Alex couldn’t get out of London fast enough, despite his superiors’ protestations that he stay out of the field, that he was more good to them alive in an office than dead in France. “Depends on your definition of alive,” he said, before being dropped by a Lysander into a field in France.
This is it, he thought, as he pulled the ripcord and his parachute only half-inflated. Flying, in a way no man was ever meant to fly, through the sky and down to the ground.
Luckily his welcome crew were there. Luckily the farmer had made a fresh haystack that morning. Luckily, he landed in it. But he didn’t know any of that until much later. Months later, when he’d recovered from being knocked senseless and breaking his arm and his leg, when he emerged from the Seamen’s Mission in Marseille, a rallying point for resisters, to discover that the war hadn’t ended, that it was raging as brutally as ever.
He finally got to Paris, via Toulouse, and made his delivery to Estella’s mother. Not that he took it himself; he asked another of his operatives, Peter, to take it for him to the mailbox, just one of many scattered throughout France. He knew he couldn’t risk getting any nearer to the mother of a woman he couldn’t shake from his mind. He didn’t want to do anything to put her in more danger.
The parcel contained three things. First, a letter from him, unsigned, imploring Jeanne Bissette not to continue in Monsieur Aumont’s footsteps, not to use her apartment as a safe house for downed airmen because he knew her daughter would be furious if she found out her mother had put herself in any kind of jeopardy, and that Alex had known about it. He expected though, if Jeanne Bissette was anything like her daughter, she’d burn the letter and ignore him.
The second item was a stack of German money, enough to buy liquor on the black market to keep the concierge in the building drunk enough that, if Jeanne continued to help the Allies, she could at least do so knowing the concierge would be too sozzled to notice. The third was a letter from Estella to her mother that he’d purloined, knowing it would never get to Paris via regular mail. He wished he could wait for a response but that would be one risk too many.
All through France’s length, from Paris to Lyon to Marseilles to Perpignan, he delivered similar parcels—money, cigarettes—to the passeurs and couriers. They were all women, like Jeanne Bissette, women who held together the resistance movement in France, which nobody would suspect, but that was their great strength. It was up to him to make sure that everyone who risked their lives had the means to do so. But Estella’s mother was the only person to whom he delivered letters from a daughter.
The Gramercy Park workroom was paradisiacal. So much light came through the windows in the early mornings as Estella sat at the big old table—it had become her workbench—for a couple of hours before going to work at André Studios. She sewed the pieces that Sam had cut the night before, making the most of the sun and the quiet, feeling warm, safe, almost as if she were in a trance, as if she somehow belonged in the room, as if the room was cheering her on. She even spoke to it aloud at times, holding up a finished dress and saying, “What do you think?” If she strained her ears, she could just hear a rustle of approval from the drapes, could swear the Tiffany pendant lights glowed a little brighter, that the windows curved outward into a smile.
In the evenings after work, she and Sam would go to Gramercy Park and Mrs. Pardy would bring them delicious food, stopping to eat with them sometimes, and Janie would join them before she went out with Nate. It was a time of joy, she and Sam laughing over creations that didn’t quite work out the way she’d hoped, and never getting discouraged because Sam would just say, in the gentle way he had, “Try again. It’ll work next time.”
And if it didn’t quite work the next time, then it might work out the time after. He was an expert cutter and she said to him, late one night after they’d been working solidly for six weeks, “How is it possible that, of all the men on the ship, I happened to stand on the deck and smoke cigarettes with the one who could help me the most?”
He smiled and put down his scissors. “I don’t know if ‘happened’ is quite the right word. I’d seen you on the ship and thought you were probably the most striking woman aboard. I figured if I was going to be sailing across the Atlantic for two weeks, it’d be best to do it in the company of someone like you.”
Estella laughed. “Were you planning to seduce me before the U-boat interfered?”
“No. I just wanted to talk to you. To see if you could possibly be as beautiful as you looked from far away.”
