December 1941
The week of doing nothing besides talking and loving and kissing passed too quickly until one glorious late morning, when the sun shone like springtime and Estella was lying on one of the bamboo sun loungers that sat on the river side of the house on the wide verandah. She was alternating between sketching and gazing out at the view, so beautiful on a winter’s morning, sun gilding the water, the sky, the trees. The cypress trees, backdropped by the river, were like ballgowns, the intricate ruffled effect of the leaves like exquisite lace adorning the silk of the water.
She felt Alex come up beside her, irresistibly handsome in bare feet, rolled chinos, a white shirt with sleeves pushed up and the top button undone, felt him watching her for a few minutes and then he leaned over to kiss her so deeply that she didn’t hear the sound of a car pull up in the driveway, nor footsteps clatter across the verandah.
“You two look like honeymooners.” Janie’s voice made them jump. There she stood, hands on her hips, grinning. Sam gave Estella a wave and Alex a look that Estella couldn’t quite interpret but it seemed reserved rather than friendly. When Estella had telephoned them and invited them to come, she hadn’t really explained about her and Alex. She knew it would be obvious the moment Sam and Janie arrived, and it was.
She hurried over to embrace them both, kissing Janie’s cheek, so relieved that Janie had come—she hadn’t been able to promise anything when they’d spoken on the phone but Nate was away on business so she’d hoped she could swing it. She kissed Sam’s cheek too, knowing that Alex was watching her and she smiled back at him reassuringly to remind him that she’d chosen him, was not interested in Sam, that there was no need to worry. Estella understood it wasn’t jealousy; that because of Alex’s past, he believed he didn’t deserve her and that she would leave him one day because of it. But she would never do that. He smiled back at her as if he was starting to believe it.
Alex organized lunch on the verandah, dragging out coats and lighting a fire to keep them warm, and they sat in the sunshine and drank champagne. Estella relaxed as Alex drew Janie out, had her talk about Australia, what she missed and what she didn’t. She watched Sam slowly warm to Alex as Alex showed him the library and a collection of books on modernist art which Sam pored over, eventually returning and saying, “You know, at this rate, we might never leave.”
Janie collapsed dramatically into a bamboo lounge, glass of champagne in hand. “Damn right.”
Estella walked past Alex, brushed his hand with her fingertips and whispered, “Thank you.” She saw his eyes darken and knew what he was thinking, but she also knew it would have to wait until their guests retired.
And so the afternoon passed in a kind of charged and expectant manner, both of them enjoying the company of Sam and Janie but both of them making any excuse to sit next to one another, to make some sort of bodily contact, whether it was leg pressed to leg, or brushing a piece of hair away from a cheek, or their fingers touching as they passed a glass or a dish, not needing to speak because they knew exactly what the other was thinking.
After evening had fallen and they’d agreed that the work would start tomorrow, that Alex had meetings to go to, that Estella and Sam and Janie would take over the sunny sitting room on the ground floor, Estella sank onto the sofa beside Alex, tucking her legs up, resting her head on his shoulder, feeling his hand drop down to stroke her hair languorously, with promise, and she couldn’t look at him because seeing what was in his eyes would be too much.
“How’s Nate?” she asked Janie, a subject Janie had studiously avoided.
Janie was more than a little drunk so she answered the question with what sounded like truth. “It was his birthday last week; I wanted to get him a surprise. I went to Bloomingdale’s and stood in the store for an hour, but there were too many things. Then I went to the bookstore because he likes to read—I’d studied his bookshelves to understand his tastes but I couldn’t see a pattern and I didn’t know what he’d already read. So I asked the clerk for a recommendation and he sold me a book. When I gave it to Nate, he said it was fine but I haven’t seen him read it yet. I was at a luncheon earlier in the week and I asked one of the women how long it takes to really know your husband and she laughed and said that sometimes it was best not to know.”
