FOUR

Poor M. Worth. His anxiety was overwhelming. He turned and beckoned to Mlle Arquette who came over, bearing the red velvet case that had held the pearls. M. Worth took it and opened it. It was empty.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Johnstone was attempting to leave. As we were between her and the door, she veered towards us in a determined manner. Mrs. Palmer noticed and, frowning, she reached out and took the empty case from M. Worth. Closing it with a snap she handed it to me without looking in my direction. “We will deal with this later. We would like to see the gown regardless, please.” Her command was obviously a relief to the couturier, who bowed and motioned to Mlle Arquette to go and do the customer’s bidding.

Mrs. Johnstone stopped a few yards away. “Mrs. Palmer, how nice to see you again.” Bertha Palmer turned a wide-eyed gaze on the woman and her contingent, quite as if she had been unaware of their presence. “You know my daughter, Lydia, of course, and these are her dear friends Miss Grace Greenway Brown of Baltimore and Miss Edith Stuart of Philadelphia.” Mrs. Johnstone was short and plump. Her daughter, in contrast, was tall with an oval face and a long thin nose. The hat that she wore sported a spiky feather that only emphasized her height. The other two women were smaller and dressed in lighter colors. Miss Brown, in particular, was a pretty young woman with hazel eyes and a warm smile. Miss Stuart was small and pert looking with blonde curls framing her face.

Mrs. Palmer gave them a cool nod. Mrs. Johnstone seemed to think it a slight. Her eyes narrowed. “I must say, in the future, it would be kind of you not to keep all the young men to yourself. I’ve seen Lord James here before and I was sorry to see you send him away. We mature women must let the young ones have a chance, you know, and not begrudge them the company of the young men.”

I nearly choked on my champagne at this attempt to chide Bertha Palmer, but she ignored the slight altogether and turned away to introduce the rest of us. At that point, the young women in the Johnstone group gaped and exchanged glances. Lydia Johnstone spoke up. “Miss Cassatt? Miss Mary Cassatt? Is it really Miss Mary Cassatt?” It seemed they were all taking art classes during their stay in Paris and they were very excited to meet the famous artist. They were so effusive in their praise of her paintings that I could see Mrs. Johnstone cringe. Their enthusiasm took her completely by surprise.

M. Worth rejoined us then and, beyond him, I saw another figure come through the door. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. Slight and thin, with porcelain skin, she wore a suit in a gray shimmery fabric with a long coat over a flat skirt and a creamy silk blouse with a bow under the neck. Her face was partially obscured by a large hat with a filmy veil. She walked carefully, leaning on a silver-headed cane. Behind her came a young woman in a white lawn dress with flounces at the hem, a tight blue jacket, and a blue satin sash. Her auburn hair fell down to her shoulders from beneath a perky little plate of a hat. Bertha Palmer also noticed the quiet entrance of the two women, which caused Mrs. Johnstone to turn to see what had caught her attention. When she saw the woman in gray, her eyes opened wide and she glanced at M. Worth. He, too, turned towards the door.

“That woman! Well, if that isn’t the limit,” Mrs. Johnstone huffed. “I’ll not have my daughter and the others exposed to people like that. I never. Lydia, come. We’re leaving. Now.” She looked at Mrs. Palmer, as if expecting her to join in the protest. Meeting only a stony glance, she herded her group towards a door, away from where the newcomers were headed.

The speedy exit of the Americans was only too obviously rude. Bertha Palmer clucked and shook her head, while M. Worth watched with horror. The group rushed out with only a few backward glances by the young people.

Bertha shook her head again. Reaching out to pat the couturier’s arm she said, “M. Worth, I see the countess and her daughter have arrived. Won’t you ask them to join us?” I saw she was going to some lengths to repair the damage Amelia Johnstone had done. M. Worth hurried to the side of the woman with the cane and ushered her and her sylphlike daughter over to our group. She was introduced as the Countess Olga Zugenev and her daughter’s name was Sonya. I sensed there was some story about the beautiful woman and I wondered exactly what had caused the Johnstones to hurry away.

The countess and Bertha exchanged greetings in French and Mary Cassatt joined the conversation. In deference to me, they changed to English, which the countess spoke with an accent I assumed was Russian.

“It is the first time you have come to Paris?” she asked me. “And how do you find it?” She had a soft breathy voice and large dark eyes with long lashes. She was so petite she looked like a girl herself, but there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes and lips that showed her age. I couldn’t guess exactly how old she was, though. She was small enough to seem almost swamped in the glittery gray of her long boxy jacket.

“It is wonderful. We are so thrilled to be here and it’s all due to the generosity of Mrs. Palmer and her husband.”

