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“Maybe. If you come to church.” She drove a hard bargain, leveraging my eternal soul against the certain depravity of becoming a blonde. “But I’m warning you, Maeve, this is a terrible, terrible mistake!”
Nonetheless, she took me up to the ladies’ hair salon on the top floor and introduced me to M. Antoine. M. Antoine was French to his wealthy clients and considerably less Gallic in front of staff like Ma. Originally from Liverpool, he’d apparently acquired the accent along with most of his hairdressing skills on the boat on the way over.
He gave me the once-over from behind an entirely useless gold pince-nez. “It’s a shame, really.” He poked a finger through my red curls. “I have clients that would kill for this color!”
I avoided my mother’s eye. “Yes, but you can see how it limits me, can’t you?”
“It’s true,” he conceded, “especially in this town. Some people have no imagination.”
M. Antoine sent us home was a little bottle of peroxide wrapped in a brown paper bag, which Ma quickly jammed into her handbag as if it were bootleg gin. “No more than twenty minutes,” he instructed, firmly. “The difference between a beautiful blonde and a circus poodle is all in the timing. And remember to rinse, ladies, rinse! Rinse as if your very lives depended on it!”
The sign above the door read “Winshaw and Kessler Antiquities, Rare Objects, and Fine Art” in faded gold lettering. It swung back and forth in the wind, creaking on its chains like an old rocking chair.
I stood huddled in the doorway, waiting.
Maude’s voice rang in my head: “The girl in question should be a young woman of quality, well-spoken and professional, able to create a favorable impression with affluent clientele.”
A blueblood.
I’d looked the word up the night before. The term came from the Spanish, literally translated sangre azul, describing the visible veins of the fair-skinned aristocrats. But of course here in Boston we had our own special name for these social and cultural elite, Brahmins—old East Coast families who’d stumbled off the Mayflower to teach the English a lesson. There was an even more telling lineage behind that word; it referred to the highest of the four major castes in traditional Indian society. The Boston Brahmins were a club you couldn’t join unless you married into it, and they didn’t like to mix with anyone who’d floated in on one of the newer ships, landing on Ellis Island rather than Plymouth Rock.
Adjusting my hat in the shop-window reflection, I wondered if it would work. The effect was more dramatic than I’d expected. I looked not just different but like a whole other person; my eyes seemed wider, deeper in color, and my skin went from being white and translucent to a pale ivory beneath my soft golden-blond waves. But would it be enough?
To my mother’s credit, she’d been thorough, covering every inch of my scalp in bleach at least three times to make certain there were no telltale signs. And when it was rinsed clean, she wound it into pin curls to be tied tight under a hairnet all night. When I woke, she was already up, sitting by the stove in her dressing gown sewing a Stearn’s label into the inside lapel of my coat. “It’s one of the only labels people ever notice,” she said. “And a coat from Stearn’s is a coat to be proud of.”
“Even though it’s not from Stearn’s?” I asked.
“They won’t know that. They’ll look at the name, not the cut.”
For someone who didn’t approve of what I was doing, she was dedicated nonetheless.
Now here I was, on a street I’d never even been down before, in my counterfeit coat and curls.
It was almost nine in the morning, and no one was around. In the North End everything was open by seven; there were people to greet, gossip to share, deals to be struck. The streets hummed and buzzed morning till late into the night. But here was the stillness and order of money, of a life that wasn’t driven by hustle, sacrifice, and industry. Time was the luxury of another class.
So I practiced smiling instead—not too eager, not too wide, but a discreet, dignified smile, the kind of gentle, unhurried expression that I imagined was natural to women in this part of town, an almost imperceptible softening of the lips, just enough to indicate the pleasant expectation of having every desire fulfilled.
Eventually an older man arrived, head bent down against the wind. He was perhaps five foot five, almost as wide as he was tall, with round wire-rimmed glasses. He glanced up as he fished a set of keys from his coat pocket. “You’re the new girl? From the agency?”
“Yes. I’m Miss Fanning.”
“You’re tall.” It was an accusation.
“Yes,” I agreed, uncertainly.
“Hmm.” He unlocked the door. “I ask for a clerk, and they send me an Amazon.”
He switched on the lights, and I followed him inside. Though narrow, the shop went back a long way and was much larger than it looked from the outside.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to turn on the heat.”
He headed into the back.
I’d never been in an antiques store before—the dream of everyone I knew was to own something new. And I knew all too well the used furniture stalls in the South End where things were piled on top of one another in a haphazard jumble, smelling of dust and mildew. But this couldn’t have been more different.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the floors were covered with oriental carpets, and paintings of every description and time period were crowded on top of one another, dado rail to ceiling, like in a Victorian drawing room. There were ornate gilded mirrors, fine porcelain, gleaming silver. I picked up what I thought was a large pink seashell, only to discover that an elaborate cameo of the Three Graces had been painstakingly etched into one side. It was the most incredible, unnecessary thing I’d ever seen. And there was a table covered with maybe thirty tiny snuffboxes or more, all decorated with intricate mosaic designs of famous monuments, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Great Pyramid at Giza, none of them bigger than a silver dollar. It was more like a museum than a shop.