Estella found herself blushing. “Don’t,” she said, unsure where the conversation was going. She and Sam were uncomplicated friends and that made everything so much easier. She could be in a room alone with him at midnight and there were no expectations. She could accept that he was giving up so much of his time to work with her simply because he enjoyed it; she didn’t need to be fearful that he wanted something in return.
“But then I realized what a slave driver you were and now I don’t see anything in your face other than a woman passing me design after design, along with rolls of fabric, and telling me to ‘cut this as fast as you can!’” he joked and the mood shifted back to one Estella felt more comfortable with.
“I don’t really do that, do I?” Estella asked. “I’m sorry. You probably want to be out like Janie is, finding someone who’s much nicer to you than I am.”
“I’m teasing. I like doing this. There’ll be time to go out later. Besides, I have ulterior motives.”
“Oh?”
“I want this to work. Then I can quit my job making copied made-to-measure.”
“The minute I can pay you what you deserve, you will have a job, not as a cutter, but running my workroom,” she said smiling and Sam smiled back.
It was a moment when Estella thought she could actually do this. That a buyer or two would come to the show, would like what they saw and would place orders. Then she could give Sam and Janie real work and Stella Designs might become a label to look for when women went shopping for clothes.
On Saturdays, Estella still went to Gramercy Park early, creeping out of the Barbizon so as not to wake Janie, who often came in after midnight. Saturday was her sketching day, when she could transfer the pictures in her head into pencil lines on paper, which she would then watercolor to capture the details of the way a skirt should pleat, or how a sleeve should fall. Finally, she’d annotate them with particulars about buttons or belt buckles or fabric.
Her hand was sweeping pencil freely over her sketchpad, always moving because that was how she worked best, when she felt something, a gaze, that made her heart literally stop; she felt the skipped beat like a punch to the chest. A man stood in the doorway, well dressed but exuding a coldness so visceral that Estella buttoned her arms over her chest.
She stood up. Mrs. Pardy couldn’t have let him in because Mrs. Pardy took Saturdays off. But Estella had left the front door unlocked for Sam and Janie, neither of whom would be arriving for a couple more hours. Which left Estella alone in a room with a man who seemed to be feasting on her discomfort, his eyes alight now with a kind of lunatic brightness, his mouth curling upward into a smile that gave Estella no joy.
“So,” he said, “there really are two of you.”
He must know Lena. “And you are…?” she asked.
He stepped into the room and picked up one of Estella’s final sketches, pencil lines filled in with watercolor, the fabric sample affixed to the page. “What a hive of industry this is,” he said.
“I’d prefer you didn’t touch those,” she said stiffly.
He picked up another. And another. Dread anchored in Estella’s stomach more heavily than it had when she’d been in the middle of the ocean, facing down German torpedoes. At least then she’d known who the enemy was and the likely consequences. Now she knew nothing, especially not this man’s intentions, nor what he was capable of.
“Could I have those please?” Estella put out her hand, keeping her voice neutral, not wanting to betray how much she didn’t want him to tear them up or to come any closer or to even speak in his high-pitched voice, like a dangerous child who knew no limits.
“You’re not very trusting. Another way in which you take after my charge.”
His charge. The blood recoiled away from her extremities, forcing the flow to her heart and lungs where she needed it most to survive this conversation. “You’re Harry Thaw,” she said.
A smile that was two parts derangement, one part cruelty. “Yes.”
Estella cursed herself for having spent so much time trying to ignore the larger problem of who Lena was and who Estella was in relation to Lena that she hadn’t bothered to find out anything more about Harry Thaw. Did his predilection for murder and whipping and beating extend only to his wife and those who’d slept with his wife or was he indiscriminate about who he shot and tortured?
She wanted desperately to run through the door and down the stairs and out onto the street, to scream, Help me! Instead she waited, eyes on her designs, on his hands holding them, willing him to put them down, to go, to never come back. “I thought you lived in Virginia,” she said, voice shaking only a little.
“I heard there was something in Manhattan worth seeing.” He put the sketches down. “Where’s the lovely Lena?”
“She’s gone away.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
“She keeps secrets from you too, does she?” He lit a cigarette and as the smoke twisted over to Estella, she knew it wasn’t tobacco.
