At the front desk of the Barbizon the next morning, a note from Lena waited for Estella. Lena hoped that Estella would come to her house at half past nine. Then Lena would take her to meet Elizabeth Hawes. Estella showed it to Janie.
“It might not be so bad,” Janie said. “Lena looks as if she knows people who matter. Did you find anything out last night?”
“Just that it’s a huge coincidence that I look like Lena.” Estella picked up a pair of scissors and searched diligently over her seams for loose threads that might need trimming. But she didn’t find any.
Janie raised one eyebrow. “And I’m the president’s mistress. Are you kidding? You’ve gotta be related.”
“What does it matter if we are?”
“Aren’t you curious though? I would be.”
“Isn’t there a saying about curiosity killing cats?” She finally met Janie’s eye.
“Lucky you’re not a cat.” Janie grinned as she left the room in her robe and headed for the bathroom.
Estella knew she’d be more curious if it didn’t implicate her mother in some way. But, despite her reluctance, Janie was right; Lena did look as if she knew the right people. Which would be immensely helpful if Estella was to make anything of Stella Designs.
So she tidied her hair and caught the subway to the address in Gramercy Park that Lena had left for her, realizing now that the party Janie had stolen the invitations to had been at Lena’s house. Despite having a mad, murdering uncle, Lena hadn’t done too badly for herself if she could afford a place in Gramercy Park.
Estella emerged from the subway into a brilliantly cold and blue winter’s day. A smile dropped onto her face when she saw the sun. She’d meet Elizabeth Hawes, take whatever help she could get from her, work feverishly on her collection, and aim to show it in the spring of 1941. It was a plan, a plan that made her feel good, a plan with certainties attached to it unlike the many uncertainties presented by the evening before.
But as she swung into Gramercy Park East, her smile was quelled by the grip of nausea in her stomach, by the fingernails of terror sweeping over her neck.
She was standing outside the house it had been too dark to see on the night of the party. But now she could see it too well. And Alex’s words, the ones she’d cut off, played over: Do you know how your mother came to own the house in Paris? Because it’s the same as…Now she knew what he’d been about to say: it’s the same as Lena’s.
As well as Estella having a double in Lena, the hôtel particulier in the Marais on the Rue de Sévigné had a Manhattan double and Estella was standing right before it. Lena’s house was an exact replica of the one Estella had been in with Alex the night her world turned upside down.
She stared at the massive arched portal. In daylight, the house was so out of the ordinary for New York that it seemed impossible she wasn’t drunk or dreaming. The portal led to a courtyard through a carved wooden door—which must have been open on her previous visit—and was even flanked by chasse-roues, the guard stones that used to protect the walls from the damage inflicted by carriage wheels curving in too close. Redbrick trimmed with blond stone, a blue-gray slate roof, a courtyard garden with swept gravel paths and the scent of mint freshening the air, the Four Seasons sculpted onto the facade of the townhouse—Winter looking hunched and despairing, Summer’s head affixed, his gaze brutal.
The door swung open. Lena frowned when she saw Estella’s face. “You need a drink,” Lena said.
Estella followed her inside and saw that the interior rooms were identical in size, shape, and location too, their perfect condition showing off the splendor that the Marais townhouse must once have possessed. The friezes on the wooden ceilings sparkled with resplendent color rather than neglect and Estella could now see that the stencils were of flowers and pearls and cupids, something that had been impossible to discern in the faded pigments of the Rue de Sévigné’s ceilings. And there was the vaulted staircase, buttressed by a spectacular void underneath, in which Estella had kissed Alex.
In the parlor, Lena made Estella a sidecar. “Drink up,” she said.
Estella drank gratefully even though it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. “I don’t suppose it’s the best thing to do before meeting a member of the Fashion Group.”
“But nor could you have gone looking as if you might faint at any moment. Surely you’re not nervous. You don’t seem the type.”
