“Did she? A lot of country girls come here before going back home and getting married to good old country boys.”
“I’ve always wondered about her time here,” I said, ignoring his comment about country girls getting married. “Maybe I can figure out where she worked or what her time was like here... but it was a long time ago. Nineteen years, about.”
“Nineteen years?” Tristan thoughtfully bit his lip. “You know, the textile factories keep records of their employees. It isn’t hard for me to access them.” He paused and then said, “I can check for you. I mean, if you like.”
“Really?” I was edging toward a place with no handholds or stops, the sort of place where one lost herself to a young man with an eager manner and blue eyes.
“It’s no trouble,” he said, and he sounded excited. He was smiling, again, as though pleased he’d made me happy. “What’s her name?”
“Edith. Edith Watkins.”
He wrote her name on his notepad so close to mine that it looked like one word:EMMYEDITHWATKINS.Forward or backward, it was us, mother and daughter.
She still hadn’t written me.
“I’ll find her. Or the past her, I should say,” Tristan said. “Everyone leaves something behind, whether it’s a name in a record book, a bill, a payment stub.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Consider it done,” Tristan said. “Now, I need just a few more comments for my article. Why don’t you tell me why you love designing so much?”
“Well...” I leaned back on my hands, pushing away thoughts of my mother. “I almost don’t know why,” I said. “All I know is that I’m compelled to design. When I’m sketching, or sewing, I feel most like myself, like I was made for it.” The last sentence poured out of me, and I stopped. “It...” I tried again, starting slow. “Designing lets me explore and create stories.... I’m just prattling.”
“Don’t worry.” He was staring at me, his face completely serious. “I think I feel the same way about writing. Half the time I feel completely ridiculous running around town harassing people for comments or leads. But I know I could never quit. I must try to be the best at it. It’s all part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“Being seen,” he said. He arched his back slightly and fidgeted, as though he didn’t quite belong in the silk, pillowed armchair.
“Being seen?”
“There’s something communicative about art. If no one sees it, there isn’t much of a point.” He reached forward to finally return the teacup to the saucer. He set it down gently, noiselessly.“So, for me, it would be breaking life-changing news on the front page of theAvon-upon-Kynt Times.”
“And for me, it would be designing a dress that shaped an entire fashion season,” I said, nodding. Even though it was a maid’s job and not mine, I picked up the pot to pour him more tea, this time barely registering the hot handle scorching my palm. He was right. Part of art was having it seen.
Madame Jolène wanted me to be seen, that much was certain. But not as a designer. I was her cheap token of progress and nothing more.
I couldn’t let that be my story. No matter what, I would figure out a way around Madame Jolène’s plans for me and make some plans of my own.
Chapter Eight
FRANCESCO JOINED ME FOR THEnext interview. He practically took over, answering the questions with flair. Not that it bothered me. My mind was racing—my small window of time between the current interview and the next was approaching, and I felt like a horse at the start line of a race.
As soon as the reporter left, I pulled my sketchbook out from under my chair. I flipped open to a clean page and sketched out the maids’ uniform, struggling to draw quickly yet neatly and keep an eye on the clock. Francesco sat back in his chair, drinking tea and watching. It took me seven minutes to draw out the uniform. It wasn’t my best work—I sacrificed some of the more nuanced shading to save time. Once it was finished, I jumped to my feet.
“You have twenty-three minutes until the next interview,” Francesco reminded me as I headed toward the door. He set his teacup down and picked up a petit four. He plucked the fondant flower off the top and popped it into his mouth.
“I know,” I replied. “But I have to find two other items for the challenge.”
“Well, I suppose I can stall a bit. Take thirty-five.”
“Really? Thank you, Francesco!”
“Yes, yes. Now hurry!”
I burst out into the hallway but then stopped, realizing I didn’t have a plan. I looked left and then right, the urgency of passing time bearing down on me. Where should I look, when I only had thirty-five minutes? I walked over to the staircase. Even if I wasn’t sure where I was going, I needed tomove. I hurried down the stairs, the Fashion House paintings staring down at me as I scurried by.
At the second landing, I stopped to lean against the banister. The paintings of the famous Fashion House designs stretched along the wall, rectangles of color and beauty, each detail so vivid that I felt like I could touch them and feel the smoothness of silk, taffeta, and chiffon underneath my fingertips.
