Florence Dursheimer’s Day Out
FLORENCE DURSHEIMER’S NOSE WAS BEGINNING to run. She had been standing on the corner of Wall Street and Broadway since six o’clock that morning. She had gone early from her home in Orchard Street thinking to be the first outside the church, but to her annoyance there was already a small knot of women established there. Florence had taken up her place beside these women, who were occupying what she considered to be her rightful spot, with the barest of greetings. None of these interlopers had her connection with the bride. Florence had trimmed the hat that Cora Cash had worn in the photograph that accompanied the notice of her engagement in Town Topics. It was Florence’s deft fingers that had pinned the gold hummingbird just below the ostrich-feather plume. It had been the bird that had caught Cora’s eye when she had entered Madame Rochas’s millinery establishment.
Florence had worked hard on the Coruscator, harder perhaps than was warranted as she was paid by the piece but she had felt uplifted when Miss Cash, the heiress of the season, had raised her hand on seeing her hat. She had tried it on in the shop and Florence had been allowed to place the hat at the precise angle on Miss Cash’s head and had pushed the diamond-headed hatpin into Miss Cash’s warm brown hair. Miss Cash had smelt faintly of orange blossom which had made Florence only too conscious of her own unwashed state and the sharp stink of sweat that escaped as she lifted her arms to place the Coruscator on the heiress’s head. But Miss Cash had not wrinkled her nose or reached for her handkerchief as other rich girls might have done, but had smiled at her reflection in the glass and said, ‘What a charming hat! Did you make it?’ And Florence had nodded and had followed Miss Cash from that point to this spot on the corner of Wall Street and Broadway.
Florence would have liked to dab her nose with her handkerchief but at eleven thirty the crush was now so great that she could not move her arms. She was hemmed in on all sides by women like herself, desperate for a glimpse of the Cash wedding. A number of the women were clutching newspapers with Cora’s picture on the front. They talked about her while they were waiting as if she were a sister or a friend, exchanging details of shoes, her hats, even her gold-plated bridal underwear. Florence had wondered whether she should announce that she had actually met Cora but it was easier to listen to the chatter that swirled around her and content herself with merely feeling the glow of ownership. The general feeling among the crowd was that it was a shame that she was marrying an Englishman, even if he was a duke. But Florence had seen Cora twisting her engagement ring and smiling while she waited for her hat to be boxed up. She knew it was a love match, whatever the papers might say. Florence had seen enough engaged girls pass through Madame Rochas to know the difference between the ones who looked forward to married life and the ones who could not see beyond the wedding.
There was a big swell from the crowd: the bridegroom’s party was arriving. Florence fought her way to the front of the crowd, wedging her head under a policeman’s elbow. She saw two men getting out of the carriage, one blond, one dark. Florence knew from Town Topics that the dark man was the Duke and the other was his best man Reggie Greatorex. She screwed up her eyes, which had been made shortsighted by years of fine sewing in bad light. Prompted by a remark from his friend, the groom turned his head and looked at the crowd. The crowd roared and the Duke smiled and waved his hand and pointed at the white gardenia in his buttonhole. Florence could not be sure of the expression on his face but she thought she saw his hand shake as he reached to touch the flower in his lapel. The Duke’s acknowledgement pleased the crowd and there was a general agreement that he was a fine-looking man. Then the coach containing Mrs Cash and the bridesmaids arrived and there was a high-pitched coo as all the women in the largely feminine crowd sighed over their clothes.
Mrs Cash was in gold brocade trimmed with sable. On her head she wore a fur toque pinned with a brilliant diamond aigrette and a delicate lace veil. Florence had made the hat after a photograph that Mrs Cash had shown her of the Princess of Wales, and although she had not been specifically asked, she had reinforced the side of the veil that would lie over the damaged part of Mrs Cash’s face. The six bridesmaids wore gowns of peach satin with wide hats trimmed with ostrich feathers, and each had a pearl choker round her neck that had been presented to them that morning by Winthrop Cash. There was one bridesmaid with red hair whom Florence did not recognise and she frowned, put out that her encyclopaedic knowledge of New York society women should be found wanting; but then she remembered that one of the bridesmaids was a relation of the Duke. She felt sure that she would have remembered hair of that particular hue, rather an unfortunate contrast with the peach satin. Florence felt the droplet on her nose fall and another one well up to take its place; her eyes, too, were streaming. If only she could reach her handkerchief. Then there was a loud cheer as the crowd further up Broadway caught sight of the bridal coach pulled by four matched greys.
At last the coach drew up in front of the church. Mr Cash got out and turned to help his daughter. Florence found herself being pushed forward by the surge of the crowd. She was edging closer and closer to the entrance of the church. She could smell the lilies in the great wreath that hung over the carved doors. Florence felt someone put their foot through the back of her skirt, but she dared not turn round – she would never forgive herself if she failed to see Cora. There was another sigh from the crowd as the bride was handed out of the coach. Florence craned her head to see but her view was blocked by the coach. She stood on the tips of her toes, pushing her head up until she felt her neck would break, but at just under five feet she was too small to see the bride’s face. Two women behind her were talking about the dress.