Estella shook her head, trying to find the words, wondering if she should keep it to herself. But it was so momentous, so large and terrifying and altogether peculiar that she had to say it. “There’s a house in Paris that is an exact copy of this one. And when I say exact, I mean like us. As in there’s no possible way the two houses aren’t somehow related.”
“So you’ve conceded we must be related.”
That same implacable tone. It gave nothing away. Estella had no idea how Lena felt about any of it. Whether she was as unsettled as Estella or if she didn’t care a bit. Instead of answering, Estella said, “This house must be a copy of the one in the Marais though because that was built in the seventeenth century.”
“My uncle built it the year I was born,” Lena said.
“The mad, murdering one?”
“The very same.” Lena smiled a small smile and Estella wondered if that was all she ever gave of herself, that slight curl upward of each lip, the barest glimpse of white teeth, a smile so guarded it would take an entire army to break through.
“I’ve never heard of your uncle,” Estella said, as if that was proof of something.
“And I’ve never heard of your mother.”
“Which leaves us with nothing besides speculation.” Estella stared up at the painted wooden beams on the ceiling. “I need to meet Elizabeth Hawes. I need to focus on immediate problems, such as how to gain a foothold into New York’s fashion industry, problems that are solvable, rather than the vastly larger and ever more complex riddle of who we are to one another.”
“Then let’s go and meet Liz,” Lena said.
Which they did, in an elegant townhouse on the Upper East Side, where an equally elegant lady ran her eyes over Estella’s dress before she took in her face. “Your design, I imagine?”
“It is,” Estella nodded. “I’ve read your book,” she continued, referring to the exposé of the fashion industry that Elizabeth Hawes had published two years before, detailing the ins and outs of copying Parisian designs, and the practices of Seventh Avenue factories and Upper East Side made-to-measure businesses with such candor and humor that it had created quite a buzz. Hawes no longer ran her own made-to-measure business and Estella wasn’t sure if that was by choice or whether Manhattan society hadn’t taken too kindly to the truth-telling. “I worked as a sketcher in Paris too.”
“Did you enjoy it?” Elizabeth asked.
“It was a way to pay the bills. A way to become a better designer. Paying bills and designing are both skills I need.”
“They certainly are. Despite the fact that one has to sell one’s soul, it was the best training I ever had.” Elizabeth eyed Estella appraisingly. Then she smiled at Lena. “I think I’d like to chat with Miss Bissette for longer. You don’t mind?”
“I hoped you would. I’ll be back in an hour.” Lena kissed Elizabeth on the cheek, which proved to Estella that Lena must have some warmth hiding somewhere inside her if she was capable of friendships, and left.
“Judging by the look of your dress,” Elizabeth said, standing up and coming over to finger the oversized white collar of Estella’s dress, an elongation and elaboration on a man’s tailored shirt, with a white silk lily in the buttonhole, “you’re designing sportswear. I don’t mean that as an insult. But you’ll know, if you read my book, what I think are the issues with designing sportswear.”
“I do. But that was before the war.”
“Tell me, what do you think of the monastic dress?” Elizabeth asked, referring to Claire McCardell’s famous dress, the first-ever American design to have become much-copied.
“I like the intention,” Estella replied honestly. How much should she say? What if Elizabeth loved the monastic dress and Estella’s opinion proved only how ignorant she really was? McCardell was a member of the Fashion Group, alongside Elizabeth, after all. But holding her tongue had never been her strong suit and, just as it had gotten her into trouble before, so it probably would now.
“It’s easy to move in, and it’s washable,” Estella said. “But it’s also very plain and its strength—its shapelessness—means it doesn’t suit all figures.”
“What would you do that is different?”
