Chapter 7

April18, 1963

Washington, D.C.

"With Stanford White signed, we thought our biggest obstacle was behind us." Daisy smiled, remembering her enthusiastic na?ve

self. "We now, as we saw it, only needed to decide on the look of the new club. Over the months we had accrued quite a list

of things we absolutely had to have, but hadn't quite decided on the overall style of the clubhouse. We readily eschewed the

Beaux Arts style and the Italianate. Then someone suggested that since we were the Colony Club, we should use the early colonial

style as our inspiration. Everyone readily agreed, and since we had more enthusiasm than knowledge of what that entailed,

we invited Stanford to enlighten us. The dear man was patience itself, explaining why certain things wouldn't work, why others

would be out of scale, then had to explain what scale was. He came to several meetings armed with books and renderings and

proceeded to give us all lessons in architecture.

"And at last we had an idea of what the clubhouse would look like. A few weeks later, it was with relieved minds that Bordie and I and Bessie and the Morgans left for the Continent, knowing that with our clubhouse in Stanford's capable hands, we could enjoy ourselves completely that summer, confident that when we returned, things would be moving apace.

"It was good to get away. London and Paris are always stimulating, but even more so this trip. It seemed wherever I went,

advances in social issues and politics greeted us. Whomever I met, whether at one of Bordie's functions or in society, conversation

invariably circled back to the Colony Club..."

May1904

Daisy sat perched on the Queen Anne chair in Worth's private showroom, trying not to glance at the copy of Le Temps that she'd managed to snag at the news vendor that morning before climbing into a taxi to the rue de la Paix. From what she

could glean from a quick glance at the headlines, France had just instituted a law limiting workdays for children to ten hours

or less. She was anxious to learn more. There was a move to make similar laws back in the States.

"And this, madam, is one of our most elegant new designs, et le couleur c'est parfaite for madam's flawless complexion."

Daisy put aside her thoughts on child labor to give the modiste her full attention. Social issues were important, but a new

wardrobe for the season was a must.

Another mannequin paraded before her, graceful and smiling, and who probably would never come close to being able to afford

any of the gowns she wore daily.

"It's beautiful," Daisy said. "And I do adore that burgundy velvet." The mannequin turned to reveal a demi-train that pooled into clouds behind her. The modiste was right. It would look lovely with her complexion. And with the new fur coat Bordie had insisted she buy just the other day, it would be divine.

She and Bordie never wanted for money. And, though appearances would suggest otherwise, they always lived within budget. Still,

she sometimes wondered if she spent less, she could do more for those who really needed it.

It was one of the few altercations she and Bordie ever had. And she had to admit the dear man did have a point. Having money

opened doors to more money, and if you used it properly, you could do much more than dropping a coin in the Salvation Army

kettle.

The mannequin wafted away, only to be replaced by another, and another. A visiting dress of champagne satin finished with

a jacket of sable brown. A tea gown of green with ruffles of Valenciennes lace. Quite lovely, but Daisy also wanted to have

a look at the Poiret salon. Bessie's tea gowns, though an oddity on Bessie, might be just the thing for a prominent banker's

wife at her leisure. And Daisy was certain Bordie would agree.

She chose three gowns and made an appointment for fittings the following day. On her way out, she ran into Anne Morgan.

"Ah, we meet again," Anne said.

"We do seem to be on the same schedule," Daisy said. They'd spent much time on the ship over with Anne and her father and

his mistress. And with both parties staying at the Bishop when they were in London, they'd often dined together.

"Yes, another day being poked and prodded into shape," Anne said, sounding rueful. She was a substantial, muscular young lady,

as much a challenge to the dressmaker as she was to her father. The former deftly stuffing her into the latest fashions, and

the latter still holding out hope that his daughter would marry well. As yet, Anne, who was already thirty, refused to fit

into society's expectations.

"Will you be at the Rothschilds' dinner this evening?" Anne asked, barely repressing a sigh.

"Indeed. Bordie says the Minister of Labor will be there. I was just reading about the new law passed here in France. Ten-hour

workdays for children. I know it's a topic you're also interested in."

"Yes, I am. Now if only we could pass something half as enlightened in the States."

