THREE

I felt sorry for the couturier. It was M. Jean-Philippe Worth himself, the elder son of the founder, who stood before us uncharacteristically flustered and, soon, I understood why.

“I am désolé, madame,” he told Bertha Palmer after I was introduced. “When we scheduled your fitting I was certain Mrs. Johnstone and her family would be gone before you arrived.”

Mrs. Palmer raised an eyebrow. Squatting in the prime location was Amelia Johnstone, her daughter, and two other young women. Mrs. Johnstone was a social dictator in the tiny community of expatriate Americans in Paris. When her reign was rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Queen of Chicago society, Bertha Palmer, it was well known that Mrs. Johnstone was not content. In fact, it was said she was steaming when Bertha Palmer was appointed as the first and only woman commissioner in the American delegation. Earlier in the week she had left a party, angry that Mrs. Palmer had been given precedence in the parade into supper after the ball. It did not bode well for the rest of the summer that the ladies involved had already crossed swords. Bertha Palmer was not a woman to shrink from a fight. She had many advantages over Mrs. Johnstone, whose husband was nominal head of the delegation. But Amelia Johnstone had done little to aid her own position. Despite living in the City of Light for the past year, she had made no effort to learn to speak French. Bertha Palmer, on the other hand, was proud of the French lineage of her family and had been fluent in French from a young age. But even beyond that, she had a cosmopolitan flair and a knack for politics. Amelia Johnstone just couldn’t compete. Since our recent arrival, Bertha Palmer had already managed to convince the officials involved to increase the Exposition space allotted to the United States. And she had only begun her campaign.

Now, she smiled politely at M. Worth. She reminded me of a cougar I had seen when I visited the Lincoln Park Zoo with my children. The animal had bared its fangs in just that way. At the same time, I saw that the young men with us had retreated several steps, as if in expectation of some kind of outburst. Poor M. Worth looked harassed. “And Miss Cassatt as you can see…she, too, is kept waiting.” He gestured helplessly towards a group of chairs close to the windows.

Before she could respond, I jumped into the breach. After all, what are social secretaries for if not an occasional rescue? “Miss Cassatt? Miss Mary Cassatt? Oh, Mrs. Palmer, do you think you could introduce me? As I mentioned to you, I’ve been so looking forward to meeting her. I admire her work so much!” At least that was no fiction. When Bertha told me she knew the American artist who lived in Paris, I had begged for an introduction. I still remembered her wonderful mural in the Woman’s Building of the World’s Columbian Exposition and, ever since seeing it, those images had haunted me.

M. Worth turned to me with a look of relief and over his shoulder I saw a glint of amusement in Bertha Palmer’s eyes. While she was entirely capable of delivering a devastating remark within hearing distance of the obnoxious Mrs. Johnstone, she was under no absolute compulsion to do so. “Why, how lovely,” she proclaimed. “Please, I have not seen Miss Cassatt since our arrival and there is so much to catch up on. Do you mind, M. Worth?”

I could see the man was overwhelmed with relief as he led us to the grouping of chairs in the light of the windows. He snapped his fingers for additional chairs and refreshments to follow. Bertha introduced me to her friend after their very French exchange of cheek kisses.

Mary Cassatt was near Bertha Palmer in age, perhaps fifty, but she was taller and bonier than the Chicago matron. She wore a charming dress of muslin with fluffy lace under her chin. It was pleasantly light and airy for a warm spring day. She also wore a small hat with silk flowers pinned to the narrow brim perched on her head. The friend and companion with her was equally well dressed. It made me feel dowdy in my sturdy brown skirt.

They already had flutes of champagne on the low table before them, and M. Worth presented us with a choice of champagne or tea, both at hand on silver platters. I saw Bertha glance across to the party in the middle of the room, where a large pot of tea sat on their table. She rolled her eyes and waved over the champagne. The young men smiled as they reached for glasses and I saw Miss Cassatt suppress her own grin. Apparently, Mrs. Johnstone, like some other women in the American settlement, objected to French customs when it came to imbibing wine.

Content with her superiority, Bertha Palmer provided the poor couturier with even more relief. “M. Worth, I hope you will forgive us if we take a few minutes to catch up with our dear friend. We ladies must have our gossip, you know.”

“Indeed, madame, please, take your time. Become comfortable. Let us know when you are ready to see what we have made for you.” He rubbed his hands together. “It is magnificent. I know you will like it.”

“Certainly. Honoré, give M. Worth the box.” She gestured to her son and he stepped up and handed the box to Worth. “My pearls,” Bertha told him. “We can see how they look with the evening gown.” He accepted the box and beckoned to Mlle Arquette, the woman who had met us at the front door. Handing her the box of pearls, he whispered a few commands, then turned back to us.

“It will be marvelous, I promise you. You know, of course, my daughter, Andrée, is to be married? Yes, it is to the son of Cartier, the jeweler across the road. She has received the most beautiful gem, a sapphire, as an engagement gift. I must show you. I know how much you and Mr. Palmer appreciate fine jewels. I would be grateful for your opinion.” He was fiercely proud, and Bertha smiled benevolently at him. “But not now, of course. I leave you to your gossip, and we will prepare the gowns. You will be amazed.”