It was impossible to tell whether Elizabeth agreed with her or not, whether Estella was digging a hole for herself right through to the subway with every word. “I’d keep the same price point—make dresses for somewhere between twenty and thirty dollars from washable fabric. But McCardell’s dresses don’t make you want to tear them from the hanger and drop them over your head; they’re functional but not beautiful. Despite the war, I’m still predisposed to beauty. So I’d add the tiniest of embellishments. In Paris, my métier was making the artificial flowers for couture designers. I want my clothes to have just a little touch of something fun and stylish to set them apart. Like the lily,” she finished, pointing to the flower on her dress; it was also plain and made of an affordable fabric but it was cut closer to the body, which meant a slender figure like hers wasn’t overwhelmed in fabric as it might be in the monastic dress.
Elizabeth Hawes didn’t reply immediately. Then she said, “You know it takes two years for a Parisian trend to become a trend on Seventh Avenue. Or it used to take two years,” she amended. “What you were used to seeing in Paris last year won’t make it to a Manhattan office building until 1941.”
“I remember you said that in your book.”
“But with the war on, how will anyone know what the women in Paris are wearing?” Elizabeth mused. “How will the buyers know what’s an experiment and what’s a copy of Lucien Lelong? Will it make them more conservative? Or less?”
“I heard that Claire McCardell has just succeeded in having her own name on the labels at Townley Frocks,” Estella said. “And the New York Times has finally started naming some American designers. Surely, if there are enough of us saying ‘this is fashion, these are clothes you can work in, play in, go out to dinner in,’ then people will start to believe it? They’ll ignore Schiaparelli’s ridiculous suggestion that American women aren’t elegant enough for there to ever be a fashion center here. They’ll start to see that not ‘all beautiful clothes are made in the houses of the French Couturières.’ ”
Elizabeth laughed as Estella quoted her book at her. Estella took it for encouragement and plowed on. “I saw your Paris showing in 1931. My mother took me to it.”
“What did you think?”
If she lied, Elizabeth would be able to tell. How to phrase what Estella wanted to say in a way that captured the sense of that show, but without being insulting? “We thought it was like what the Statue of Liberty is to the Eiffel Tower. French-inspired,” Estella continued, “but with more self-importance.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Then her face became suddenly serious. “You know that the Great American Design movement that Lord & Taylor began in 1932 fell flat on its face?”
“And you think I will too?” Estella’s eyes fell away from Elizabeth’s face and into her lap. Did that mean it had been a waste of time coming? That everything she’d hoped for in a boat in the middle of the Atlantic was proving as elusive as the end of the war?
“On the contrary. Maybe now its time has come.”
“Really?” Estella’s head lifted to meet Elizabeth’s eyes.
“Fashion is one of a very few industries where women can have influence and power, albeit within a male-centric space. The manufacturers are all male, the magazine owners are male, department store executives are male. They run the business; we do the designing. So there’s a constant battle between the authority our design abilities and our understanding of the customer grant us and the tendency of men to want to put their stamp on everything because they hold the purse strings.”
Estella frowned. If this was a pep talk, it needed work.
Elizabeth sipped her tea, then continued. “I’ll never forget Fortune saying that success in style, designing, or in the sale of cosmetics implies little or nothing. That Elizabeth Arden is not a potential Henry Ford because what she does isn’t a career in industry; cosmetics and fashion being weekend hobbies rather than industry. It’s branded on my brain; the article concludes by saying that ‘Elizabeth Arden and her kind, in other words, are not professional women.’ Never forget those words. You have to be ten times as good at what you do than any man ever is at what he does.”
“I can’t believe they said that!” Estella slapped her teacup on its saucer. “Actually, I can. I’ve always been disappointed in Chanel and all the other female couturiers who got their start by being someone’s mistress. But how can I blame them? Is it even possible to do anything without first sleeping with a man for his money? Even if it was, you’d still be seen as ‘not a professional woman.’ Men seem to only want us in our negligees in their beds rather than doing something that matters.”
Stop, Estella told herself as her mind caught up to her mouth. For once, just stop. The conversation had taken an upward turn. Now, who knew.