"Perhaps he will have some tips on how to go about it. And if he does, I'll gladly pass them on to our own government. Now

I must run. I'm meeting Bordie for lunch and you don't want to keep the modiste waiting."

Elsie stood on the deck of SS L'Aquitaine , imagining herself as the figurehead on the prow of an ancient ship as she searched the horizon for a sign of land. Even

after five days at sea, the closing night of The Other Girl still lingered in her gestures, her voice, her mannerisms.

Funny how you could absorb a character so fully that it was difficult to come back to yourself. Though perhaps if her true

self had been given more time to develop... But with rehearsals and performances and touring, she never seemed to be where

or who she wanted to be.

As it was, she was only happy with Bessie in their little Villa Trianon, where Elsie could remake the rooms into songs of

light and air. Surroundings that soared past the Victorian blanket of melancholy. .. There she was, doing it again. Acting for the stars above.

She was impatient to be reunited with Bessie. She had so many ideas for redecorating the villa. She liked decorating, though

she'd never had an art lesson in her life. Buying and designing made her feel vibrant in a way that theater no longer did.

She'd been acting for more years than she cared to consider, and though Frohman's latest play had garnered excellent reviews and was a box-office success, it hadn't done much to further Elsie's career. Her chance at stardom was narrowing, her light eclipsing, her life diminishing to no more than one defined by the proscenium.

But not in Versailles at their petite retreat. There she felt whole, hopeful, and safe.

She could hardly wait to get there, tear out what was left of the old, search the markets and antique stores for beautiful

things to surround her. Beauty, she must have beauty, and comfort and light.

A week went by, then two, then three, and not one of Nora's fellow draftsmen had bothered to introduce themselves. They'd

merely snickered each time she left the room, or made snide comments about why Mr.White had hired her. A few showed outright

hostility.

She started arriving early every morning and staying late each evening. It wasn't that she was trying to impress, but merely

to protect herself. One morning she'd arrived to find her stool missing and spent the morning standing at her desk, until

someone took pity on her while she was downstairs on her break and returned it. The next week, her drafting table had been

turned on its side. Two of the draftsmen had helped her to right it.

Day after day, a few associates took every opportunity to make her life in the drafting room miserable. If she went to use

the facilities, when she returned, her work would be misplaced. At least no one had gone so far as to actually steal or destroy

her things, not since her pencil on that first day.

She took to carrying her pencils and straightedges in her pockets every time she left her desk, even if it was just to get

more paper from across the room.

At first her every move was commented on: "Apple polisher," "Goody Two-shoes," and some of the more lurid suggestions on how she got the job. It was hard to think that these educated men could be so coarse. They sounded more like the Lower East Side derelicts she'd always avoided on her walks to and from school. Then she would remember Professor Gerhardt's advice on how to get on. So she got on.

After a month of keeping her head down as Mr.Douglas had suggested, doing meticulous work, and spending lunchtime with the

working girls on the fourth floor and not even trying to be accepted by her fellow draftsmen, they slowly began to ignore

her.

For the most part.

There were still a handful of vocal antagonists, led by Collin Nast, the man who sat at the second drafting desk in the last

row. Her nemesis. He'd been insulting from the first and always made some scurrilous comment every time she passed by.

Mr.White made no mention of moving her to another location. She wasn't certain that he even remembered she was there.

When the secretaries asked her how work was going as they ate their lunches in a room barely larger than a cloak room, Nora

just sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Are they still stealing your pencils when you're not looking?"

"Yes—not as bad as at first, but yesterday someone shoved the pieces I was working on off my drafting table. They said it

was the wind. The window wasn't even open. One edge got bent, but I managed to trim it so it didn't show. I'm getting a little

fed up."

"You're not going to quit?" Lavinia asked, her eyes wide. A tall, slender girl, she spent much of lunchtime every day painting

and repairing her nails.

"Never," Nora said. "Just let them try to drive me away."

"That's our girl," said Sadie, a curly-haired blonde who had the accolade of being the fastest typist of the three. "At least we hardly ever have to deal with the men. Except for Higgie. She's the one stuck with their excuses and complaints. Isn't that right, Higgie?"

