The Dressmakers of Prospect Heights Read online

  Dedication

  For Jennie Fields, a stellar writer and cherished friend who always knows just what to say, and exactly when to say it.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Winter

  Chapter One: Catherine

  Chapter Two: Bea

  Chapter Three: Bea

  Chapter Four: Bea

  Chapter Five: Alice

  Chapter Six: Catherine

  Chapter Seven: Catherine

  Spring

  Chapter Eight: Alice

  Chapter Nine: Catherine

  Summer

  Chapter Ten: Catherine

  Chapter Eleven: Bea

  Chapter Twelve: Catherine

  Chapter Thirteen: Zhenechka

  Chapter Fourteen: Bea

  Chapter Fifteen: Bea

  Chapter Sixteen: Bea

  Chapter Seventeen: Catherine, Bea

  Chapter Eighteen: Alice

  Chapter Nineteen: Catherine

  Chapter Twenty: Alice

  Chapter Twenty-One: Alice, Catherine

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Bea

  Fall

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Alice

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Catherine

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Bea

  Winter

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Alice

  Spring

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bea

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Catherine, Alice, Bea

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kitty Zeldis

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Winter

  Chapter One

  Catherine

  Brooklyn, 1924

  Catherine Berrill awoke to blood—again. It had happened last month too, but it hadn’t trickled down very far, and so left only a light stain on her nightdress, one that she rinsed out immediately before the maid could see it. Nettie knew that Catherine and Stephen were hoping for a child, knew that month after month, their hope was drowned by blood. Sometimes a smear, sometimes a pool. It didn’t matter. Blood was blood. Nettie herself had four children, and Catherine didn’t want her pity, however well-intentioned.

  But today, the blood was far more than a smear. She’d been in a deep sleep, and when she woke, there was a large, crimson stain beneath her, bright and incriminating. Catherine stripped the bed, but she wasn’t sure what to do with the sheet—she could hear Nettie bustling around in the kitchen below, so there would be no way to conceal it. And though she could have bundled it up and thrown it away, there would still be its disappearance to account for; Nettie took pride in her meticulous housekeeping. So, leaving the sheet on the floor, she cleaned herself up, secured the necessary flannel pads in her underclothes, and went downstairs.

  “There’s a soiled sheet in our room,” she said. “I left it by the bed.”

  Nettie looked up; she was pouring Catherine’s coffee into a delicate, bone china cup. “Oh, that’s too bad, Mrs. Berrill,” she said. “Would you like me to bring your coffee upstairs, so you can have it in bed? Since it’s your time and all . . . It won’t take me a minute to put a fresh sheet on.”

  Catherine’s face burned. Of course Nettie knew why the sheet was soiled. The maid always knew all the secrets of a house.

  “No, I’ll take the coffee in the back parlor,” she said. “Just like always.”

  “And a cinnamon bun? Fresh baked this morning. Mr. Berrill thought they were perfection—heaven on a plate,” he said.

  Catherine had to smile—her husband was an optimist, an enthusiast, a man with a perpetually sunny disposition, inclined to see the best in everything and everyone. To Stephen, a freshly baked cinnamon bun was indeed cause for rejoicing. Even so, she was glad he’d already left for work. She didn’t think she could stand his unquenchable good cheer this morning.

  Nettie brought in the coffee and Catherine sat at the small table and looked out at the backyard. It was winter and nothing was in bloom, but come spring, there would be snowdrops, forsythia, and then lilacs, and in the summer, peonies and miniature roses of the palest pink. The warm weather would bring new growth, new life, but she, Catherine Delman Berrill, would remain barren, her womb wasted and empty. Abruptly, she got up from the table, so that the cup rattled and coffee pooled in the saucer. The cinnamon bun remained untouched.

  “I’m not very hungry,” she said to Nettie. “I’m going out, and I won’t be back for lunch.”

  “Dinner’s baked fish tonight,” said Nettie.

  “Oh, that’s right—it’s Friday.” Stephen didn’t eat meat on Fridays, a habit ingrained from childhood. Although the thought of food sickened Catherine at the moment, she said, “I’m sure it will be delicious, Nettie.”

  It was a relief to be outside. She could walk along Vanderbilt Avenue, past the big arch at Grand Army Plaza Avenue and into Prospect Park, where she’d follow its winding paths and cross its expansive Long Meadow. If she walked as far as the pond, she’d see the ducks, and maybe even the pair of swans that swam calmly on its surface. She liked tossing them stale bread crusts; unlike the ducks, they didn’t lunge and push one another out of the way, but accepted her offering in a regal, dignified manner. But the park was apt to be bleak and deserted on this gray, chilly day, so she headed in the other direction, toward the busier Flatbush Avenue.