“You’re very outspoken.” Elizabeth paused, then smiled. “As you’ve read my book, you’ll know that outspokenness is a quality I admire. I’ll do what I can to help you. You don’t need much to start making clothes. But publicity and trade customers can be decidedly trickier. That’s where I come in. We’ll start with an introduction to Babe Paley, a fashion editor at Vogue—your aesthetic is more Vogue than Harper’s Bazaar—and also to Marjorie Griswold, Sportswear Buyer at Lord & Taylor. And perhaps you’ll show all the naysayers that American women do have the courage to be fashionable in a way that suits them rather than in a way that suits French women.”
Estella couldn’t help herself. She flew at Elizabeth, kissed both her cheeks and said thank you so many times that Elizabeth was forced to tell her, in no uncertain terms, to shut up.
When Lena collected Estella, she had a patron, plus a way to earn some money to fund her business. Elizabeth Hawes had suggested she approach André Studios, a subscription fashion service, for which Estella could sketch copies. The copies were then sold to manufacturers who didn’t have designers or comparative shopping departments—which meant most of Seventh Avenue. It would be an easy job. Nothing Estella hadn’t done a hundred times before. Something she’d do until she had her samples and could show her own designs.
“Sell a bit more of your soul; it makes the bits you’re left with all the more precious,” Elizabeth had said, smiling a little, before she saw Estella off.
“Thank you,” Estella said to Lena once they were in the car. “I really mean it.”
“Glad to help,” said Lena, smooth as always, responding as if Estella had just thanked her for the loan of a cup of sugar rather than a lifeline. “Why don’t you have your showing at my house? I assume you don’t have another venue?”
“I don’t even have dresses to show, let alone somewhere to show them,” Estella said. “But I can’t use your house.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t know you. Because I’m scared of what you mean. “I don’t…” Estella paused but there was no way to say it delicately. “I don’t think I can afford somewhere like your house.”
“My house is free. I think you can afford that. But can your scruples?” Lena raised an eyebrow at Estella. “Design me a dress in exchange. A one-off. It’s the ideal payment.”
Estella wanted to say yes. But if she did, she was committing herself to Lena, to knowing her, to finding out more. Then she looked across at Lena and saw something so sad about Lena’s eyes, a kind of emotion Estella knew she never wanted to feel, which made her say, “I would love to have the showing at your house.”
“Work out what you need and then come and see me and we’ll go through the details. Perhaps you could aim for a late spring showing?” Then Lena hesitated. “Try to come before New Year. Please?”
Was 1941 really so close? In all the confusion of the past week, Estella had lost track of time. Her mother had been living under German rule for six months but Estella had heard nothing from her. She would try again to send her a letter, to ask who her father was, to say that she’d met Lena. Then, if she heard nothing more, she’d go to see Lena and, with her, try to piece together the mystery of who they might be to one another. Because what if Lena was her sister, a sister Estella had always wanted. Surely that was worth finding out?
So she made up her mind. It wouldn’t be before New Year, but she would see Lena again. First, she had to give her mother this one last opportunity to explain.
The New Year passed with no word from her mother. Estella decided she would wait until mid-January before she gave up. Before she delved into things that hurt with Lena, a woman she didn’t know, instead of with her mother, a woman she’d thought she’d known best of all.
To keep herself occupied, she worked at André Studios each day and, every night, she went to Sam’s apartment and sketched and sewed, determined to make enough dresses for a showing in the spring, while he cut and Janie modeled.
One freezing night in January, while Sam cut the designs Estella had worked on earlier in the week, she emptied a bag of groceries onto the kitchen table and used the single burner and tiny oven to make a chocolate cake. She knew if she didn’t do something, she’d hover over Sam while he was cutting and annoy the hell out of him. The cake was one her mother had taught her to make and Estella thought of it as the best comfort food she’d ever eaten. And she wanted the smell to waft through the apartment, to remind her of winter nights in Paris when she and her mother would eat cake and drink coffee, huddled by the fire, happy. It was a way to hold on to those memories while she still could.
