Chapter Eighty-Three
His meeting with the foreman of his cottonseed mill forgotten, Thomas headed for the DuMont Department Store. He always lost his breath when he walked into its rarified air, an occurrence that happened seldom more than twice a year when he shopped for Regina’s and his mother’s Christmas presents. After his first failed attempts at pleasing his wife on other celebrations that called for gifts, she preferred putting a bug in Henri’s or Armand’s ear about something she liked. They in turn would pass on word to him, and he would say to put it on his bill, wrap it up, and send it to the house. Thomas could not recall any item that he had personally selected to give to Priscilla to commemorate special occasions.
The DuMont Department Store was a gilt, marble, and mirrored palace whose fine wares and opulent appointments were set aglow by dozens of gas-lit crystal chandeliers. It boasted separate departments for men’s, women’s, and children’s clothing, along with sections for jewelry, gifts, home furnishings, and furs. Under its roof were housed a tearoom, hair salon, bookstore, design and tailoring rooms, and administrative offices, all spread on three floors reached by a sweeping, elegant staircase.
Thomas regarded the store as a Texas phenomenon. What businessman would ever dream of building a retail establishment like the DuMont Department Store in a small town in East Texas and expect to turn a profit to justify its expensive scale and inventory? But Henri DuMont had done just that. From the beginning his instinct for pinpointing his customer base, knowing what his patrons wanted and would pay for, had been the guiding light behind the store’s success. Henri knew the value of advertising and publicity and had always been in step with the modern demands of the times in which he lived. He and Armand had been among the few retailers to realize that mass production, ushered in by the Civil War, would change the way Americans dressed, shopped, and ate. They understood that men and women had moved on from the lengthy fittings and costly trimmings of custom-designed, couture clothing and had therefore primed the store for the advent of ready-to-wear garments that could be purchased immediately, right off the rack.
Customers came from all over, giving Henri’s competitors in Texas cities and those in Louisiana and Mexico a run for their money. Around Easter and Christmas, it was not uncommon for flocks of families to come to Howbutker for a weekend’s roost in the Fairfax Hotel to do their shopping in the DuMont Department Store, or for gaggles of ladies to arrive by train on buying sprees that made short work of the inventory in the store’s gleaming cases. The DuMonts’ home décor department was in constant demand, and no well-to-do Texas rancher or farmer ever dared send his daughter off to finishing school without first outfitting her from the store’s selection of up-to-the-minute feminine attire. Nowadays, customers did not have to visit the store to buy what they needed. They could order right out of the DuMont Department Store’s mail-order catalog, an innovation begun by Aaron Montgomery Ward in 1872.
Thomas took the flight of stairs to the second story, where the store’s glassed offices overlooked the main floor. He found Armand in his own office, passing by Henri’s, where the founder’s chair behind his desk yawned sadly empty. Armand, his lean, aristocratic face showing the strain Thomas had known in watching his father die, glanced at the mantel clock when his secretary ushered him in. “You’re early,” he said. “You must be hungry.”
Thomas got right to the point. “Armand, I need a favor.”
Armand leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his silk waistcoat. “Ask, and it is yours.”
“Not so hasty, my friend. What I have to ask may not set well with you, but I hope it will.”
“Ask, my friend.”
“It is about Jacqueline Chastain. As you know, her shop failed. I believe she’s nearly destitute. It’s been very generous of you to allow her to live in the apartment until she can make other arrangements.”
Armand dismissed the tribute with a wave of his hand. “She is a deserving woman.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Thomas said. “I spoke with her this morning. Her future plans sound pretty bleak. She intends to go live with her sister and brother-in-law in Richmond, Virginia, and hopes to find employment in a millinery shop there.”
Armand was listening patiently, and Thomas suspected his friend, who knew him so well, had already anticipated the favor. “I wonder if you have a position in the store that calls for her expertise and could offer her a job,” Thomas said. “I know nothing about women’s hats, but from what I saw of those in her shop when I picked up that head thing Regina wore on her birthday…”
Armand leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. “I wish I could have stopped what was happening, but I couldn’t.”