“Or are you the secret?” he continued. “You must be; there’s no other explanation for your existence.”
“I’m busy,” Estella said, forcing politeness into her words, not wanting to anger him in any way. “If I can help you with something?”
“I don’t know whether you can,” he said, blowing a long stream of chokingly sweet, pungent smoke into the room. “But now that I’ve seen you for myself, I’ll let you know, sooner or later, what you can do to help me.”
And then he turned around and strolled out.
“Oh God!” Estella gasped when she heard the front door slam. She couldn’t move, her limbs were bloodless and her hands shook as she pressed them down onto the table, over her designs, as if that was the only thing she needed to keep safe. As if she hadn’t just endured the most sincere and appalling threat of her whole life.
She sat down with a thud. It seemed as if, from the way he’d said, there really are two of you, that she’d been a surprise to him, that he hadn’t known of her existence until someone had told him Lena had a double and he’d come to see for himself. She supposed that going to meetings with Elizabeth Hawes and nights out at Café Society meant that word had got out.
Where the hell was Lena right now? And Alex? They were the only people she could talk to about Harry Thaw.
Estella walked slowly down to the kitchen, stopping to bolt the front door. She made a cup of coffee. Then she waited, standing silent and still in the kitchen for half an hour until the caffeine hit her veins and her breath evened out. Forget about Harry Thaw, she told herself. And then hopefully he’ll forget about you.
The next month was all about research. Estella watched women step off trains and run for busses, she watched them sit down together at lunch, and she watched herself bending down to measure a hem, sitting for long periods at her sewing machine—her equivalent of a typewriter—noted what women wore out at bars and clubs whenever Janie succeeded in dragging her and Sam away for a night out.
American women had a very different aesthetic from French women, she began to understand. Not for them the finishes and furbelows that so many Parisians craved. In fact, like Estella’s gold dress, which she hadn’t realized was such an unusual piece of clothing for a woman in Paris, American women preferred simpler lines, for the gloss and polish to be embedded in the fabric and movement of the dress, rather than something overlaid and forced upon it.
So Estella drew and erased and tossed away and redrew and erased and watercolored and screwed up paper and drew and painted some more. She sewed and she fitted Janie and she had Janie send in to Gramercy Park some other models who Estella paid with her André Studios earnings, and who exclaimed over the clothes and made Estella feel as if perhaps people would buy them. She ignored all of the larger problems, which she was so good at doing—such as her lack of staff or a workshop, that she didn’t have a spreading machine or a bonding machine, which she’d need if she ever wanted to make up orders in any quantity—reasoning she’d deal with those issues after the show, if buyers placed orders.
At last she was ready. She had twenty pieces. Elizabeth Hawes, who’d sent her a list of names to add to her invitation list and with whom she’d met on two more occasions, had said twenty would be the ideal number. Two bathing suits to start with, accompanied by matching wrap skirts, two trouser suits—Estella wasn’t sure which was the more daring, the bathing suits or the trousers—four day dresses, two skirt suits, two playsuits, four evening dresses and four dresses that she thought could do for work, home, and an evening out. Twenty pieces would be manageable to manufacture, she hoped, until she could make enough money to find premises to rent, to buy more fabric, to start up an atelier that didn’t run out of a bedroom in a mansion in Gramercy Park.
She sent the invitations out and the buyers and the press said they were coming. Which meant it was time to show Manhattan what Stella Designs could do.
The day of the showing was bleak. Steel-gray clouds over slick black pavements and the gunmetal glint of skyscrapers searching for sun.
“It’s not an omen, is it?” Estella asked Janie as they dressed.
“Course not,” Janie scoffed. “An omen would be walking into Gramercy Park and finding someone had stolen all your models.”