“Nonsense, Emily. Mrs. Chapman here is my social secretary and I’m working her hard,” Bertha told them. “Oh, my, look at that.”

We all looked up to see a woman walk through the room in a magnificent evening gown of figured velvet and satin in shades of gold. The skirt fell to the ground in a simple A shape, with a train spilling off the back. On the front the fabric was patterned with stalks of corn, which appeared to grow from the ground, with long gracefully crinkled leaves falling away, like stalks swaying in a gentle breeze in a golden sunset. The bodice had a square neckline, gently puffed sleeves, and a black velvet sash around the trim princess waist. It was a tour de force, perfect for Bertha as the representative of the great plains of the American Midwest. It had been designed specifically for her to wear at official receptions during the Exposition.

There followed a lengthy technical discussion of the dress, the shoes, and the accessories that would accompany the ensemble. The pearls were mentioned again, and M. Worth looked distressed, but Bertha brushed aside any questions and promised to bring them to the final fitting. She had brought some handmade lace they decided to add to the neckline of the bodice and there was talk of some additional flourishes down the front. When they finished the model left the room, then returned a few minutes later, wearing a different gown. I realized that her physique resembled Mrs. Palmer’s. The second gown was an afternoon dress with delicate stripes of ribbon woven through a gauzy fabric. It was judged complete and ordered sent on to the Trocadéro house.

A walking suit for Miss Cassatt was shown next. It was worn by a different woman, who was shaped more like the artist, being taller and lankier. It was of a dusty blue silk, with the smooth seams of a princess line running from the neckline down to the hem. The flared skirt looked short enough for walking, although it was fuller in the back. Pale white lace trimmed the high neck and fell down the front of the bodice. The suit was completed by an unusual metallic lace bolero with tapered sleeves, which ended in a strip of tiny buttons to the wrist. The ensemble evoked a style of the past, perhaps from a Renaissance painting, which made it rather grand. It would be perfect for the artist. While we were watching, Bertha was trying to recruit Mary to be a judge for the artwork at the Exposition. But Miss Cassatt was adamantly opposed, and impervious to all the coaxing turned on her by her very persuasive friend.

“But, Mary, you must do it. Do you know how few women there are on the award panels? We must have more women. Come, you must do your part.” I noticed that Countess Olga quietly sipped her champagne without joining this debate.

“M. Worth, the suit is splendid. You can pack it up.” Miss Cassatt turned to Bertha. “No, my friend. I have told you already. I don’t believe in these competitions. They are insidious. They do nothing but harm. I saw it when I was young. All anyone ever wanted was to be shown and to win. It was corrupting. You have no idea. Young artists are forced to bend their styles to please the judges. It’s all wrong.”

Bertha Palmer frowned, but then she turned her attention back to the blue walking suit, as the woman modeling it walked away. “That suit is very fine, M. Worth. Do you know, that is just the sort of thing I had in mind for Mrs. Chapman.”

Despite my protests, I was made to stand, walk, and turn, while Bertha Palmer and the couturier consulted. “Yes, I see it,” he said. “Just the colors of autumn, as you say, for the academic lady. And perhaps a little watch chain, a chapeau for the head with a little feather, yes?”

I was sent to the fitting room, where the capable Mlle Arquette and her minions swarmed over me with measuring tapes after removing my outer garments. It was all done so quickly and efficiently I was back with the group before I knew it. It left me with the uneasy feeling that I had left behind more intimate knowledge of my physical faults and failings than anyone else in the world had ever been privy to…even my husband. But it was done so swiftly and comfortably I could hardly complain. Would I, too, be represented by one of those headless, legless, stuffed bodices?

When I returned, the women were viewing a ball gown in champagne-colored satin damask worn by Countess Olga’s daughter Sonya herself, rather than by a mannequin. The bodice had a chiffon overlay that repeated the floral pattern in the satin. There was lace trim on the round neckline and an irregular fall of lace from the shoulders for the short sleeves. A tuck at the back provided for a small train. It was embellished with pink ribbons and fabric roses at the shoulders, halfway along the neckline, and at the waist. It made the slender young woman look like a fairy or one of the Three Graces in spring.

“How charming,” Bertha commented. “I am so sorry Honoré and his friend left before you arrived. I was hoping he would meet you, my dear.” She turned towards the countess, who held her champagne flute in a hand with a wrist so small and white it looked quite delicate. “You will come to the opening of the House of Worth exhibit, won’t you? I’ll send an invitation. I’ve been helping them plan it. It will provide the perfect opportunity for Sonya to show off her new gown.”

“Ah, but even before that, we will see all of you in my gowns, I hope.” M. Worth stood over our group. “I have invited all of you to the party for my daughter’s engagement. You will come, will you not?”