Chapter 10

“These gloves are not the ivory I need. Show me another pair, and quickly, if you please. I’m meeting ladies for lunch and time is rapidly getting away from me.”

During the week Beatrix had been employed at Marshall Field & Company, she’d dealt with ladies like Mrs. Hermann Davis on an hourly basis—ladies confident of their superiority over a salesgirl they believed was far beneath them, a notion that left Beatrix holding her tongue time and time again.

Granted, she’d seen more than her fair share of ladies who were members of the New York Four Hundred treat members of the serving class rather deplorably. However, she’d never been reluctant to share her opinion regarding their unacceptable behavior with them, earning her a few disgruntled remarks from the ladies in question. But because she was one of the great American heiresses, what with her father being one of the wealthiest men in the country, those ladies always seemed to be on better behavior the next time she ran across them, which was why it was now so difficult to swallow the reprimands she longed to voice.

“This is no time for dawdling. Do you have other ivory gloves or not?”

Beatrix shook herself back to the situation at hand. “Of course I have more, Mrs. Davis,” she said, not bothering to add that she’d already shown her over twenty pairs of gloves, all of which the lady had found fault with for some reason or another.

In Beatrix’s humble opinion, having to fetch a single pair of gloves from the drawers that were built into a cabinet behind the glove counter was a waste of time. It would have been far more efficient if she could display numerous pairs at once for her customers to peruse. However, Marshall Field & Company had specific rules about such matters. And because she didn’t want to be dismissed from a position she found fascinating, even with all the aggravation she dealt with as a mere salesgirl, having not had the experience needed to be given the more coveted title of saleswoman, she returned the gloves the lady had dismissed with a sniff to their proper box. Pulling out another pair of ivory gloves, she spread them carefully onto the glass counter.

“Perhaps you’ll find this pair more to your liking,” Beatrix said as Mrs. Davis leaned over the counter, inspecting the gloves with an eagle eye. “If I may direct your attention to the label sewn into the glove, you’ll notice it’s the famed Alexandre Kid Gloves, produced only in France.” She ran a finger over the fine leather. “Marshall Field’s is the sole agent of these gloves in America, having been given that honor after A. T. Stewart’s store fell on questionable times after his death.”

Mrs. Davis’s head snapped up. “You say that only Marshall Field’s sells this glove?”

“Indeed, and while it does come with a dearer cost than the other gloves you’ve seen today, there’s no finer glove to be had.”

“And does it come in other shades of ivory?”

Knowing there was nothing to do but pull out every shade of ivory the Alexandre Kid Glove came in, Beatrix set about doing just that, keeping a smile on her face as Mrs. Davis inspected every glove as if it were a life-and-death situation.

“I’ll take twenty in every color of ivory you have,” Mrs. Davis finally said with a nod. “See that they’re delivered to my residence this afternoon and charge them to my account.”

“Very well, Mrs. Davis,” Beatrix returned, flipping open the notepad where she kept track of her sales and poising her pencil over the page. “I’ll simply need your address.”

“You don’t know my address?”

“I’m afraid I don’t because I’ve only recently come to Chicago and—”

“I don’t need to know any of that,” Mrs. Davis snapped before she rattled off her address, forcing Beatrix to write down that information so quickly that her handwriting was almost illegible.

“Will there be anything else I may do for you today, Mrs. Davis?” Beatrix asked, lifting her head and blinking when she realized that while she’d been scribbling away, Mrs. Davis had taken her leave without a single word of appreciation for all the time Beatrix had spent assisting her.

“Aunt Gladys was right,” she muttered, closing her notepad. “I truly had no idea what the world was like for working women.”

“Miss Waterbury, have you not had an opportunity to completely read the handbook I know you were given on your first day of employment with us?”

Summoning up yet another smile, because Marshall Field & Company expected their employees to sport a smile at all times, Beatrix turned and found Mrs. Goodman, supervisor of the first floor neckwear, trimmings, notions, coat check, and glove department, standing a few feet away. Her pursed lips and sour expression were less than encouraging.

Beatrix nodded. “I have read the handbook.”

“Cover to cover?” Mrs. Goodman shot back.

“Yes, although I found some parts of it more riveting than others.”

“Shall I assume, then, that you were bored by the part regarding how much information our employees are expected to disclose to our customers about the products available here, unless directly asked?”

Before Beatrix could formulate a suitable reply to that, because she had read the part Mrs. Goodman had just broached but hadn’t agreed with it in the least, a sharply dressed gentleman stepped up to join them.

Standing before her was none other than the esteemed Mr. Harry Selfridge. Mr. Selfridge was known to be a most ambitious gentleman, and during the time he’d been at the store, he’d risen from stock boy to the assistant to Mr. J. M. Fleming, the superintendent of retail, within a remarkably short period of time. Rumor had it that Mr. Selfridge now had his eye on Mr. Fleming’s position, and given what little Beatrix had already observed about the man, she was relatively certain he would win that position within the next few years.

“Is something amiss, Mrs. Goodman?” Mr. Selfridge asked, his gaze never dropping from Beatrix as Mrs. Goodman gave a wave of her hand.

“Nothing that need concern you, Mr. Selfridge,” Mrs. Goodman returned. “This is Miss Beatrix Waterbury, newly employed here, and I was reminding her of a few of our rules.”