Estella dared to look at Alex and he glanced down at her and she knew he thought the same as her: it wasn’t marriage that made a person knowable.
And Janie must have picked up something of what passed between them because she said, “I thought love was all about finding someone who’d give you a ring and say those three words but now I can see that I don’t have any idea what love is.”
“Janie,” Estella said, hurrying over to her friend.
Janie stood up. “I’m drunk and going to bed.” She disappeared inside.
“Is she all right?” Estella asked Sam.
“She’s bored. And lonely. This week will be good for her. Thanks for asking us to come up.” Sam smiled at her. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
“Never,” Estella said, moving across to him and squeezing his hand. “Besides, who else is going to cut the way you do? I can’t trust my designs to any pair of scissors. And I’ve missed my friend,” she added, so that he knew she didn’t think of him as just a pair of scissors.
He kissed her cheek. “I look forward to having you boss me around again tomorrow. Goodnight,” he said, and nodded at Alex who said goodnight also.
With that they were alone on the verandah, the velvet night air cool but soft and gentle around them, and it was only seconds before they were in each other’s arms, kissing as if they’d never before kissed, his hands stealing up beneath her top to unhook her bra, to run his palms over her breasts, her nipples, her hands searching beneath his shirt for the muscled skin of his back, feeling how fast his heart was beating, loving that she could do that to him, that she could make his breath ragged, his body tense with desire.
“We need to go upstairs,” she whispered.
“I’m going to miss you tomorrow,” he said, then added, “Will you marry me?”
“Pardon?”
“I asked you to marry me,” he said, looking down at her, his face no longer inscrutable, his eyes no longer empty, the hands that couldn’t stop touching her telling her that he wanted her, the heart beating strong and fast in his chest telling her that they were meant for one another, his soul telling her that he loved her beyond anything.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll marry you. And we’ll live happily…”
“And lustily…” He grinned.
“Ever after.”
* * *
When Alex arrived home the next night, it was to find Janie draped in an impossibly beautiful gown, Sam brandishing his scissors and threatening to cut off Janie’s toes if she didn’t stand still and Estella, his fiancée—God, how was it possible to believe that?—laughing, which was one of the best sounds in the world. He stood in the doorway for a moment, seeing her in a different light, in her element, working with her friends and he suddenly understood that she needed them, needed her designs, as much as she needed him; that without her work she wasn’t Estella.
She turned, as if sensing him, and the smile on her face was a wonderful thing. She walked over and kissed him and he couldn’t let it be just a brush of the lips because he hadn’t seen her all day and it went on for so long that Janie said she’d get Sam’s scissors and cut them apart if they didn’t stop.
He reluctantly drew away. “I missed you,” he whispered.
“I missed you too,” she said.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“We have a plan,” Estella said, her eyes sparkling. “Don’t we?” she said to Sam and Janie who chorused in unison, “Sure do.”
He laughed, so infectious was her enthusiasm. “Which is?”
“I’m not doing another show for society ladies,” she said emphatically. “I’ve thought of a better way. The Barbizon is full of the kind of women I want to buy my clothes—drama students, musicians, secretaries, models, artists; they’re women who value good design, who can’t afford couture and who need clothes they can work in. So I’m going to do a showing there, just for the Barbizon girls. They can place their orders before anyone else and they’ll feel special because they’ll have something nobody else has. Of course my plan is that they wear the clothes to work or college and other women will ask about them and want the clothes too. I telephoned Babe Paley at Vogue and she’s going to come to the Barbizon with a photographer and write another piece. I hope that’ll get the orders flowing from the stores. And I called Forsyths and arranged to see them when the collection is ready.” She finally ran out of breath. “What do you think?”
“It’s brilliant,” Sam said.
Alex nodded. “It is,” he said. “Perhaps I should go off to work more often if this is what happens when I’m not here.”
“None of this would have happened without you,” she said and it was another one of those moments of absolute communication, moments he knew must be strange to witness so he broke off eye contact with her as Sam cleared his throat.
