Rare Objects

“Guess I’m not cut out for the big city after all,” I said.

She nodded sagely. “Not many people are. Though I have to say, you look a bit, well, underfed. And I can’t say I like that hairstyle on you.”

“I’ll never go to that hair dresser again!” I laughed, automatically running my hand through the short curls. “It’ll grow back,” I reassured her. “Faster than you think.”

“Have you been sick or something?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Maybe I was a little homesick.”

“Perhaps you should take it easy. Rest up. Why not come see me in another week?”

It wasn’t like her to worry about anyone’s health.

“I’m right as rain. So”—I sat forward, gave her a smile full of history and complicity—“what have you got for me?”

Maude flicked a bit of ash into a mug, where it fizzled in the remains of her cold coffee. “Nothing.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I haven’t got anything for anyone, kid. Don’t you read the papers? The whole country’s out of work.”

This wasn’t the reception I’d been expecting. Maude always had some lead tucked up her sleeve.

“But, Maude”—I tried to laugh, but it came out forced, like a broken machine gun—“there has to be something!”

She picked up a single sheet in her in-tray. “See this? This is it—I’ve got one job. And about two hundred girls waiting for my phone call. And I’m sorry to say, kid, but you’re not what they’re looking for.”

“What is it?”

She squinted as she read the heading. “A temporary clerk/salesgirl.”

“But I can do that!” This time my laugh sounded real—full of relief. “I don’t care if it’s not secretarial. I’m not going to be picky!” I added graciously.

“Yes, but not just any clerk. It says”—she referred to the paper again—“‘The girl in question should be a young woman of quality, well-spoken and professional, able to create a favorable impression with affluent clientele.’” She peered at me over her glasses. “Allow me to translate: that’s ‘No Irish redheads, thanks.’ They want a blueblood. Or at least someone who passes for one. It’s one of those fancy shops on Charles Hill.”

“Look, I can’t go home with nothing, Maude. You don’t understand. I’ve got bills, debts to pay.”

“No, you’re right,” she said flatly. “I’ve never had a bill in my life.”

“What about the telephone company? They always need girls, don’t they?”

“Not anymore. They let fifty go last month.” She stubbed her cigarette out in the mug. “I’m sorry, really. I am.”

“What’s the address of this shop?”

“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “No, I’m not taking any chances! I need this commission!”

“I know how to speak properly and which fork to use at dinner!” I had an idea. “You know what? I’ll just dye my hair blond!”

“Are you kidding me? And end up looking like every two-bit secretary I already have on the books, all of them trying to be Joan Blondell or Jean Harlow? These people want a young woman of quality, not a chorus girl!”

“Please, Maude!” I was starting to sound desperate. “Just give me one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

She winced; the conversation was painful for both of us. “I’ve known you a long time, Maeve. And you’re a smart girl with a lot of potential. But my God, if you haven’t got lousy timing!” A buzzer sounded in the room next door. “Things are tough here. Real tough. Maybe you should’ve stayed in New York.”

She got up and went into the waiting room to unlock the door.

I grabbed the paper from her in-tray. A card was attached to the bottom. I tore it off and shoved it into my pocket.

It wasn’t until I got outside in the street that I took it out again and looked at it.

WINSHAW AND KESSLER

Antiquities, Rare Objects, and Fine Art

Under the address were the following lines:

EXTRAORDINARY ITEMS BOUGHT, SOLD,

AND OBTAINED UPON REQUEST

Absolute discretion guaranteed ______

R. H. Stearns had long been established as the most exclusive department store in Boston. Located in a tall, narrow building overlooking the Common, its hallmark green awnings promised only the finest, most fashionable merchandise inside. Already the windows were dressed with pretty pastel displays of spring fashions in stark contrast to the customers, still bundled in thick winter coats and furs, browsing through the long aisles.

I didn’t go in through the polished brass doors, though, but went round to the back of the building. Normally visitors were prohibited from using the staff entrance, but I managed to walk in behind a couple of cleaning girls unnoticed. There was only one person who could help me now, and unfortunately, she wasn’t going to like it.

The alterations workshop was a large windowless room in the basement between the stock rooms and the loading bay, filled with long rows of sewing machines, ironing boards, and clothing rails. The constant clattering of the machines echoing off the cement floor and ceiling made it sound like a factory. Twenty or so women worked side by side, wearing white cotton calico smocks over their street clothes. The department was presided over by Mr. Vye, a very particular, exacting man in his mid-fifties who sat at a desk near the door. He assigned each garment, liaised with the customers, and oversaw the final result. Everything had to go through him, including me.

Ma had a sewing machine at the front of the room in a prime position. It was widely acknowledged that her abilities with difficult materials like silk, taffeta, organza, and brocade were extraordinary, and as a result she was the first choice for eveningwear alterations. Behind her on a dress form was a fitted gown of black velvet with rhinestone straps. When I arrived she was kneeling on the floor, pins in her mouth, taking up the hem.

Mr. Vye scowled at me, an intruder in his domain. “May I help you, young lady?”

“Oh, that’s my daughter!” Ma got up, brushed the stray threads from her knees. “You remember my daughter, Maeve, don’t you? She’s just come back from New York!”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I apologized. “Only I wondered if I could have a quick word with my mum.”

He nodded begrudgingly, and we went into the hall.

“I need a favor, Ma.”

“Tell me what happened at the interview. Did they have anything for you?”

“There’s not a lot out there, but there is one job. Only I need your help.” I lowered my voice. “Ma, I have to dye my hair.”

“Dye your hair?” She recoiled as if I’d just slapped her across the face. “Certainly not! You have beautiful hair! It was bad enough when you cut it. Only fast girls do that sort of thing!”

“But it’s for a job, Ma!”

“What kind of job? A cigarette girl?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Absolutely not!”

I would’ve happily taken a job as a cigarette girl, but I didn’t tell her that.

“Look, I don’t want to look fast, or cheap,” I explained. “Which is why I came to you. It’s for a job in Charles Town. An antiques shop. They want a woman of quality.”

“Really?” Now she was indignant. “And what are you, may I ask?”

I lost my patience. “What do I look like, Mum? Do you think anyone’s going to figure me for Irish? Why don’t I just go in clutching a harp and dancing a jig?”

“There’s no need to be vulgar!” But she frowned and bit her lower lip. We both knew she’d spent years erasing all traces of her Irish brogue for exactly the same reason. But dying one’s hair was vulgar and brazen as far as she was concerned. She tried to sidestep the question. “Well, I can’t help you tonight. I’m going to mass.”

“We can go to mass any night! And we haven’t got time—the interview is first thing tomorrow morning!”

But she dug in her heels. “I’m afraid I have a prior arrangement, Maeve.”

“If you help me, it will turn out all right, I know it will. I won’t look cheap or fast. But I can’t manage it on my own. Please!”

I could feel her wavering between what she thought was respectable and what she knew was necessary.

“Who knows when I’ll have another chance?” I begged.

“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.