SEVEN

Don’t be silly, of course you should wear it. What’s all the fuss about?”

My husband looked quite fine in the formal evening wear that is so uniform for men. Only his studs were not fully attached, so I was fixing them for him. Then he held out his arms so I could fix the cuff links as well. The Palmers had offered servants to help us dress, as they couldn’t imagine doing it without help. But I had protested, finally accepting only the assistance of Bertha’s French maid with my hair. She had created an elaborate arrangement of curls for me and then left us to complete our toilettes together.

“It’s too much. Really it is.” I finished helping Stephen and stood, hands on my hips, looking at the two gowns spread out on our bed. It was true, my pink satin did look a little out of style compared to the one that Bertha had sent over, with the message that it was an older gown she had decided not to wear during her stay in Paris. It was a silk taffeta with a shiny light tan background on which clusters of cherries were painted. The bodice had a square neck trimmed with a band of lace and feathery capped sleeves. Affixed to the wide silk ribbon around the waist was a little bunch of artificial cherries. The ribbon tied in a large bow in the back. It was quite simple but marvelous all the same.

“She wouldn’t offer it if she didn’t want you to wear it. Besides, Mrs. Palmer did say Worth would be insulted if women arrived in gowns he didn’t design. How can you refuse?” Stephen was forty-two now and, while his face seemed a little gaunter, and there were some small gray hairs beginning to show at his temples, I thought I had never seen him look happier. He adored our children and this trip meant so much to him because he could finally visit the institute founded by the famous Dr. Pasteur, who was his idol. His only regret was that the great man had died in 1895, before he could meet him. Nonetheless, he spent most of his time with the scientists he’d met at the Institut Pasteur and had even learned some French from them. Now he stepped to the bed, gathered the beautiful dress, and held it over my head.

Defeated, I let him pull it down and I shrugged into the fabric. Using his good arm, he helped me fasten the eyelets and tie the bow, then put his hand on my shoulder and marched me over to the mirror. “You see. Mrs. Palmer knows you only too well. It’s a perfect fit.” I couldn’t disagree. “Besides, if you want to repay her, perhaps you can help her find her pearls.”

I turned to him. “You haven’t told Mr. Palmer, have you? I promised to keep her secret.” The one thing that could draw my husband from the clutches of the French scientists was the opportunity to accompany our host on his occasional excursions to the racetrack and other mostly male entertainments in the city. Stephen was always available to join him. The older man’s health was still delicate, although he pooh-poohed any attempts by his wife and son to take special care of him. Nonetheless, I thought he appreciated having my doctor husband by his side and Stephen, for his part, had quickly formed a friendship with the older man, different though their backgrounds must have been. You never knew with men.

“No, no, I wouldn’t mention it,” Stephen reassured me. “Although I do believe there’s nothing Mrs. Palmer could do that would provoke even a mild scolding from him. He’s completely enthralled by her, even after all their years of marriage.”

“I know. She won’t say it, but I think she’s afraid Honoré might have something to do with the disappearance of the pearls, and she’s worried that would upset his father. You don’t think that’s possible, do you?”

Stephen considered this, as he watched me in the mirror. “Honoré is a pleasant enough young man. He does share his father’s love of fast horses, though. Both to ride and to bet on.”

“But he wouldn’t take his mother’s pearls for a debt, or something like that. I’m sure he wouldn’t. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Not at all. But what I do think is that you would be doing our hosts a great favor if you could find the pearls without anyone being the wiser.”

“I don’t know how you think I could do that. It’s not like it is in Chicago where I can call on Detective Whitbread for help.” I thought that should be the end of it, but he just took my arm with a suspicious smile on his face as he gathered up my cape and led me downstairs. I had the feeling he was not going to let the matter go.

§

M. Worth had borrowed the chateau of one of his clients to stage the ball in honor of his daughter Andrée’s engagement to Louis Cartier, the son of the jeweler. We descended a marble staircase into the gilded ballroom, where the gowns and jewels provided a stunning display of the work of the House of Worth. When we reached the floor, Bertha immediately drifted away on a quest to secure for M. Worth a more favorable location for his exhibit in the Palais des Fils, Tissus et Vêtements at the Exposition. The couturier had complained to her that the House of Worth was relegated to a dark corner and she had resolved to try to right that wrong.

Stephen and I remained with Potter Palmer, sipping champagne. The older man’s eyes followed his wife as she circulated, primed to pounce on her prey when she spotted the requisite official.

“Cissie is looking especially grand tonight, don’t you think?” he asked me. “Cissie” was a nickname used only by Bertha Palmer’s family. I would never presume to use it myself, but Mr. Palmer called her that whenever he was regarding her with proud affection, as he was that night.

