaring hairstyle, framing her heavily rouged and lipsticked face.
“You look nice,” I lie. In fact, she looks more done up than she would be for the stage, and reminds me of an overly frosted dessert.
“Thanks,” Dolly answers, sweeping my figure with her light eyes. “You look…sweet.”
I glance down at my own attire as the auto pulls away from my building and takes us east, turning onto Broadway.
Sweet. I frown at my pleated skirt, my sailor collar.
I feel even more like a schoolgirl now. Only it’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, and I’m most certainly not at school; I’m on my way to a fancy luncheon with two Broadway actresses at the Waldorf Astoria, hosted by some mystery man they’ve decided I ought to meet.
It makes my head spin—that and the excessive perfume wafting off of Dolly and Dinah in this close space.
All I manage in response is “Thank you.”
But Dinah picks up the thread of conversation.
“Mr. Pierce loves this lavender dress. He’s got his eyes on my Dolly.
” Dinah’s eyes hold Dolly with something similar to maternal affection.
But the comment strikes me as odd. Is Mr. Pierce a suitor?
A sweetheart? He can’t be. Dolly doesn’t look all that much older than me.
Eventually the auto rolls to a halt, and I look up at the building before us. I scowl in confusion. “This is the Waldorf Astoria?”
It doesn’t look like the palace I’ve heard some of the girls rave about.
Dinah shimmies across the leather seat as the chauffeur hops out to hand us each down in turn.
I stare at the building as I step out of the auto.
In truth, I’ve not yet been to the Waldorf Astoria and have little idea what it looks like, but I certainly didn’t imagine it to look like this four-story brownstone on the corner of Twenty-fourth Street.
“Isn’t the Waldorf Astoria farther uptown?” I ask.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Dinah says at my side, riffling through the silk purse at her waist. “Mr. Pierce wishes to host us at home. And, look, there’s a toy store right next to the place. You should feel right at home, kid.”
Dolly chuckles as Dinah puts a coin into the driver’s gloved hand. “Say thank you, girls,” Dinah chides, sounding the part of our school matron. “That ride was courtesy of Mr. Pierce.”