‘Now would you say that satin was oyster or more cream, Edith?’
‘It looks cream to me. Wonderful lace on the bodice, Brussels or Valenciennes?’
‘Brussels. It’s a Worth dress, he only uses Brussels lace.’
Hearing this exchange, Florence felt she would burst. Cora was her property, not theirs. Did they have pictures of Cora on every wall of their bedrooms? She, Florence, had even been born in the same year as Cora nineteen years ago and on the same day, if not actually the same month. How dare these women dissect the dress that was Florence’s by right? The policeman standing over her heard her snort and looked down, amused.
‘All right there, miss?’ He had an Irish accent and red, protuberant ears.
‘I can’t see the bride and she’s the only reason I’m here.’ Florence’s eyes were wet. The policeman had left three younger sisters behind him in County Wicklow, so he knew feminine desperation when he heard it.
‘Well, we can’t have that now, can we?’ and with a swoop he picked Florence up by her waist and lifted her on to his shoulders. She made a little scream of protest that turned into a gasp of delight as she caught sight of Cora. The bride was standing on the red-brown granite steps of the church, her train spread out behind her like a puddle of cream. The dress was in the latest fashion with wide leg-of-mutton sleeves, a tiny waist and a flowing skirt. The fabric was a heavy duchesse satin set with pearls. As custom dictated, the neckline was high and the sleeves came right down to the wrist. On each shoulder were epaulettes of white flowers – Florence thought they were gardenias – otherwise the dress had no ornament, no bows, frills or flounces, nothing that would detract from the lace veil with its intricate réseau of fruit, flowers and butterflies. That kind of lace could not be had for love or money these days, Town Topics had told its readers. This veil had originally belonged to the Princesse de Lamballe who, the article went on, had lost her head in the French Revolution. Florence knew nothing about the French Revolution but she knew enough about lace to know that Cora’s veil was worth enough money to buy the whole of Madame Rochas several times over. But she felt no revolutionary fervour, quite the contrary – Florence would have felt cheated if Cora had settled for anything less.
Florence had seen at least ten brides stand on the steps of that church, but she couldn’t recall any of them now as she looked at Cora, whose arms were raised, trying to adjust the tiara on her head, while her father stood by rather helplessly. Florence could see the frown of concentration on Cora’s face and longed to rush forward and fix the tiara so that it would frame Cora’s white face and not ride too low and give her a headache. Florence sometimes worked in the cloakrooms at DelMonico’s and she had helped debutantes with red weals on their foreheads where their hired tiaras had cut into their flesh. The trick was to dress the hair so that no part of the metal would touch the delicate skin around the temple. Surely Cora would have had someone to fix her hair who knew that.
At last Cora was satisfied and lowered her arms and shook her head a little to test her handiwork. As she turned, the lace veil over her face fluttered and Florence saw how white her face was and how she chewed her lower lip. She looked different to the smiling girl who had played with her engagement ring in Madame Rochas: more serious but less confident, and there were purple shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Florence felt disappointed, even a little irritated. She had come here to see a radiant bride – purple shadows she could see in the mirror. Florence put two fingers to her mouth and let out the most piercing whistle she could manage. The Irish policeman pulled her leg.
‘Hey, do you want to get me into trouble now? I’m meant to be keeping the peace here.’
But Florence was deaf to his protests. Cora had heard the whistle and turned in her direction. Florence waved her arms wildly, so much so that the policeman had to put his hands on her thighs to keep her steady. The milliner had never allowed a man such liberties before, but at this moment she was oblivious to the intimacy. Cora looked right at her and she started to smile, the same smile she had given Florence when she had tried on the hat. Florence felt triumphant; she had restored the situation, she alone had given the world what it wanted, a radiant bride. Proprietorially she watched as Cora was handed her bouquet by one of the bridesmaids. The flowers had come, Florence had read, all the way from Lulworth, the Duke’s home in England. Florence didn’t really understand why such a fragile thing as flowers had come all that way; jewels she could understand, but not flowers. But Town Topics had said that all the duchesses carried flowers from Lulworth and it was a tradition that the Duke was determined not to break just because he was marrying an American girl. Florence could barely remember her journey to New York from Germany – the roll of the ship and the smell. She imagined Cora’s flowers on a white cushion in their own cabin and thought of her mother clutching her shoulder as they huddled on deck.
But now Cora was taking her father’s arm with her free hand. The sound of the organ came out of the open doors of the church. Florence watched as the pool of satin and lace was drawn up the steps. As it disappeared and the great carved doors swung shut, Florence felt her body go limp. She slid into the arms of the policeman, who held her upright as the crowd surged around them.
Florence Dursheimer was not the only woman to faint that day. As Town Topics reported later, there were four faintings, one minor concussion and a woman who went into early labour. The paper commented that it was a relief to all concerned that the New York police had managed to keep the injuries among the crowd to the bare minimum.