Chapter Seventeen
The Goodhue sisters are cold as two blocks of ice that night at the theater.
But it started before the evening; they barely spoke in the auto on the way to the dentist. Dinah was all business, doing as Mr. Pierce had directed her—whisking me in for a cleaning, the first I can remember having—and then she had the chauffeur deposit me at my front door without so much as a goodbye.
And now they pretend not to see me as I sit in the dressing room backstage before the show, rouging my cheeks and winding my hair into its chignon. I’m trying not to stare too long in the mirror at my newly white teeth, since I have the vague feeling that it would irk Dinah, and Dolly, too.
Later, after the show, feeling fatigued from the day’s excitement and confused by my friends’ uncharacteristically cool demeanor, I pull Dolly aside. “What’s wrong?” I ask her. “Did I do something?”
Dolly fixes me with a thoughtful stare, her red lips pressed in a straight line. “I thought I’d ask you the very same.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
Dolly throws a look around the crowded dressing room, where the girls are buzzing about in the usual postshow air of euphoria.
Penny is holding court in a small cluster, and she has the girls in fits of giggles as she regales them with her tale of nearly tripping onstage but then pretending she was woozy to go along with the song lyrics.
I certainly won’t be stepping out with them tonight; I’m too tired.
Then Dolly turns back to me, speaking in a low tone as she leans close.
“You know, upstairs? With Mr. Pierce…What did you do?”
This sets me back on my heels, and I fall silent a moment before answering: “Nothing. I looked around some room of his.”
“The Swing Room?” Dolly asks, her brows curving in a tight arc.
“Oh.” I tilt my head to the side. “There was a swing made of red velvet, yes. One floor above the luncheon.”
“What did you do in there?”
I shrug. “I rode on the swing.”
“Did Mr. Pierce push you? Toward the parasol?”
“Yes,” I answer, surprised that Dolly knows that part.
“And then what?”
“And then nothing,” I reply, confused. “Mr. Pierce told me he had to work. We walked back downstairs, and you and Dinah brought me to the dentist.”
Dolly’s eyes could scorch with the intensity of her stare. After a long beat, she asks, “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I insist.
“Nothing more?”
“What more could I have done, Dol? I was only away from you for about five minutes.”
“That’s all it takes,” Dolly says, throwing a look toward Dinah, and then, with a careworn shrug, she turns to walk away. But before she leaves me, Dolly pauses for just a moment, fixing me with one final pointed stare. Her tone brittle, she adds, “Just be careful, all right? Be smart.”
But I feel the furthest thing from smart, because I can’t puzzle out this riddle that Dolly’s handing to me. Didn’t Dolly and Dinah insist I meet Mr. Pierce? All I feel is confused.
—
The next day, an invitation arrives at our door.
Another luncheon, once again hosted by Mr. Pierce, this one for both Mamma and me.
But this gathering is to be held at his offices on Fifth Avenue, according to the card of thick cream-colored stock bearing Mr. Pierce’s monogram and the address of where we are to meet him.
Mamma accepts this invitation more readily, having heard what a grand time I had at the first luncheon.
As a secretary whisks us into Mr. Pierce’s imposing wood-paneled office, we see a fireplace nearly as big as our entire apartment and a table spread with a delectable-looking feast. Mamma gasps at my side.
Told you so, I say with my expression. We lean over to admire the dishes: quail and partridge on silver platters, puréed potatoes still steaming, julienne carrots, a bowl of dark cherries.
I can see that Mamma is just as giddy as I am for such a feast.
Mr. Pierce appears a few moments later and invites us to sit down with him, a party of three.
He serves no champagne at this meal, only lemonade, but the mood in the room is festive and cordial.
Unlike at the earlier lunch, where Mr. Pierce spoke only to me, this time our host is solicitous of Mamma, eager to hear about her passion for sewing, quick to compliment her on her adept job at mothering me through such an illustrious career.
I see Mamma warming to him as the meal progresses, like a plant gradually tipping toward gentle sunshine.
When it’s time for dessert, a tuxedoed footman steps out and, with gloved hands, presents each of us with our very own ribbon-wrapped box of Lowney’s chocolates.
I look down at the parcel in my hands and can’t help but burst into a giggle.
It’s my image on the front of the box! I remember the day the photo was taken.
Mr. Engels directed me to put a big red bow in my hair, while Mamma helped me into a white blouse with big puffed sleeves.
I was made to hold a white pillow against my cheek for hours; Lowney’s has turned that into an image of a fluffy white kitten.
The language on the box, woven with red flowers, asks: “Is there anything sweeter?”
I look up into Mr. Pierce’s eyes, and he flashes me a wink. “Even sweeter in person,” he says. I happily tuck in to the chocolates.
After the chocolates, we end the meal with a delicious cup of coffee with cream and sugar—Mr. Pierce does not offer champagne at this point either, which is fine with me because I doubt Mamma would approve of my having a glass, and I left the detail of the champagne out in my retelling of our first luncheon together.
Full from the meal and happy to have eaten so much chocolate, I resist the urge to slump in my chair. Once the footmen have cleared our dishes, Mr. Pierce puts his elbows on the table and looks at Mamma, asking, “What does Mr. Talbot do?”
Mamma shifts in her seat, gives me a look, then returns Mr. Pierce’s gaze as she answers only, “Mr. Talbot left us.”
“He died,” I hasten to add so that Mr. Pierce does not assume, as he very well might have done, that Daddy chose to abandon us.