The door buzzed while Estella was melting chocolate and she let in a beaming Janie.
“I only have an hour,” Janie said. “I’m meeting Nate at the 21 Club.”
“That sentence requires a great deal more explanation,” Estella teased, scraping her finger around the mixing bowl and licking cake batter off her finger.
“Nate is the man I met at the party in Gramercy Park,” Janie announced.
“Is met another way of saying kissed?” Sam inquired. “It didn’t seem to me that there was a lot of meeting going on at the party.”
Janie put her hands on her hips. “I don’t have time for meeting. I’ll be twenty-four this year, which is ancient. I need to cut to the chase.”
Estella shook her head. “Janie, you’ll be gorgeous for at least another hundred years.”
“For that,” Janie smiled, “you can find me something to wear. I saw you whipping up a silver number the other day and I think silver and my hair color would be magic.”
“They would,” Estella agreed, “but it’s not quite finished.”
“So hop to it!” Janie said.
“I know you’re only half-joking,” Estella mock-grumbled, putting the cake in the oven and sitting down at the sewing machine.
“When you get a workroom,” Sam said to Estella, “you should put Janie in charge. She’d frighten the freckles off a Midwesterner.”
“A Midwesterner,” Janie scoffed. “I’d frighten the freckles off an Australian, and that’s saying something.”
Janie chattered on, amusing them with anecdotes about Nate, who did something in a bank, who’d sent her flowers, and who Janie thought had “catch” written all over him.
A short time later, Estella stood up and handed the dress to Janie. “Here’s your rod. Hope your fish is worth catching.”
Janie kissed Estella’s cheeks. “He’s worth at least a free dinner at the 21 Club. And I asked him to bring a friend for you. So you’d better get dressed.”
“I have work to do. I can hook my own beaux.”
“Really?” Janie raised her eyebrows. “Where are all these beaux? Hiding under the bed?” Janie shucked off her shirtwaister shamelessly, so used to dressing and undressing in front of others that she couldn’t have cared less who was watching although Sam did have the manners to turn away.
“You know she’d rather you watched,” Estella joked and Sam laughed.
“Get dressed,” Janie ordered. “We have a date to go to.”
Estella knew there was no point arguing. But she could at least set some terms. “I’ll come. But I’m going to leave at ten so I can still do some work tonight.”
“You might find you don’t want to leave at ten,” Janie said and Estella wondered, as she changed her dress, if Janie was right. If her mysterious date would turn out to be someone she’d be happy to see again.
While Estella brushed her hair, Janie fished a copy of Women’s Wear Daily out of her handbag. “Did you see that?” she asked, pointing to a picture of a “kitchen dinner” dress, a Claire McCardell design complete with attached potholder.
“I hope that’s supposed to be ironic,” Estella said grimly. “I see the point she’s making, that the dress can go from work to the kitchen and back out to the dinner table but couldn’t she have attached a…I don’t know…a…”
“A box of rubbers?” Janie supplied.
Estella doubled over laughing. “You’re terrible!” she said. “But yes, you get my point, although I was thinking of something more like a typewriter. All the women at the Barbizon are artists, musicians, actresses, secretaries. Not just the makers of dinner.”
“A typewriter would be much less fun,” Janie grinned.
They caught a cab to the 21 Club and Estella’s heart sank the minute her date, Eddie, said, “You sure are a looker.” He proceeded to regale her with a comprehensive rundown of baseball, which he said she’d need to get to know now that she wasn’t French anymore.
“I’ll always be French,” Estella said stiffly. Even though she had no idea what being French meant anymore in a world where swastikas hung from every hotel, monument, and municipal building in Paris.
Rather than think of France, she studied Nate, who seemed perfectly benign. He wasn’t as well off in the handsome department as she’d thought he’d be, but he clearly thought Janie was also a “looker.” He joined in the baseball talk with enthusiasm but had the manners to glance over at Janie occasionally to top up her wine, to ask her how her meal was—a meal that he’d ordered for her—and to ask her if she was cold, or if she wanted champagne instead, or to remark that he bet she’d never tasted lobsters so good before.
