“You too, Jimmy,” she said. She watched him saunter back to his friends and accept a glass of booze. She thought of the two shopgirls at Howard’s on Seventh, remembered the cold warning in their voices, and shivered.
FOURTEEN
This is most disappointing, Vivian.”
Every inch of Miss Ethel, from her crossed arms to her pursed lips, was tight with disapproval. One foot tapped while she looked Vivian up and down, as though she had discovered something unpleasant crawling across her shop floor. Behind her, the other girls moved as silently as possible to avoid drawing her attention.
Vivian could see Florence, already settled at her worktable and tense with anxiety, her brows drawn together with anger that she would never risk acting on.
“I’m real disappointed too, ma’am. I know how lucky I am to have this job,” Vivian said.
She had checked the ledger of deliveries as soon as she arrived, stealing two seconds while Miss Ethel’s back was turned. If she was going to find out anything about Willard Wilson, she needed to be the one making those deliveries.
Vivian knew the best way to get what she wanted was to show Miss Ethel exactly whatshewanted: a girl who was humble and eager toplease. She dropped both her voice and her expression, biting her lip as she met her employer’s eyes. “But I just don’t think I can sew anything today.”
Miss Ethel sighed, casting her eyes heavenward. “Unwrap it, if you please. I’ll be the judge of whether you can work today or not.”
Vivian’s jaw tightened, but she caught the warning shake of Florence’s head in time. Her sister was right. Rent was due in ten days, and she couldn’t afford to say no. And if she wanted Miss Ethel to agree to a change of duties, she had to play along, no matter how humiliated she felt. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, fumbling with one hand to untie the bandage.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Florence half rise to come help before another seamstress pulled her back down. Vivian ignored her sister, not wanting to direct Miss Ethel’s disapproval anywhere but toward herself. After a moment, she was able to unwrap her hand and hold it up for inspection.
Miss Ethel grabbed Vivian’s wrist with two pinching fingers, turning the hand left and right in a careful inspection. The angry red swelling hadn’t gone away completely, and it cut an ugly swath across Vivian’s palm, starting just below her thumb.
Without warning, Miss Ethel grabbed Vivian’s thumb and bent it forward, and Vivian yelped and tried to pull away as pain shot through her whole hand and up her wrist. Blood welled out of one end of the cut, squeezed out by the abrupt motion. Miss Ethel made a noise of distaste, dropping her hands immediately and pulling out her handkerchief to wipe them off.
Vivian blinked back tears, her jaw clenched tightly against pain and fury as she wrapped the bandage around her palm again.
“Very well, no sewing today,” the shop owner said, not even a bit apologetic as she turned back to the counter that divided the seamstresses from the shop. Some stores tucked their workers away in the back room, but Miss Ethel wanted every customer to see that clothes in her establishment were sewn with painstaking care by girls who were grateful to have the work.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t work,” Vivian said quickly. It was hard to keep the nervousness out of her voice, but she figured that would be okay. Everyone would think she was worried about keeping her job. “I’m sure you have important customers expecting deliveries. Maybe I could handle those today?”
Miss Ethel paused. Vivian held her breath, trying not to look too eager. “That is a very good idea,” Miss Ethel said finally, and Vivian sagged with relief. “You taking them will save me the cost of a courier.”
As she spoke, she stacked five flat dress boxes, each two feet long, on the counter, their destinations inked on top in her rigid handwriting.
Vivian eyed the small tower. “May I take a cab, ma’am?”
Miss Ethel raised her eyebrows. “If you can pay for it, certainly,” she said. “If any need alterations, pin them at the lady’s home. Your sister can sew them at home tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vivian waited until her employer’s back was turned, then pulled the boxes toward her and checked the addresses. At the very bottom of the pile was the one she had been hoping for.
Mrs. Willard Wilson (Henrietta)
925 Fifth Avenue
(mourning gowns, 3, check hem and shoulders for fit)
“Is something the matter, Vivian?” Miss Ethel snapped.
Vivian jumped. “No, ma’am,” she said quickly. She stacked the boxes so the one for Mrs. Wilson was on the bottom, giddy with excitement that her gamble had paid off. “Thank you for your understanding.”
The shop owner sniffed. “I hope I am always a model of Christian virtue to you girls, who have so little of that sort of example,” she said, casting an eye over her workers, all of them bent over their sewing to avoid meeting her gaze. “Now hurry along.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vivian said, her mind already jumping ahead to the mansion on Fifth Avenue where Willard Wilson’s widow was waiting for her.
“Mrs. Wilson is attending to some household affairs, but she should be at leisure to see you in fifteen minutes or so,” the housekeeper said as she led Vivian upstairs. “As you are delivering her mourning clothes, I assume there is no need to explain the situation?” She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke, her beady gaze skewering Vivian.
She didn’t want to seem like the sort of girl who was intimidated when surrounded by so much suffocating opulence. But she also knew there were moments when it was better to play along with what was expected—especially if she wanted to find out anything. Vivian nodded and tried to look suitably cowed. “I understand it was Mr. Wilson who passed away. I’m sorry for Mrs. Wilson’s loss.”