“Now to get enough pieces made in the next month,” Sam said.
“We’ll do it,” Estella said.
“Sounds like you’ll be busy,” Alex said.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“Not if it makes you look so happy.” He heard Janie sigh and saw her turn away.
“How about champagne?” he suggested to make Janie feel better. “And food.”
“And an early night,” Estella said wickedly and he laughed, knowing exactly what she meant.
Estella went back down to the city one night and invited out as many of the girls from the Barbizon as were available. She talked to them about what they did at work all day, found out how they moved, what they did after work, how their clothes let them down. She learned that she’d been too bold in her first showing, that just because she loathed the ubiquitous shoulder-padded victory suits, other women clung to their familiarity. That women still, above all, preferred dresses. That it was still forbidden to wear trousers in the public areas of the hotel. So she would include less of the trousers and blouses, a fresh spin on the victory suit, and lots of dresses, done her way, not the Parisian knock-off way.
The next day she returned to the Hudson Valley and sat down at her desk with pictures of her sky dresses. Then she re-sketched each picture, transforming them from something to look at but never to touch into something that demanded to be touched and worn, with enough flair to attract any set of eyes. Dresses that were not just fine but adroit too.
Each day Estella gave Sam her sketches and he cut them in the most economical way, talking with her about what adjustments she might need to make so they could be produced more cheaply. Each day she fitted the models onto Janie, and then Sam re-cut, narrowing seams to reduce the difference in lengths between the edge of the fabric and the seamline so that the bias cuts, which allowed for stretch and comfort, would sit well against a body, using all the tricks that Estella, whose talents had always lain more with sewing and sketching, hadn’t yet figured out.
“You know,” she said to Sam, “I feel as if I owe you far more than I’m ever going to be able to give you. Even giving you full charge of a thriving workroom, if—no, when—,” she corrected herself, “we get Stella Designs up and running seems a poor reward.”
“Working with you is reward enough,” he said cheerfully.
Janie nodded emphatically. “This is the best fun I’ve had in ages. The worst thing is,” she added, suddenly pensive, “I don’t even miss Nate.”
“Why don’t you start dating again?” Estella asked suddenly.
Janie stared at Estella’s reflection in the mirror as if she’d just gone mad. She wore a dress that matched with a demure little jacket for work and which, when the jacket was taken off, transformed into a flirty number with a peephole cut from the back—a first-date dress when you wanted to get to second base, Janie had declared on seeing it.
“I’m married, remember,” Janie said.
“I mean dating your husband,” Estella said, sitting back on her heels, removing the pins from her mouth and sticking them into the cushion on her wrist. “Fall in love with him. Make him fall in love with you. Go out. Seduce one another. Learn everything there is to know.”
The clearing of a throat in the doorway made them turn. “There’s someone here to see you, dearie,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “I’ve put him in the front parlor. I couldn’t get his name from him. He’s a little…” Mrs. Gilbert paused. “Unusual.”
Estella stood up. “I’m not expecting anyone. I should only be a minute,” she said to Janie and Sam before she followed Mrs. Gilbert to the front parlor.
Waiting for her there was Harry Thaw. Estella felt the same chill pass over her that she’d felt the first time she’d met him at Lena’s house but she didn’t let it show, just fixed her eyes on him, knowing he couldn’t hurt her now. All the hurts he’d inflicted were in the past. Done. Buried. Forgotten.
“You’ve taken Lena’s leftovers, have you?” he asked with that awful smile. “Her house, her lover…”
“Mr. Thaw,” Estella said sharply, “I didn’t invite you here. I have no interest in seeing you. And I certainly don’t wish to talk to you about Lena. You’ve wasted your time coming.”
“I don’t think I have,” he said, sitting down in a chair, crossing his legs, smoothing out his trousers. “A brandy would be just the ticket.”
“I’m not getting you a brandy.”