With that, he turned back to respond to the insistent waves of Mrs. Johnstone across the room. While Bertha and Miss Cassatt exchanged information about friends and travels, my attention drifted to the other group. I had placed myself where I could view them across the vast room that was very like a ballroom. The walls held multiple mirrors, so I had the uncanny experience of seeing my own figure beyond the group as I turned to watch. I had thought myself stylish enough when I dressed in the white shirtwaist, brown skirt, and straw hat that morning, but here in the House of Worth it was less than impressive. The sight of my plain figure and provincial air made me cringe, especially after viewing the magnificent raw materials in the rooms we had passed through. It was very clever, that. What woman wouldn’t want to invest in a truly stylish garment worthy to be worn in the famous city after seeing her old clothes in such a reflection?

Across the room, Amelia Johnstone appeared to be arguing with M. Worth. The poor man looked distressed. A woman wearing a green velvet walking dress stood in front of them, turning this way and that on demand. I had seen Worth gowns on women in Chicago, wealthy women who took an interest in Hull House. The gown on display showed the unmistakable style of the dressmaker, but there seemed to be an excess of jet beading on the sleeves, hem, and even the back of the bodice. At least it seemed excessive to me, although, admittedly, I was no expert in the matter.

Bertha and Miss Cassatt could be considered experts and they were watching the demonstration as well. When M. Worth noticed their interest he turned back to the Johnstones, flapping his hands in exasperation.

“Poor Jean-Philippe,” Miss Cassatt said. “They are the worst possible customers. For one thing they insist on green—which he hates. He told me no woman can support it but especially not an older woman.”

“Oh, no,” Bertha Palmer said, making a point not to look in that direction. “It’s not for the mother, surely?” She coughed in a ladylike manner thereby disguising a burst of laughter. “And the jet. Did you see it?”

Miss Cassatt looked up. “M. Worth says it’s the fault of the amateurs, as he calls them,” she said. “A dress made for a discerning woman of fashion has just the right amount of trim, especially if that trim is of a certain type.”

“Such as jet?” I asked.

“Correct. Such as jet. Anyway, the gown makes an impression at a ball or some such and immediately all the ladies come to him and demand this trim on any garment he is making for them. But, if Mrs. X has a certain amount of jet on her gown, then a woman such as Mrs. Johnstone wants twice as much and won’t listen to M. Worth when he warns of excess. I dare say Mrs. Johnstone saw jet on one of your evening gowns, Bertha, and now she’s insisting on it. M. Worth is devastated, but what can he do? The customer rules.”

“Looks like a bloody lampshade,” Lord James contributed and Honoré guffawed. The Englishman blushed. “Sorry, ladies, forgive my language.”

Bertha shook her head. “Stop it, both of you.” She glared at them and they buried their faces in their champagne flutes.

Meanwhile, the saleswoman who had led us through the maze of rooms stood awkwardly, as if she were reluctant to interrupt, although she obviously had a message. Bertha turned to her graciously. “Are the fitters ready for us, Mlle Arquette?”

“Non, madame. I am sorry. It is the Johnstone party. Mrs. Johnstone she asks me to invite the English gentleman to join them for a cup of tea.”

I saw the satiric eyebrow raised on Bertha’s face. It was an unfathomably rude request, inviting the young man but slighting the rest of us. Lord James was the only one of us they were interested in, it seemed. Even Honoré was amused.

“Oh, my,” said the Englishman. “Oh, my, no, I don’t think so. I mean, I have suddenly remembered a previous engagement.” He put down his glass and gathered his top hat, gloves, and cane. “I do hope you ladies will forgive me, but I must away. I’m afraid I must leave immediately.” The ladies smiled and nodded.

Mlle Arquette attempted to persuade him to greet the Johnstone party but he shied like a frightened horse and, before I knew it, he had disappeared out the door. Honoré gathered his own things to follow his friend, grinning all the while. “Excuse me, Mama, Miss Cassatt, Mrs. Chapman, ladies.” He leaned in to me. “The only time you’ll ever see Jimmy move that quickly is when he’s afraid of being cornered. Mrs. Johnstone has been after him for her daughter all season. The one thing she would like, above all things, is to marry her daughter into the British aristocracy. The one thing he wants least in the world is to be dragged back into that same British aristocracy. Little does the lady know how much he will do to avoid the very society she seeks. The truth is, the joke’s on her.” He waved and hurried after his friend.

The Johnstone party watched with open-mouthed consternation as the young men disappeared out the doorway. But at least their departure accomplished what the House of Worth had been attempting since our arrival. Mrs. Johnstone began to collect her belongings in a move to finally abandon her roost. M. Worth looked relieved.

Suddenly, a flustered young woman hurried over to the couturier and pulled him into a corner. She gestured dramatically while she talked to him and pointed our way. Something was definitely wrong and it was difficult to disguise our curiosity. Then M. Worth returned to us, his hands clasped, his face red. He glanced at the Johnstone party and purposely turned his back to them. “Pardon, Mme Palmer, there has been some mistake. The box in which you brought your pearls…it is empty.”