“Well, no, you couldn’t throw business her way.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the deliberate plot to boycott Mrs. Chastain’s shop. Somebody mailed letters that started a whisper campaign against her. Very unsavory stuff. The blasphemy obviously fell on the right ears, and”—Armand lifted his well-tailored shoulders—“you saw the result when you went by her shop.”
Thomas felt heat rush to his head. “Letters?”
“Very damaging not only to her place of business but to her personally. The poor woman is persona non grata now and has become a practical recluse.”
“How did I not know about this?”
“Why would you?”
“Do you know who was responsible for the letters?”
Armand held his eye. “I’ve an idea.”
“Who?”
“I’ve never lied to you, Thomas, so don’t ask me.”
“But you know?”
“I’ve definite suspicions. Now, as to your request, I’ll be happy to hire Mrs. Chastain. We can use a designer of her talents. I thought of offering her a job, but under the circumstances, with her reputation in tatters, I…didn’t think she’d wish to stay in Howbutker. Shall I sound her out?”
“I’d be most grateful, Armand,” Thomas said, trying to think of who in town would go to such lengths to destroy a woman like Jacqueline Chastain. He would go to the house and ask Priscilla. She belonged to every women’s organization in the county, fertile grounds for gossip. If anyone would know, she would, and when he learned the name of the perpetrator…
They shook hands, but Armand tightened his grip as Thomas made to pull away. “Thomas, my friend, I advise you not to investigate this matter further.”
Thomas studied him, puzzled. “Why? Whoever it is deserves to be run out of town!”
Armand released his hand. “Are we still to meet for luncheon? I’ll drop by Mrs. Chastain’s on the way to the Fairfax and have her answer for you.”
“And I may know the name of the culprit by then. I’m on my way home now. I’m sure Priscilla will have a good idea who’s behind this. My wife did all she could to keep Mrs. Chastain in the black. She must have bought over a dozen hats.”
“Really?” Armand raised a sleek eyebrow. “How…generous of her. One o’clock at the Fairfax, then?”
Thomas urged his horse to a full gallop toward Houston Avenue and was halfway there when he drew on the reins so sharply his mount almost lost his footing. A shocking coldness, like a dunk into icy water, shuddered through him. Good God! Priscilla! Priscilla wrote the letters! He had only to ask himself who would want to see Jacqueline Chastain run out of town for the answer to shout at him. He had only to recall Armand’s odd demeanor and warning couched as advice, Jacqueline’s remark—There are certain influences afoot in this town that would prevent my being offered one—to know that his vindictive, spiteful, jealous wife was responsible.
Priscilla! That brainless wife of his who thought herself superior to a shopkeeper who possessed the grace and kindness to keep silent about her maliciousness to her husband. Thomas was certain Jacqueline suspected Priscilla. Thomas recalled the bills of sale his wife had signed for the hats, the purchase a ruse to deceive him and others from guessing her to be the culprit behind the poisoned pen. Obviously, Jacqueline had come in possession of a letter, and she would have compared its writing to his wife’s signature on her copy of the bill. No doubt Armand had done the same. Priscilla would have tried to disguise her penmanship, but its many flowery, telltale curlicues would have given her away as the writer.
Thomas kneed the horse on and steadied his breathing to regain control of his rage. He had to be careful how he confronted Priscilla. He must remember that she was the mother of his children and still grieving the loss of a child. For the same reason, he must think of Vernon and Regina and avoid causing them further pain from seeing their parents at each other’s throats. They were already sadly aware their mother and father were not as happy together as their best friends’ parents. The wives and husbands in the Warwick and DuMont households were heart mates. His children could not say that of him and Priscilla.
But Priscilla must not be allowed to get by with this heartless act of malice against an innocent human being. He would find a way to make sure she did not.