Estella laughed. “Or maybe that would be a good thing. At least it would mean somebody wanted them.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Spirit. It had forsaken her. All Estella could think right now was that this was her one and only chance and everything rested on it. If the showing was a failure, then Janie would marry Nate and move out of the city. Sam would never have the job he wanted and would be so disappointed in her he would take his friendship elsewhere, to someone more deserving. Estella would be stuck at André Studios for her whole life, feeling her talent and her soul snipped into ever smaller pieces. Her mother would know that she’d wasted the opportunity she’d been given to become more than a midinette in an atelier. And Lena, whoever she was, would see Estella as someone who’d promised much but delivered naught. Estella would be alone, the scraps of dreams collecting at her feet like snapped threads.
The thoughts played over in her mind as she caught the train with Janie to Gramercy Park, where Mrs. Pardy let them in with her customary beam on her face, the much needed sun on such a gray day. “I’ve made coffee to get you started,” she said. “And pastries.”
Janie groaned. “You’re playing havoc with my figure, Mrs. P.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Pardy said. “You’re the kind of girl who can eat anything and it never shows. You should enjoy it.”
“I intend to,” Janie said, diving on the plate and choosing the largest pastry.
Estella took one sip of coffee and didn’t bother to sit down. “Right, let’s start. Mrs. P, we’ll take a look at the front parlor and see what needs to be done there. Janie, can you get everything ready in the dressing room?”
“Sure can.” Janie waltzed off to organize racks of labeled clothes.
In the parlor, the first thing Estella saw when she opened the door were the vases scattered around the room, things of brilliance in themselves: orb-shaped, with speckled aquamarine enamel making them shine like a tropical sea. Then she saw the flowers arranged inside the vases: lustrous peonies in bright pink which, against the green-blue of the vases, was lively, bold, and enchanting. “How did…who did…?” Estella stuttered.
“I had so much housekeeping money left over with Lena being away that I thought the flowers would be a nice touch,” Mrs. Pardy said.
“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “But I can’t let you do that. You’ve been feeding me and Sam and Janie and I’m sure that we all eat more than Lena does. You can’t have that much money left over.”
“Which is exactly what I knew you’d say. But I wanted to thank you for my suit.” Mrs. Pardy gestured at the elegant sapphire-colored suit Estella had made for her and which Mrs. Pardy had declared she might never remove.
Estella smiled. “Thank you. The room looks magnificent.”
And it did. The color of the vases was a perfect match for the greenery of the park outside, the pink flowers sat like stunning and delicate gowns, even the gray light of the sky gave the room a softer quality than sunlight might, meaning her samples might be able to shine.
After that, there was no time to think. Only to ensure that Sam, who’d called in sick to his workplace, as Janie and Estella both had, was as happy as she was with the way the models looked, that Janie and the other girls knew who was to wear which piece of clothing and in what order they had to line up.
Then it was half past two and Mrs. Pardy thrust a glass of champagne into Estella’s hand, which she sipped with something like pleasure, feeling the bubbles tickle her nose and tease her face into a smile, pushing her earlier worries away. “Here’s to you two,” she said to Sam and Janie. “The best friends anyone could have. And to Mrs. Pardy.” They all toasted and sipped and Estella added, “And to Lena. Who’s been more generous than I can quite believe.”
They drank that toast too and Sam smiled at her and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “You should be proud of yourself too.”
Before she could reply, the sound of footsteps made her turn and then flinch at the sight of Harry Kendall Thaw.
“Mr. Thaw,” Mrs. Pardy said austerely. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here for the show,” he said.
Estella steeled herself. “I don’t believe you’re interested in women’s fashion,” she said.
“I’m not interested in women’s fashion. But I’m very interested in you.” He smiled mirthlessly at Estella, and Sam put a hand protectively on her back.
“This,” said Estella, forcing out the words, “is Lena’s—or was Lena’s—guardian. Harry Thaw.”
Janie eyed him the way only she could, with her typical Australian brashness, leaving no one in any doubt about what she thought. “You like to ogle the models do you?” she asked.
But Janie was the one left openmouthed when he replied, “I don’t limit myself to ogling.”
The silence that followed was gawping, like that of the clowns at an amusement park with their noiseless mouths stretched wide and waiting.
“Estella,” Sam said, his hand still at her back now tight with discomfort.