Mamma shoots me daggers with her eyes, but Mr. Pierce’s face goes soft as he says, “That must have been terrible for you both.”
I nod, chewing on my lower lip. Mamma pulls her shoulders back, sitting even more upright as she says, “You can’t even imagine, sir.”
“So it’s just you and Evelyn now?”
“I have a son, as well.”
Thinking of Kit causes a pinching sensation in my heart, and my eyes tip downward. Mr. Pierce asks, “And where is he?”
“He’s younger by five years. I couldn’t afford to keep all three of us, not here in Manhattan. He’s enrolled in school outside Philadelphia.”
Mr. Pierce threads his hands together on the table. All three of us go silent for a moment, then he says, “That must be quite a burden for you to bear.”
“Indeed, sir.” Mamma frowns, then adds: “We send his tuition each month.”
“How can you afford it?”
“With Evelyn’s earnings,” Mamma says. “I serve as her agent and manager.”
“I see,” he says, his features creasing in thought.
I shift in my seat, the sweetness of the dessert and my contented feelings from a moment earlier forgotten.
It’s Mr. Pierce who eventually breaks the silence.
“This cannot go on.” His tone is hard. He shakes his head, and I can see, beneath his mustache, that he is frowning.
“Mrs. Talbot, you must allow me to pay for the boy’s school. I won’t hear otherwise.”
“Mr. Pierce!” Mamma’s face has gone white with shock—and something else. Incredulity? As she studies the man, this near stranger, is she trying, as I am, to gauge whether he is in earnest with such an outlandish offer?
But Mr. Pierce goes on before either of us can speak again. “The girl has no father, and, madam, you have no provider. I can never fill the hole left by Mr. Talbot’s tragic departure. But I will do all that I can to make the privations less painful. I’m happy to be your protector.”
Mr. Pierce’s eyes glide from Mamma toward me, and he offers a kind smile. “I won’t accept any answer but yes. You’ll be my special ladies. We need Evelyn to be able to focus on her work, agreed? Her talent as a rising star. How can the poor girl do that if she’s concerned with paying the bills?”
Mamma looks as though she might weep, but Mr. Pierce is animated now.
“Speaking of Evelyn’s talent, I know you’ve told the theater she’s nineteen.
” How does he know that? But before I can ask, he adds: “I don’t blame you for a moment.
You had to say it, and now I understand even better why. But you can tell me the truth.”
I swallow, slanting a look toward Mamma.
Neither she nor I move. But Mr. Pierce leans closer, over the table, and with his voice like a whisper, he says, “I promise it’ll be our little secret.
But I’m not a fool, and I do want the truth.
How can I be your champion if we aren’t honest with one another?
Mrs. Talbot, she’s younger, is she not?”
Mamma blinks slowly, and when she opens her eyes, I see her make the decision to trust this man. I see it in her gaze before I hear her words. Her voice thin, she responds, “Yes. She’s younger.”
I’m surprised by her revelation. But then, most everything about this luncheon has caught me by surprise. Mr. Pierce is looking directly at me now, his pale eyes alight, and he speaks only to me as he asks: “How old are you, Evelyn? You can tell me the truth.”
I glance to Mamma. She gives me a nod, and so I answer. “I’m sixteen, sir.”
A moment of silence, in which I hear only the rhythmic clicking of Mr. Pierce’s fancy clock on the marble mantel, and then our host nods once.
When he speaks next, with his gaze still on me, he says, “Yes. Sixteen. Yes, that’s more like it.
Well, we’ll keep that between us, won’t we?
And now that you’ve got me on your side, no one’s going to give you any trouble. ”
Mamma’s features break into a relieved—and weary—smile.
I allow myself to absorb these words from Mr. Pierce and, with them, the warmth of a small but hopeful glow.
This man is telling us that our troubles are behind us.
Penny told me that many girls in the theater have benefactors; is that what Mr. Pierce is offering to be?
Perhaps this generous and solicitous man really does wish to help us?
Our host appears entirely satisfied with the outcome of our meeting, not at all put off by the revelation of my true age as so many others before him have been.
He says aloud to the room, his tone now cheerful: “I’ve known from the beginning that you are different, Evelyn.
You’re not to be treated like just any chorus girl.
I’ve got big plans for you.” My cheeks flush with warmth.
“First order of business, we are going to get you out of the chorus line. You are star material, and everyone knows it. You just need to put in your time. You are winning hearts as the Spanish Maiden, so keep at that for a little bit longer. But you may rest assured that your friend Stanley Pierce is on the job.”
With the luncheon over, Mr. Pierce sends us home in his chauffeured auto with enough food to fill us for a week.
“My chauffeur will bring these baskets inside for you. I insist.” Mamma and I watch with mouths watering as the servant loads parcels stuffed with pastries, croissants, more chocolates, cheeses, pears, and oranges.
Food we would never be able to afford on our own.
“Only the best for you,” Mr. Pierce says as he personally helps Mamma into his auto. And then he turns and extends his hand to me, helping me up.
As he shuts the door, he flashes me another wink, and I can’t help but return his smile.
There is something so undeniably vibrant, perhaps even a bit impish, about Mr. Pierce, the way his smile flickers.
Something magnetic, I think, as I realize that I enjoy being near him.
I like how he made me feel, during our first luncheon, as if he were shining a spotlight on me.
Now, I find, I don’t want to be out of that light.