Mr. Selfridge’s eyes narrowed. “Which rules would those be?”

Beatrix cleared her throat. “I wasn’t familiar with where Mrs. Davis resides and asked her to provide me with that information.”

Mr. Selfridge crossed his arms over his chest. “I see. And how did Mrs. Davis react to that?”

“She took me to task and then interrupted me after I tried to explain why I didn’t know her address.”

Mrs. Goodman released a sniff. “You’re supposed to get that information from the credit department if you’re in doubt.”

“But what if there is more than one Mrs. Davis, ma’am?” Beatrix countered. “By asking her what was really only a simple question, I was given the proper address, even if I’m still going to have to double-check with the credit department because she rattled off the information so quickly that I’m now unable to read part of my handwriting.”

“It’s never ma’am, always Mrs. Goodman.”

Beatrix nodded. “Quite right. I do recall reading that in the handbook.”

Mrs. Goodman’s lips pursed. “Then I would expect you to remember from this point forward that we address everyone, whether they be employees or customers, by Mr., Mrs., or Miss, unless you’re speaking to one of the young cash boys or errand girls, of course. And do not, under any circumstances, address anyone as dearie.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever called anyone dearie in my life.”

Mrs. Goodman leveled a stern eye on Beatrix as Mr. Selfridge cleared his throat. “Were there any other rules you needed to address with Miss Waterbury?”

Mrs. Goodman turned to Mr. Selfridge. “Only the one pertaining to disclosing too much information about a product to a customer.”

Mr. Selfridge quirked a brow in Beatrix’s direction.

Beatrix forced another smile. “I thought Mrs. Davis would be impressed by the Alexandre Kid Gloves if I explained they can only be purchased in America at Marshall Field’s. And because she ended up purchasing twenty pairs of every shade of ivory we carry, which is seven shades, I was able to secure an impressive sale. Twenty multiplied by seven is, after all, one hundred and forty, which you must admit is a rather significant amount.”

For the longest moment, Mr. Selfridge stared at Beatrix, until he finally turned to Mrs. Goodman. “I don’t believe Miss Waterbury needs to be reprimanded further about the matter, Mrs. Goodman. As she said, the sale of one hundred forty gloves to a single customer is most impressive.” He turned back to Beatrix and nodded to her notepad. “Allow me to give you Mrs. Davis’s address again, sparing you a trip to the third floor.”

After Mr. Selfridge gave her the address, speaking slowly as she wrote the information down, Beatrix thanked him for his assistance, thanked Mrs. Goodman for hers, then excused herself, telling them she needed to package Mrs. Davis’s order to make certain it was delivered by late afternoon.

Thankful that Mrs. Goodman didn’t linger after Mr. Selfridge took his leave, Beatrix counted out the proper number and shades of gloves, wrapping them in brown paper. She then pushed one of the two buttons attached to the back of the glove counter, the one that would alert Mr. Ford, who was head of the delivery boys on the floor, that she had a package that needed to be taken to the delivery docks. The other button was only pushed when she had a cash sale and needed a cash boy to run the money up to the third-floor cash room and then return with any change the customer needed.

Less than a minute later, a young boy by the name of Bertie scampered up beside her, smiling shyly as he took the package of gloves.

Marshall Field’s employed many children in its store on State Street, as well as in their wholesale building located at Madison and Market Streets. Beatrix had been appalled to discover that these delivery boys, cash boys, and errand girls earned a scant two dollars a week. But when she’d broached the subject with Miss Louisa Brennon, a young woman who worked the handkerchief counter, Louisa had told her to have a care in case anyone was listening. Louisa had then, in a very hushed tone, explained that working at any other retail establishment was considered low class, but working at Marshall Field’s was considered respectable, which was why the positions were always in such demand, and why most everyone who worked there accepted their low pay with few complaints.

Beatrix had been less than satisfied with that explanation, although that was the beginning of her realization that she truly had been woefully ignorant about the plight of the working class.

Clearly, the working class was suffering, and women most especially. Salesgirl positions such as the one she currently held started off with a salary of seven dollars a week—a week that encompassed six days of work. Women who worked in the workrooms, sewing garments for the sales floor and for custom orders, made a little more, but their salary was only ten to twelve dollars a week. Many of the salesmen, on the other hand, made up to twenty-five dollars a week, although Beatrix had been told that they would have to secure a promotion to increase their salary from that point forward.

It was a humbling thought that Beatrix often spent more on a single gown from Worth than the employees who worked the floors of Marshall Field’s made in several years.

“Got anything else for me to take to the docks, Miss Waterbury?” Bertie asked, drawing her from her musings.

“Not just yet, Bertie, but give me another hour. I’m sure I’ll have another customer soon.”

Sending her a grin, Bertie hurried away as Beatrix began tidying up her counter, a responsibility she took quite seriously since it had been mentioned more than once that she could be dismissed out of hand if a supervisor found an area in disarray.

Turning around after she’d returned the last glove to its proper drawer, Beatrix discovered a gentleman standing a few counters away from her, holding on to the arm of a lady dressed in a drab gray blouse and matching skirt—a gentleman who was staring Beatrix’s way, and who just happened to be none other than Mr. Norman Nesbit.