“It’s fine,” she said stiffly. “Take a seat, Mr. Thaw.” She had no other option. She didn’t have the physical strength to throw him out and nor did she want a scene of that kind right before the showing. And perhaps he owned the house. She knew so little, nothing really about Lena, so she had no way to fight against him.
“Can you keep an eye on him?” she whispered to Sam as Harry settled himself in one of the best seats near the front.
“I will,” Sam said grimly.
The first guests arrived so Estella had no more time to think of Harry Thaw. And Lena’s and Elizabeth’s guest lists proved to be quite remarkable. The buyer from Lord & Taylor had come, as had the buyers from Macy’s, Saks, Gimbels, and Best & Co. the New York Times, The New Yorker, Vogue, and Mademoiselle were all represented by editors or writers. Elizabeth Hawes swept in, kissed Estella’s cheeks and introduced her to a friend she’d brought along, Leo Richier, who owned a cosmetics empire and whose eyes sparkled when Estella showed her the program and mentioned that the black gown she’d made for the finale would most definitely suit her.
There were also several other ladies Estella had never met, ladies who must be the arbiters of taste for Manhattan otherwise Lena and Elizabeth wouldn’t have invited them. But they all looked so glamorous and rich that Estella knew immediately that they were wrong for her; they didn’t need the kinds of clothes she’d made because they didn’t work. They had drivers and spent the morning getting their nails done, giving the housekeeper orders for lunch, pouring a drink for their husband at dinner. Most of them stared at Estella and then moved off into hushed circles, glancing at her often, and it wasn’t until she heard them mention Lena’s name that she realized it was her appearance, her similarity to Lena, that was giving them all the entertainment they desired. She cursed herself for not having thought of that before; of course people would wonder. Just as she herself wondered.
But she greeted and talked and directed and handed out programs as if everything was fine and as if, the whole time, she couldn’t feel Harry Thaw’s eyes on her as he sat, not speaking to anyone, poised, watching. He was the subject of many a whispered conversation too, many a glance, many a subtly pointed finger. Estella had time to think, fleetingly, of how Lena must feel carrying his name, attracting the same kind of fascinated scrutiny wherever she went.
She was running through the program with Babe Paley from Vogue, who was the only person in the room who didn’t seem to think that Harry Thaw or Estella’s resemblance to Lena was the main attraction, when she heard a voice say, “We meet again.”
Estella looked up and into the face of a woman who did indeed look familiar and she struggled to place her for a moment, eyes widening when she finally did. Lena’s party in this very house. The woman in the awful Chanel dress who Estella had told to come and see her one day. And now, here she was, and she didn’t look as if she’d come to be pleased.
“I work for Harper’s Bazaar,” the woman said. “Diana Goldsmith. Wonderful to be officially introduced. I’ve never forgotten our little chat.”
“Well, today you’ll see what can be done without Paris copies,” Estella said determinedly—she was already in desperate trouble so she might as well try to save her scruples—but Diana walked off and sat in a chair next to Harry Thaw as if she somehow knew that was the last place Estella wanted her. Estella tried in vain to catch Sam’s eye to see if he could steer Diana away from Harry but one of the fashion writers was simpering at Sam and had his full attention.
It was time to begin, no matter that nothing was playing out the way she’d dreamed it would. She set the needle on the phonograph and asked everyone to take their chairs. Then she slipped to the dressing room to watch Janie and the other models glide out, admiring the way Janie could walk as if she was skating on ice, so elegantly lithe, clothes seeming to float on her skin as if they’d been put there by magic.
The show itself didn’t take long, under an hour, enough time for twenty outfits to be paraded down a hall, into the drawing room for three turns, then back out again, with a quick change into the next model. Estella straightened sleeves, smoothed back pieces of hair, fastened buttons, ensured shoe buckles were tight. Every now and again she could hear a strange noise from within the parlor, like a cackle, the kind of cackle that narrator in Rebecca might hear in her Gothic mansion late at night but there was no reason why anyone would be laughing, so she tried to pretend it was a bird, or the phonograph record sticking.