Little cards with neatly printed descriptions were everywhere.
Here was a “17th-century French oak buffet,” a “gilded German Rococo writing desk,” a pair of stiff-backed “Tudor English chairs” in mahogany so old they were almost black. Tall freestanding cases housed porcelain vases, pottery urns, a trio of Italian Renaissance bronzes. A row of bizarre African wooden figures squatted on the floor, staring through round cartoon eyes, comical and yet shockingly sexual at the same time. And the prices! I had to keep myself from laughing out loud. Five hundred dollars for a dresser? You could buy a brand-new automobile for less! Near the back of the shop in glass display cases trinkets, watches, and fine estate jewelry were arranged against waves of dark green velvet. The ticking of half a dozen clocks hanging from the wall, ornamented with inlaid wood and gold, sounded gently.
The place even had a smell all its own, a rich musty scent of aging wood, old textiles, and silver polish. This was the perfume of centuries and continents, of time.
Now I knew why they’d wanted a “young woman of quality.” People didn’t come here to replace a table or sofa; they were collecting, searching out the rare and unique. They wanted a girl who knew what it was like to acquire things out of amusement rather than need. Who sympathized with those whose lives were so pleasantly arranged that they hungered for beauty and meaning rather than food.
The old man returned, took off his hat. His thinning hair was weightless and fine, circling the widening bald spot on the top of his head like a white wreath. “It’ll warm up soon. I’m Karl Kessler.” He gave a tug at his suit vest, which was struggling to cover his stomach. “What was your name again?”
“May. With a y, of course,” I added. (I didn’t want to use the Irish name Maeve.) “I was named after the month of my birth,” I lied.
“And do you know anything about antiques, May with a y?”
“Oh, I know a little.” I tried to seem casual. “My family had a few good pieces. I was wondering, that buffet over there … is that oak, by any chance?”
“Why, yes. It is.”
“I thought so.” I flashed my well-practiced smile. “I’m so fond of oak, aren’t you?”
He fixed me with a sharp black eye. “Where is your family from?”
“New York. Albany, actually. But I’m here staying with my aunt.” I ran my fingers lightly along the smooth finish of a Flemish bookcase, as if I were remembering something similar back home. “You see, I had a particularly troublesome beau, Mr. Kessler. We all thought it best that I get away for a while.”
“And you can type?”
“Oh, yes! I used to type all Papa’s letters. But to be honest, I’ve never considered a sales job before.” I frowned a little, as if pondering the details for the first time. “I suppose it means working every day?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.” He nodded slowly. “But I thought the woman from the agency was sending me a girl with secretarial skills?”
“Dear old Maude!” I gave what I hoped passed as an affectionate chuckle. “You see, she’s a family friend. I told her I’d try to help her out. Though, as it happens,” I added, “I did attend the Katherine Gibbs Secretarial School. Of course, it was more of a diversion than a necessity. But if I do something, Mr. Kessler, I like to be able to do it properly. I was taught that excellence and hard work are virtues, no matter what your situation.”
“I see.”
“And the wages?” I didn’t want to seem overeager. “I suppose they’re … reasonable?”
“Twenty-five a week. Does that seem reasonable to you?”
“I’m sure it will do very nicely.”
“So”—he leaned back against the counter—“do you have other interests?”
“Oh, yes! I like to travel and read, English literature mostly. Also I do a little painting and drawing …” I tried to remember what the heroines in Jane Austen novels did. “I’m terribly fond of long walks and embroidery.”
He nodded again. “You read a great deal?”
“Absolutely. I love books.”
“So you know how to tell a story?”
“I certainly hope so, Mr. Kessler.”
“Well, selling isn’t so different from telling a story. Everything here has a history. Where it comes from, how it’s made. Why it’s important. Once you understand that, the rest is easy. For example, take this piece.” He walked over to a small writing desk. “This is an eighteenth-century German Rococo Toilletentisch. This little table had many uses in its day. Primarily it would have been a dressing table, which is why it has a mirror in the center. Inside, below the mirror, the wash utensils would be stored.” He opened up the small drawers. “And to the sides, jars, combs, and jewelry. But that’s not all. There’s space for writing and working, playing card games. These tables are light enough to be easily carried from room to room. Mechanical fittings enable them to change use, for example from tea table to games table. It’s a fine example from the workshop of Abraham and David Roentgen, specialists in constructing such furniture.”
“Why, it’s ingenious!”
“Isn’t it?” he agreed. “But that’s not why someone would buy it. Someone would choose this little table over all the other little tables on this street for one reason alone: because it belonged to Maria Anna Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s older sister. Because this little table, with all its uses, sat in the same room, day after day, with the world’s greatest composer as he learned his scales as a boy.” His hand rested tenderly on the delicate inlaid wood top. “She wrote in her diary here, the same diary that her brother would later steal and fill with false entries about himself, all in the third person.”