He laughed, a wolfish sound. “It’s not for me, my dear. It’s for you. But if you’d rather hear my news unfortified by drink, then so be it. I thought the time had come to fill you in on the details of your parentage. Yours and Lena’s.”
Estella didn’t reply. She didn’t enter the room, but stood in the doorway. She didn’t drop her eyes away from Harry Thaw’s face even though the effort of holding them there made her head throb.
“Here you are,” he said, holding out a piece of paper. “Your birth certificate. The only mistake your mother made was recording your existence. I suppose she wanted you to have the option of American papers. But it also means that the truth she tried to hide from you is incontrovertibly recorded in ink on paper. Say hello to your father.” Harry’s smile hadn’t left his mouth throughout his terrible speech. In fact it had grown larger, rapacious, a lunatic gleam brightening his eyes. “Say hello to Daddy.”
If she made sure she never looked at the piece of paper Harry proffered her, then it wouldn’t be true. “That’s impossible,” she said, keeping her head as high as she could, wishing her voice had come out more loudly.
“I’ll read it to you, shall I? Let’s see. City of New York. Certificate and Record of Birth. Name of Child: Estella Bissette. Sex: Female. Color: White. Father’s Name: Harry Kendall Thaw. Mother’s Name: Jeanne Bissette.”
“It’s a forgery.”
Now he laughed. That same awful laugh she remembered from the encounter in Gramercy Park. “Perhaps if I explain how it’s possible. You might be aware that Evelyn Nesbit published a memoir in 1916. When I heard it was forthcoming, I asked the publisher if I might see the manuscript; money can buy anything, you know.”
“Not the things that matter,” Estella interrupted. “Not respect, not decency, not courage.”
“You’re as impertinent as your sister Lena. You have that in common at least.”
She knew he was goading her, daring to speak Lena’s name in her presence, but she couldn’t stop the involuntary stiffening of her back and could tell by his laugh that he’d noticed.
He continued to speak, standing up, gesticulating as if he was giving a fine performance. “There were a couple of pages in the manuscript that I didn’t think anyone needed to read. Pages in which she prattled on about John, their Parisian love nest and a precious gift he’d given her, one that she’d had to leave behind in the Convent of Our Lady in Paris. She was a drunk and a morphine addict by then so who knew if it was true? But I’d never believed in her ‘appendectomies.’ So I asked the publisher to remove those pages and I went to Paris. I wrote the Mother Superior a check to repair the chapel and she confirmed that she’d presided over Evelyn’s lying-in and had taken the child, who was still at the convent. Which was very lucky for me.”
Estella’s legs began to tremble, then her arms, her hands, her whole body. She wanted to sit but she couldn’t. She had to make herself stand and listen.
He walked closer to her as he spoke. “I should have known all along that Evelyn was the kind of woman who would dare to have a child in secret. She was never duly grateful for everything I’d done for her and I did everything.”
The emphasis on that one word made Estella shudder. She knew he was referring to the murder of Stanford White, which, in the newspaper article Alex had shown her, Thaw had claimed was prompted by jealousy over Evelyn and White. “You can stop now,” she insisted, but of course he didn’t.
“So I thought it would be fun to take out my revenge on Evelyn’s child. And what a lovely child she was, your mother. She thought I was so charming. Shall I go on?”
“You may leave,” Estella said while she could still speak. If only she’d never seen that photograph of her mother smiling beside Harry. Then she could believe that the certificate was a forgery and he was telling her a fanciful story. “I think you’ve done what you came here to do.”
“I certainly have, daughter.”
Nausea rose in her throat, a nausea so overwhelming she didn’t know how she was going to stop herself from being sick right in front of Harry Thaw. She cringed as he swept past her, almost retched as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, then ran, hand over mouth, to the nearest bathroom where she heaved over and over into the basin.
A spasm of self-disgust and loathing gripped her and she knew then, that no matter how sick she was, the shame of Harry’s words would never leave her.