Higgie, who had just walked in with her lunchbox, arched both eyebrows. "What did I miss?"

"Isn't it true that you're the one always having to put up with the men's complaints?"

"Well," said Higgie, "if you mean they're always late, always broke, sloppy as all get-out, and have no clue as to how things

actually get done in an office..."

"Unappreciated is what we are," added Lavinia.

"At least they have to be nice to us if they expect to get their paychecks. And it's better than standing on your feet all

day at the stores," Sadie said. "The girl I room with has to soak her feet like an old woman every night. Her back is already

giving out and she hasn't even found a husband yet."

"Well, I don't want a husband," Lavinia said. "I want my own money and to be able to keep it, even if I have to work for it."

"How about you, Nora?"

"Me? I have to work, and I want to be an architect."

"Do you think they'll ever accept you?"

Nora shrugged. "If they don't, I'll leave them in my dust." She frowned. "I don't even care if they accept me or not if they

would just stop trying to sabotage me."

"You should make a plan," said Lavinia, rubbing her hands together like a music hall villain.

"To do what? I was told not to be a distraction. Calling any attention to myself will be fatal for my career. I don't dare

make waves; even the bosses don't want me there."

"And we don't want to do anything that would jeopardize Nora's position," Higgie said.

"I don't even think Mr. McKim and Mr. Mead know I'm there," Nora said. "I've never seen them come into the drafting room."

"But Mr. White does," said Lavinia. "And he's the real cheese. He's very dashing, but he does have a reputation," she added, looking at the others.

"Lavinia, don't tell tales," said Higgie, sounding more like MissHiggins of the business office.

Nora settled into work, managing to ignore most of the taunts and practical jokes. But that was before someone poured her

ink on her stool and she ruined her skirt by not seeing it before she sat down.

She took one look at the back of her skirt and considered throttling Collin Nast where he sat smirking at his drafting table.

Don't distract , she warned herself, and took measured steps to the door and into the elevator. Once downstairs, she dropped all pretense

of composure and burst into the fourth-floor office.

"Look what they did!" she exclaimed, trying to look over her shoulder to see the black stain on the seat of her next-to-best

skirt.

The other girls hovered around.

"This isn't fair. They've ruined your skirt. You should tell."

"Absolutely not," Higgie said. "You'd be sacked for certain. Just try to bear it; they'll lose interest if you ignore them

enough."

"My professor warned me. I expected not to be accepted, but outright sabotage..." Nora sighed. "It's hard to understand."

"Not really," Higgie said, gathering up her lunch things. "It's a matter of fear. You've upset their complacency, what they

think of as a man's sphere. They're afraid of you, Nora Bromley. Go back upstairs and make them quake."

"But how?"

"You'll think of something."

"Yay," exclaimed Sadie.

"But watch your back," added Lavinia.

"By all means," added Higgie. "And try a solution of milk and salt on the stain."

The next day, instead of lunching with the secretaries, Nora took her sandwich and followed several of the men down the hall and into a nice-sized room with several long rectangular tables and straight-backed chairs. The talk had been lively, until she walked in and looked around with what she hoped was a bland expression, because God knew her knees were knocking. She spied an empty place halfway down the table between two men who worked on the far side of the room and sat down between them. She didn't try to look at them, just calmly ate her sandwich while conversation died around her.

She forced down every bite, though it scraped her throat like sandpaper every time she swallowed. When she was finished, she

neatly folded the paper it had been wrapped in and pushed her chair away. She just caught the malicious glint in Mr.Nast's

eye.

"Gentlemen, as much as I'd rather enjoy my lunch elsewhere, until my things stop disappearing, my workspace being molested,

and all items that have been stolen are returned, I feel it necessary to spend as much time as possible on the fifth floor,

even during lunch, just to keep an eye on you." She nodded slightly and, with an effort not to look in Nast's direction, she

walked out of the room—

And right into George Douglas, carrying several rolls of plans under one arm.

She stumbled back. Had he heard her little speech? She was supposed to not be distracting. Had she overstepped? Of course

she had, but what was she supposed to do, have her things stolen every time she left her desk? She'd be broke from replacing

them before the summer was out.

"Mr.Douglas, did you need to see me?"