“Really?” Suddenly I pictured it in a room with a harpsichord and a violin, overlooking the cobblestone streets of Salzburg, snowflakes dancing in the icy winter air. “How do you know all that?”
Mr. Kessler gave a little shrug. “You doubt me? I believe it because that’s what I’m told. Just as I believe you’re from Albany and used to type all your father’s letters.”
My heart skipped a beat, and I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “Why … I’m not sure what you mean …”
He raised a hand to stop me. “A good counterfeit is as much a work of art as the real thing. Perhaps even better, May with a y. You see, I spoke to the lady at the agency yesterday afternoon. She rang to say she had a nice, reliable girl for me named Roberta, but she needed my address again because someone had stolen my card.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I’d pushed it too far.
“And that, Miss Fanning, is how you sell an antique table. With a story and a smile and a healthy dose of truth and lies.” He cocked his head to one side. “The woman from the agency also told me to be on the lookout for a very determined redhead. I’m beginning to wonder, is your hair really blond?”
“Well, it is now!” I headed to the door.
“Where are you going?” he called.
I whipped round. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re angry!” Mr. Kessler chuckled. “Well, that beats all!”
“You think I’m funny?” Embarrassment vanished; now I was furious. “There’s nothing funny about it, Mr. Kessler! I’m flat broke, and I need a job!”
“And I still need a clerk. In fact”—he ran his fingers through his beard—“a blonde from Albany would suit me very well.”
“Ha, bloody, ha!” I flung open the door.
“Hold on a moment! I need a girl who can make sales and keep the books, and who fits in with my customers.”
“What about Roberta?”
He gave a distinctly Eastern European shrug, a kind of slow roll of the shoulders that came from centuries of inherited resignation. “I doubt Roberta has your dramatic intuition. Now calm down and close the door. Let’s see your dress.”
“Why?”
“Come now!” He made a soft tutting noise, as if he was luring a stray cat with a saucer of milk. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
I closed the door and took off my coat, careful to hold it so the label showed. I was wearing the navy blue knit. It was the nicest outfit I owned, and even at that, I’d spent the night before darning moth holes beneath the arms.
Mr. Kessler opened up the jewelry cabinet and took out a long string of pearls and a pair of pearl clip-on earrings. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “You can wear what you like from the display, as long as it goes back at the end of the day. If a man comes in, he likes to see the jewelry on a pretty girl. It’s the easiest way to sell it.”
I wasn’t sure I understood. “Are you hiring me?”
“If you can keep the fiction for the customers, you might be rather useful. I’m looking for someone adaptable, with a pragmatic disposition. And I have to admit, your stories have flair.” He winked, tapping the side of his nose. “The bit about the persistent beau was clever. You’ll be good at selling.”
“But … but aren’t you afraid I’m going to steal something?”
He gave me a rather surprised look. “Are you?”
“Well, no.”
“You’re an actress, May with a y. Not a thief,” he informed me. “A real thief doesn’t warn you of their intentions.”
I followed him back behind the glass counters to a room divided into two offices. He hung his coat up in one and pointed to the other. “You can use that desk. It’s Mr. Winshaw’s.”
“Won’t Mr. Winshaw need it?”
“Mr. Winshaw isn’t here. Do you drink tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
“So do I.” He gestured to the back storage room. “There’s a sink in the bathroom and a kettle on the hot plate.”
Then he went inside his office and closed the door.
I stood there, unsure of what exactly had just happened.
Then I slipped the pearls over my head. There was no mistaking the real thing. They were heavy with a creamy golden-pink luster. The echo of some long-lost perfume clung to them; sensual, sharp, and sophisticated, it could be muted by time but not silenced.
Instantly they transformed that old blue knit; when your jewels are real, your dress doesn’t matter.
But no sooner had I put them on than an eerie feeling came over me, at once familiar yet anxious and uncertain.
The pearls reminded me of someone—the girl on the far ward.
BINGHAMTON STATE HOSPITAL, NEW YORK, 1931 (#ulink_c55eeed0-ea26-5621-a851-8c4a4397f4e4)
She was wearing pearls. That was the first thing I noticed about her. Large and even, perfectly matched, falling just below her collarbone over the thin blue cotton hospital gown. She strolled into the day room of the Binghamton State Hospital with its bare, institutional green walls and floor stinking of strong bleach like she was wandering into the dining room of the Ritz. Willowy and fine boned, she had blue eyes fringed by long, very black lashes and deep brown hair cut in a straight bob, pushed back from her face. A navy cardigan was draped casually over her shoulders, as if she were on her way to a summer luncheon and had turned back at the last minute to grab it, just in case the weather turned.
The rest of us were in the middle of what the nurses referred to as “occupational therapy,” or making ugly hook rugs. The girl with the pearls moved slowly from table to table like visiting royalty, surveying everyone’s work with a benign, interested expression.
“Oh, how interesting!” she’d murmur, or “What an unusual color choice!”
Then she stopped beside me. Up went a perfectly plucked eyebrow, like a question mark. “Well, now! Surely that’s the most deeply disturbing thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”