“She looks magnificent,” I agreed. At the age of fifty her hair had turned a beautiful silver but that only served to complement the red velvet gown she was wearing. Another Worth masterpiece, it flowed smooth and soft from bodice to floor, with transparent silk chiffon draped from the shoulders to half-length sleeves that were embellished with silver sequins. Pinned to the left side of the bodice were two rich velvet roses, complete with green silk stems and leaves. As further ornamentation, she wore a magnificent set of ruby earrings and necklace, and another red velvet rose in her hair.

“Those rubies are marvelous,” Lord James said as he joined us, followed by Honoré, who also looked at his mother with pride. “They must have cost a fortune.”

“And worth every penny,” Potter Palmer told him. “A woman like Cissie is not to be kept cheaply. I’ve always said, when I die I’ll need to leave a tidy million to the man who marries her next. He’ll need it to keep her.”

By Honoré’s grin I realized this was a well-known joke in the Palmer household. Lord James kept his peace by swallowing another mouthful of champagne, but his eyes were wide with amazement. Stephen suggested to the senior Palmer that they retreat to a smoking room where they could sit in peace and perhaps find a game of cards. I knew Stephen would be sure he was entertained without unduly tiring him. At seventy-two years of age he was, after all, older than most of the men present, even if he had no intention of admitting it.

A few minutes later I saw Bertha Palmer bearing down on us with the Countess Olga and her daughter in tow. At just that moment, the noise stopped and all eyes were drawn to the top of the staircase where a handsome young couple stood. M. Worth was on their left, and an older couple, who must have been M. Cartier and his wife, stood to the right. Both young people had glossy black hair—his in curls, hers like silk and arranged in an elaborate pile with a spray of jewels above one ear. She wore a deep blue satin ball gown embellished with a black velvet pattern of leaves and geometric designs. The scooped neck was hung with white lace and at the shoulders were little lace cap sleeves. Around her neck was a fantastic filigree of tiny diamonds that held a very large blue stone.

“Good lord, it’s a star sapphire,” Lord James whispered. “I’d heard Cartier provided a jewel for the engagement, but I had no idea. Magnificent taste, really, to settle for one large perfect jewel rather than a string of second-rate ones. They are very good, those two.” He nodded towards the fathers as we all raised our glasses in a toast.

The formal announcement was followed by music, and the young couple took to the dance floor.

“M. Worth must be very happy with all of this,” Bertha commented. Then she looked significantly at Honoré. “You young people really should join in.”

Her son snapped to attention and offered his arm to Sonya. Lord James insisted on leading out Mrs. Palmer. Left standing with the countess, I saw she was smiling at the sight of her daughter, leaning on her cane as she watched.

“Mme Palmer is very considerate. I am so grateful to her for her kindness to us,” she said.

“I also benefit from the kindness of the Palmers,” I told her. I found a chair against the wall for her to sit on while I continued to stand, watching the whirling figures. When the waltz ended, our party flocked back to us. Then M. Worth approached, bringing his daughter. He presented the flushed young woman to Mrs. Palmer and myself then sent her to a side room to have a minor repair done on her beautiful deep blue gown.

“Mlle Arquette is available with several of the sewing women,” he explained. I thought he gave a slight nod of approval to me. He must have recognized the gown I wore.

The countess stood up, balancing against her cane. “If you will permit, I will take Sonya to your vendeuse as well. The sash needs some attention.” Sonya was wearing the gown she had shown us at the House of Worth, the champagne-colored damask with the garlands of pink fabric roses that looked so spring like.

“But, of course, allow me to take you.” He led them away. I sensed that Bertha Palmer was disappointed to see Sonya parted from her son so soon.

Lord James had his own plans. He clapped Honoré on the shoulder. “Well, what do you say? Shall we do our duty and beard the lioness in her den?” He nodded across the room to where Mrs. Johnstone and her daughter stood. “I’ll need some support.” He grabbed Honoré’s arm and started dragging him away. “There’s a dearth of males over there and I can’t take them all on, you know.”

We watched, as the American matron was stunned to silence by the unexpected onslaught of the young men. Lord James led her daughter, Lydia, to the dance floor while Honoré politely invited one of her friends. Bertha sniffed, but she soon lost interest, looking beyond them at the crowd. I knew she was still searching for the official who was her prey in her plans to help M. Worth get a better space at the Exposition. When the couturier returned he brought along two other men. He introduced the older as his brother, Gaston, and the younger as M. Paul Poiret. Then Bertha quickly led him away as she had spotted the man she planned to corner. She was always at work at these social events.

It turned out that M. Gaston Worth, an older and plumper version of his brother, spoke no English. It was left for M. Poiret to translate and amuse me. He was quite capable and, I thought, probably accustomed to charming American women with his accented English. Of medium height, he wore his hair slicked down and parted in the middle, sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and was attired in an elegantly tailored evening suit.