"I did, and it was more than worth it."

That flummoxed her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, don't be. Tell me what's been going on in the drafting room."

Three draftsmen stepped out of the lunchroom, cast suspicious looks at the two of them, then hurried away.

That's all she needed, the men thinking she'd ratted them out. "Nothing. Nothing's going on," she said, loud enough for the

departing men to hear her and hopefully pass it on to the others. "I really need to get back to work. If you don't need me."

He shook his head.

She didn't wait for anything else, just hurried down the hall to the elevator.

So much for her triumph. The appearance of George Douglas might have created just the opposite effect of what she intended.

She didn't breathe easily until she'd reached the business office to give Lavinia, Sadie, and Higgie an update.

They were waiting for her.

"Well?" asked Lavinia. "Where were you during lunch?"

"I was dining with the gentlemen upstairs."

"They invited you?"

"Heavens, no. I spent last night thinking of things they would really hate. And boy, as soon as I walked in, you could have

heard a pin drop. We all ate in total quiet until I left."

"Famous!" cried Sadie.

"It would have been, but as I was making my exit, I ran smack-dab into Mr.White's assistant; he ruined it all. He was standing

outside the door and asked me what was going on."

" Men ," Sadie exclaimed with such furor that the others laughed.

"Now I'm afraid they'll think I told on them, but I didn't."

"Well," said Higgie, "if this doesn't work, we'll come up with plan B."

"Thanks," Nora said. "I'd better wash my hands and get back to work before they start dismantling my desk."

When Nora returned to the fifth floor, she was surprised to find everyone silent and hard at work. She had just made it to

the back of the room when she found out why.

"So now you're not just a little slut, but a rat to boot," said Collin Nast, jumping up from his stool to bar her way.

"I'm neither, but you're a bully and it's not necessary. I'm not in competition with you."

"Lucky for Nast," came a voice from someone close by, though no one even lifted their head.

Collin Nast snapped around, studied the people behind them, then turned back to Nora. "Why don't you go home where you belong

instead of taking the job of a man who needs to support his family? What did you have to do to get White to give you this

job? Are you still doing it?" He pouted his lips with what Nora thought might be meant to be a pucker for a kiss, but it just

made her want to punch him.

Nora bit her tongue to keep from snapping back, Then who will support my family? She knew you couldn't fight with bullies; they always won. But you couldn't retreat or they would just get worse.

"Nast, give it a rest." It was a draftsman who sat several tables away slightly in front of Nora's desk, and one of the few

men who acknowledged her in any form that wasn't derogatory. He was fair-haired with a round baby face and was just the kind

of person a bully would pick on. Nora appreciated his attempt to intercede, but she could fight her own battles and didn't

want him to bear the brunt of Nast's bad temper.

"Oh," said Nast. "I'm afraid this must be yours." He held up a wooden protractor.

For a moment no one moved, then one by one, heads turned toward Collin Nast. Nora felt her pockets—how could she have missed

it? She'd been so careful to always take everything with her.

"It must have fallen off your desk; you should be more careful with your implements." He took a piece of the protractor in

each hand. It had been broken right down the center.

He didn't bother to hide his satisfied smirk. It made Nora want to do bodily harm. And she knew she was more than capable of doing it, but it would cost her her job and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Screwing up every bit of her self-control, she expended a huge sigh; she took the pieces of the protractor from him and held

them up for the room to see, while slowly breaking into a smile.

"I guess I'll be joining you for lunch again tomorrow."

There was an audible groan. Nora didn't react, just turned away and began pulling the rest of her tools from her pockets and returning them to the tool trough. A process that

was becoming very irksome.

She was already dreading lunch tomorrow. She would so much rather be eating with the girls downstairs. But the men had declared

war and she would have to rise to the occasion... somehow.

A minute later she was bent over her work, trying to create and complete an arch with a broken protractor, when another protractor

appeared before her face.

"I have an extra." It was the baby-faced guy from down the row. "I'm Fergus Finnegan, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Mr.Finnegan."

"Just call me Fergus."

"Fergus."

She took the protractor from him with thanks and then bent back over her work, hiding her smile, hoping she'd just seen the

first crack in their armor.