No, Estella wanted to interject, our lives were so dull before you came along. We couldn’t order our own champagne or work out for ourselves if we were cold or make a decision about the lobster without first checking with you.
But Janie didn’t seem to mind. She smiled and asked Nate to tell her more about the Yankees, whoever they were. Estella excused herself, knowing she was descending into grumpiness, hoping to recover her humor in the ladies’ room.
Janie went with her. Once out of earshot, Estella said dryly, “I didn’t realize you were so interested in baseball.”
“I couldn’t care less about it,” Janie said gaily as she reapplied her lipstick. “But men love it when you ask questions. It makes them feel important. Which makes them happy.”
“Does he ever ask you anything in return?”
“Why would he?” Janie shrugged. “I put on a dress, parade it around, take it off, put on another one.” She snapped her compact closed. “You could still make dresses when you’re forty. But my face is my fortune. Nobody will pay me for it when I’m forty.” Janie swept toward the door.
Estella caught her arm before she left. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You should do whatever you have to do. But I might go back to Sam’s and do some work. I think that’s my fortune, not Eddie. Do you mind?”
Janie hugged her. “Of course not. Besides, Eddie’s been ogling the legs of the lady at the table next to ours. He’s not the right man for you.”
Estella laughed. “Thank you. My legs feel shunned but my ego is still intact. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Once back at Sam’s flat, she answered Sam’s question about her date by cutting herself some chocolate cake, rolling her eyes and saying, “If I never hear the word ‘baseball’ again, it’ll be too soon.”
She changed out of her dress and into a pair of black rayon-crepe trousers that she’d made up in memory of the refugee women trudging across France. The matron at the Barbizon had censured Estella again when she’d seen her wearing them the week before.
“Women do not wear slacks in the public areas of the Barbizon Hotel,” she’d said as she caught Estella crossing through the foyer.
“Then I’d best get myself out onto the sidewalk,” Estella had replied, hurrying away with a grin. It had earned her a formal reprimand so she’d left the trousers at Sam’s knowing she couldn’t afford to lose her cheap accommodation.
Now, she lapsed into quietness, getting up from the kitchen table every now and again to see how Sam had to alter the design slightly so that it could be cut in a more economical way, letting her pencil sketches come to life on the wooden mannequin they were using to trial the designs.
“If we cut this on the bias,” he said of one, “then it can be slipped over the head and you can save money and time on fastenings.” Or, “If you alter the line of this skirt slightly, I can cut it a little off-bias and it will hang evenly but keep its fullness and you’ll save on pattern pieces.” And so the night wore on until Sam yawned so much that she told him to get some sleep.
“Stay as long as you like,” he mumbled as he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep in an instant.
She’d finish one last dress, she decided, then she’d take the train back to the Barbizon, go in the service entrance to avoid being caught breaking curfew, and sleep for a few hours herself. She turned the wireless on low, in time to catch Charles de Gaulle speaking from England, urging the French people to fight, to do whatever they could to resist the Germans, to never, ever give in.
As she listened, she felt so strongly the distance she’d put between herself and her mother, herself and her homeland, only able to sit here and hope and wish and pray, unable to do anything besides make dresses. What was her mother doing right now? Was she listening to de Gaulle too, in secret on a wireless hidden somewhere in the apartment? Was she thinking about Estella? Was she, did she ever, think about Lena? Did she even know about Lena? She must, surely.
Then she heard a light tap on the door. She looked across at Sam, but he hadn’t stirred. It had to be Janie. Something must have gone wrong on her date if she’d come back here.
Estella tiptoed over to the door and opened it with her finger on her lips to warn Janie that Sam was sleeping. Except it wasn’t Janie. It was Alex.