When it was time for the last two outfits—evening dresses—Estella slunk back into the parlor while all eyes were on the gowns. The silhouettes were as different from the mid-nineteenth-century look that was so pervasive right then and also so infantilizing that Estella heard at least one or two exclamations.
The gowns were almost the exact opposite of the other: Janie, with her blond hair and extraordinary figure wore the black velvet, an off-the-shoulder dress with a strap circling the top of one of her upper arms, a cinched-in waist and full skirt that dropped away in thick, sensual gorgeousness to the floor. She wore black elbow-length gloves and she looked timeless, ageless, a beauty who could have stepped out of any portal of history. The other model wore a dress which was more of the time: Estella had taken on the trend for lamé and purchased a length of sparkling silver that tinkled through her fingers like pirates’ treasure. She’d designed a plunging neckline that draped in Grecian folds over the breasts, was sashed at the waist, and then fell, without clinging—because clinging and lamé were never meant to be paired—in gentle folds to the ground.
The models looked spectacular and Estella felt herself smile for the first time. She looked over at Sam, who smiled back, and she mouthed, “Thank you,” at him. She could never have done it without him, the lamé especially, which needed the best cutter in the world to make it behave the way she’d wanted it to.
But then she heard it again; that strange cackle, like a groan, almost spectral. It was coming from Harry Thaw. He was laughing—no, not laughing, moaning—with glee, with merriment utterly unfit for a parlor in Gramercy Park at a fashion showing. Estella knew it was the sound she’d heard earlier, that while she’d been putting months of work onto the backs of the models, Harry Thaw had been sitting in here convulsing, attracting the stares and whispers of everyone in the room. Diana from Harper’s Bazaar stood up and walked out, a look of utter disgust on her face.
Estella’s heart dropped so far down she thought she heard it hit the floor. Of all the contingencies she’d planned for—a sick model, a dress splitting its seam, nobody turning up—she’d never imagined a madman might turn her show into a farce.
She swept into the room and, in the loudest and most serene voice she could muster, said, “Thank you so much for joining us today to see the first collection of Stella Designs. I’d love to talk to you about how we might work together, so please stay and enjoy the champagne.”
Throughout her short speech, Harry Thaw continued to howl, a hysterical wolf in the throes of full-moon madness. Immediately Estella had finished speaking, the ladies all stood and kissed various cheeks, declined offers of champagne and swept, en masse, toward the door, eager to be away from the brush of lunacy.
Harry Thaw stood too and, without a word to Estella—but what did he need to say? He’d well and truly won—he left too. Within five minutes of the show finishing it was just Estella, Sam, Janie, Mrs. Pardy, and Elizabeth Hawes standing speechless in the room with the scent of failure clinging to the open and undrunk bottles of champagne, the uneaten pastries, the bent and embarrassed heads of the peony flowers.
“You tried,” Elizabeth said sympathetically.
“I’ve a good mind to hunt him down, seduce him and slice off a certain piece of his anatomy when he’s amid the throes of passion,” Janie said.
“I think even that’s too good for him,” Sam replied darkly.
“Dammit,” was all Estella could say.
Never had anything hurt so much. The love and devotion she’d sewn into each gown now felt like a tawdry thing, a cheap gimmick. She’d squandered Janie’s and Sam’s and Mrs. P’s and Elizabeth’s time, she’d spent all her money; everything she’d feared before the show had now come true. It was just Estella and her rack of worthless dresses, destined never to be worn, as useless as all the hopes she’d clung to, alone in New York City.
She strode out of the parlor, down the hall, through the front door, across the street to Gramercy Park, the quiet haven that nobody could enter without a key. She unlocked the gate and made it to the nearest tree, where she felt her back slide down the trunk, splinters ripping through the fabric of her dress and tearing into her skin. But she didn’t feel any physical pain because nothing could hurt more than her heart rending. She sat on the cold ground, rainwater soaking her dress, heedless, and she stayed there until the tears finally stopped and she was able to go back into the house and tell her friends that it was all over.