He told me he had been hired by M. Gaston for a very particular purpose. “He said to me that the House of Worth was like a great restaurant which would refuse to serve anything but truffles. It was necessary to create a department for fried potatoes. M. Jean, he does not care for the fried potatoes. And, of course, his designs are superb, elegant, like the gown you wear so well tonight, madame.” I felt an unaccustomed pang of pride at his assessment. No wonder women longed for a Worth gown, if it inspired such admiration. The gown did suit me. “He had always refused to make the simple and practical garments, you see. But M. Gaston knows the clients are not always at the ball. They must go out in the carriage to the visits or the shopping. For this, something more plain is needed.”

“Fried potatoes.”

“Indeed. They are very popular, the fried potatoes, the walking suits and simple gowns.”

“I’m sure they would be more useful for someone like me.” I explained my work and how my husband and children had come to be in Paris. I also confessed the Worth gown I wore was loaned to me.

“Of necessity. M. Jean would have been wounded if you had not worn something from the House!”

“Especially to a celebration for his daughter, I know. It’s too bad her mother could not see her looking so beautiful and so happy.” I assumed M. Worth was a widower.

M. Poiret raised an eyebrow, then took a couple of flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. Handing one to me, he raised his own in a toast. “To the lovely Mlle Andrée.” After sipping he went on confidentially, “M. Jean was never married. Mlle Andrée is the result of a liaison. The mother has never been acknowledged.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how else to respond.

“But she has had all the advantages of a legitimate child. She was a favorite of her grandfather and the connection to the Cartier family is a great boon. In France, you understand, this is not so uncommon.”

“I see. Well, her father certainly seems to dote on her.” At that moment I saw Lord James glide by with the tall Miss Lydia in his arms. He winked at me, like a conspirator. Honoré passed by right afterwards but he was too concentrated on his dance steps and his partner to acknowledge me.

“But, madame, you must dance also. Is your husband not present to oblige?” When I explained that my husband was keeping Mr. Potter Palmer company in the smoking room, M. Poiret insisted we join the next dance, another waltz. So I found myself swirling around the room in his arms and, after that, in the arms of Lord James.

It was only when we stopped and stepped to the side again that I noticed a tall, magnificently gowned woman wearing a brilliant diamond tiara making her way through the crowd towards us. She had almost reached us when I finally recognized her. “Consuelo Vanderbilt.”

Lord James jumped and appeared startled. “The Duchess of Marlborough?” With a quick look over his shoulder he immediately started to move away. “Excuse me, Mrs. Chapman, I’ll just go look for Honoré. I can’t imagine where he’s gotten to.” And he was gone by the time the regal looking young woman reached me.

“Miss Cabot? It is you, isn’t it?”

I’d met Connie the year of my own marriage when she was a seventeen-year-old debutante in Newport. At the time, she was being groomed by her mother to be married into the European aristocracy, a plan that had since come to fruition. She was wearing a gown of white satin with a pattern of curlicues embossed in black velvet. It was a striking design, with cap sleeves and a long train. It reminded me of some of the swirling wrought iron Art Nouveau designs we’d seen on our boat excursion. There was a fluffy white feather in the dark mass of curls on her head, and she wore a choker of pearls and diamonds. I particularly noticed her long, graceful neck as it reminded me of the iron brace I’d seen in her room in Newport. Her mother had insisted she use it to train her to keep her head up. Presumably, she no longer suffered such indignities but she still appeared like a slender birch tree that would bend to any strong wind. I remembered how she had envied the comparative freedom of my friend Clara and myself, as university students. From her happiness at seeing me, and her questions about Clara and myself, I sensed that she still felt some yearning for a simpler life. Entrenched as she now was in British society, I assumed she must have recognized Lord James.

“Oh, of the Lawfords? No, I didn’t see him. I do hear that he despises living in England. He came over here some years ago and the family finally gave up trying to force him back when his older brother succeeded to the title and provided an heir. I think they leave him alone now.”

I saw her being beckoned from across the room by a bejeweled older woman and I thought she might have also envied Lord James his freedom. With a sigh and an apology, she drifted away, and soon I saw her led to the dance floor by an aging man in formal military attire and a chest full of medals. I was looking around for other members of my own party when I felt a change in the room. The orchestra was still playing but there was a sudden tension. It moved through the room like a stiff breeze suddenly rushing through a stand of trees, or rippling across a body of water.

Bertha Palmer appeared at my elbow. “Have you seen Honoré? I cannot find him.”

“Not since he was on the dance floor.” I didn’t see him among the couples still twirling by. I noticed the crowd was thinning. “I believe Lord James was scared away by a duchess. Perhaps he took Honoré with him when he escaped.”

“Of course, I’m sure that’s it. Come, we must find Potter and Dr. Chapman. I don’t want Mr. Palmer to tire himself.” I was surprised that she wanted to leave already but she leaned in and whispered in my ear. “There’s been an incident. Mlle Andrée’s star sapphire has disappeared.”