Martin had secured the small warehouse space Dorothea had found, and had negotiated a drastically low rent on the premise that low rent was better than no rent at all. Together the two had already raised three thousand dollars in donations, with a promise of two thousand more within the year.
With the purchase of four new machines and the finalization of logistical details, they should be able to have an official ribbon cutting, with the mayor speaking a few words—though he had never been known to speak a few words, always long winded. The event promised to draw a crowd of New Orleans society, which was perpetually interested in appearing at charity benefits.
On a particularly nice evening, not too hot, and armed with a good supply of Samson’s Mosquito Lotion, the whole entourage—Constance, Analee, Martin, Alice, the girls, and Dorothea, who was pushing baby Samuel’s pram—set off for a preview of the setup. The new sign, THE POYDRAS INSTITUTE OF DESIGN AND COUTURE, was painted in a combination of white and gleaming gold, outlined in black, and was ready to be installed the day of the ribbon cutting. Constance was beyond excited. Alice was struck silent in hope.
Martin and Dorothea, who were thoroughly familiar with the layout, walked about, chatting and pointing out one feature after another: the wide oak desk and swivel chair for a greeter, who would take initial notes on specific requests; two double-decker paper trays, one side for repairs and one for commissions on new garments. In front of that a three-slotted box to contain design possibilities that Constance, Alice, and now Analee would devise.
The machines stood in two equal rows in back of a new half wall of oak paneling. At the rear, two new dressing rooms waited, with green velvet drapes for privacy. To the side, a triple mirror wrapped around a small podium, on which a client might stand for viewing and for pinning adjustments. Perhaps just to admire herself from all angles. Past the dressing rooms, a restroom to please any lady had been newly installed.
All that was needed now were the girls and the customers.
*
“Well,” said Dorothea, raising her arms for attention. “I have arranged for a round of champagne to celebrate.” She leaned down to the girls. “And for you, dear ones, a glass of fresh apple juice.”
The girls squealed and clapped their hands!
“Can Samuel have some, too?” Maggie asked.
“Not quite yet. He’s still too much a baby,” Constance said.
“Aunt Alice?” Maggie pleaded.
“Your mama’s right, Maggie. He’s too young yet. I don’t think he would want any apple juice.”
“But how do you know? You could ask him.”
“Well, Maggie, he’s not quite old enough to tell us.”
“Because he can’t talk?” said Delia.
“When can he talk, Aunt Alice?” Maggie chimed in.
“Oh, not for a good while yet, Maggie.”
“But why? He’s making little sounds.” Delia leaned over the pram and put her ear to his puckered lips. “Maggie, come and listen.” Delia’s voice was excited. She patted his tummy. “He’s telling secrets. He has a lot of them. Put your ear to him and listen.” She raised her face to Alice. “Does he tell you secrets, Aunt Alice?”
Alice nodded. She laid her hands on their blond curls, bent, and kissed them each, her son’s sweet sisters, known only to her.
Yes, she thought. More secrets than anyone else will ever know.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Historical fiction by its very nature bridges two realms: that of fiction and of history. The question I encounter often from readers is, “What parts of this are actually true?” I know the question means factual. When I contemplate that question, I always hope to answer that all of it is true, even if not factual. Historical facts are of immense importance and the research for accuracy is demanding and imperative. Without the clarity of extensive research to provide a foundational context, even a gripping story runs the risk of seeming inauthentic. Good research establishes the full extent of place and time, including geography, politics, inventions, methodologies, architecture, food, fashion, and so much more. I find I can hardly write a scene without stopping for some detailed bit of research, usually on daily life, in order to present a world that is as true as possible. Yet the fictional aspect of the story must also ring true for the reader: true in the authenticity, range, and depth of characters and their relationships to each other in the world they inhabit. These characters must be grounded in the reality of human psychology or run the risk of seeming little more than shallow stereotypes, like puppets on a stage.
The research for this novel has been full of excitement for me. I was never an avid student of history as taught in my required classes growing up. Memorizing names and dates and handing them back on a test held little inspiration for me, though I was relatively adept at doing so. Finally in college, I had a professor who sat on his desk and plied us with the stories that make up history. I was mesmerized. Now I find some of my greatest fulfillment in the discovery of exciting details from the past. I am in love with history. It seems that many of us are. Much of that history is surprisingly, sometimes alarmingly, timely to our current world.
The turn of the century in 1900 marked an era of great advancement and innovation. People were inspired, ebullient with expectation of what undreamed-of-new thing might come next. Amid those dreams were a growing desire and commitment among women to gain the right to vote. Though it would take another two decades for that wish to come to fruition, women had already been working for suffrage for years. On the surface, a Mardi Gras ball might seem trivial, yet wherever women could manage to take leadership in the context of patriarchy was significant. The two balls put on by the women of Les Mysterieuses, the first all-female krewe of New Orleans Mardi Gras, were part of that larger effort.
In researching the Leap Year ball, I discovered one very interesting detail. The year 1900 was not, in fact, a Leap Year, because the number cannot be divided by 400. However, all references to this ball refer to it as justified by Leap Year. Perhaps these ladies simply took the license of a normal four-year period between Leap Years to validate their great event without the relevant mathematics. Some of them, like Dorothea, may have known, but proceeded anyway. And none of the New Orleans gentlemen tried to stop them. This is an unusual incident in which historical accuracy conflicts with historical facts.
In another note on timing of the ball, festivities were scheduled in the period between Twelfth Night and the actual Tuesday of Mardi Gras.
Various national monuments added significant symbolism in the design of Constance’s ball gown. Of particular interest is her attempt to recall the words of Emma Lazarus’s poem, “The New Colossus.” Those words are as iconic to us today as the Statue of Liberty itself. Lazarus wrote the poem in 1883 for an auction to raise funds for the pedestal of the statue. Only in 1903 were her words inscribed on a plaque at the base of the pedestal. During those two decades the poem could be found, other than its original, only in catalogs preserved from the auction, one of which Constance’s father had guarded carefully.
The research for this book has been extensive. I have made a sincere attempt at factual accuracy for that turn of the century culture between Chicago and New Orleans. The characters and their experiences in this novel are totally fictional. My hope is that this book presents both historical accuracy and human authenticity with an underlying truth that is timeless.