  She only hoped that she wouldn’t run into one of her in-laws, as several of them lived nearby, on Union Street. When she and Stephen first moved into the house on St. Marks Avenue she’d been delighted to have his family so close by. She’d fallen in love with his parents, who’d welcomed her instantly, and his six siblings too—he was the eldest of a big Irish brood.

  But Catherine couldn’t bear seeing any of them today, especially not Bridget, to whom she was closest, and who knew all about Catherine’s yearning to have a child. And Molly, his other sister, was pregnant with her second—no, Catherine really didn’t want to see her either. Just as she reached Flatbush, she saw the new little dress shop she’d noticed before but never gone into. Although her closets were full enough, she decided it might provide a sorely needed distraction, and she climbed the stoop leading to the glass-paned double doors. There was a small sign attached to one of them:

  DRESSES BY BEATRICE AND ALICE

  PLEASE RING FOR ENTRY

  A girl of around fifteen or sixteen responded to the chiming sound. Was she Beatrice or Alice? “Good morning,” said the girl. “Would you like to look around?” She was pretty, but it was her dress that really stood out. It combined a persimmon-colored gathered skirt with a sage-green bodice and sleeves; the sleeves were adorned with tassels, as was the skirt. Something about it seemed of another time—skirts had not been so full for a while—but the effect was more avant-garde than retrograde. Before Catherine could comment, she was greeted by another woman, who looked to be in her forties. With her olive skin and dark hair that was elegantly twisted and gathered to show off her long neck, she was arresting. Compelling.

  Like the girl who’d answered the door, the older woman wore an unusual dress, hers in blue-and-white-striped wool with knitted and fluffy sleeves. “Hello,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Bea and this is Alice. Please look around and feel free to ask us any questions.” Her voice held the faintest trace of an accent. It sounded European, but Catherine couldn’t pin it down any more than that.

  “Nice to meet you,” Catherine said. Was the woman staring at her or was she imagining it? She began to look at the clothes on display, mostly dresses, no two of them alike. Here was a frock fashioned from a glorious butterfly-print silk with a black satin capelet at the shoulders; there was a simple emerald-green column made from an unfamiliar but appealing material that was both luxurious and soft. Its only adornment was the sash of aubergine velvet that extended from one shoulder to the opposite hip.

  There were no labels in any of the dresses, and Catherine couldn’t begin to guess where they were from. She only knew she’d never seen anything quite like them before. Despite her gloomy mood, she was intrigued and asked if she could try on the green dress. The material felt so good when she touched it; what would it be like to have it on her body, against her skin?

  Alice carried the dress over to a changing area enclosed by an ivory, watered silk curtain. “Won’t you step inside?” Her accent was clearly southern—so neither of these women was a New Yorker. Were they related, though? She wasn’t sure.

  Catherine took the dress and, once inside, began to disrobe. When she had the green dress on, she stepped out again, Alice came over and began to fasten the buttons in the back. The dress felt even better than she imagined. “What’s it made of?” she asked.

  “Silk knit jersey,” said Miss Bea. “It’s mostly used for undergarments but we got hold of a bolt and wanted to do something with it.”

  “So you make the dresses here?”

  “Yes. Though mostly Alice remakes them.”

  “Remakes them? What do you mean?”

  “We take existing dresses and combine various parts to come up with something new. Sleeves from one, a skirt from another—like that. Though the one you’re wearing is an original. It was my idea actually.”

  Catherine walked over to the mirror. The woman who looked back at her was unfamiliar. She was glamorous, yes, but even more, she was composed, she was in complete control of her life. Her future. The day’s dark mood seemed to lift, ba
nished by this altogether unusual dress. Maybe the dress was a sign of something—something good. Maybe she’d wear it and soon enough, she’d be with child and would need to have it let out.

  “. . . the sleeves are just the slightest bit too long, but Alice could easily fix them.” Miss Bea was looking at Catherine’s reflection in the mirror yet it seemed to Catherine that she was not focused on the sleeves at all, but on her face. It was unnerving.

  “What?”

  “The sleeves—I was saying that—”

  “I’ll take it,” Catherine blurted out.

  “It’s very becoming,” said Miss Bea. “Alice, can you pin the sleeves?”

  Alice came over with a pincushion and tape measure. When she was done, Catherine stepped back in the dressing area to change, then handed the dress to Alice, who disappeared behind another, much wider ivory silk curtain in the back.

  “That’s our work area,” Miss Bea explained. “I can have the dress for you tomorrow. Will that be all right?”

  “Tomorrow is fine.”

  “If you give me your name and address, I’ll have it sent round when it’s done.”

  “How much do I owe you?” She hadn’t even asked what the dress cost.

  “Eight dollars.”

  Catherine would have happily paid more for it. “And the alteration?”

  “No charge. Now if I could just get your name.” Miss Bea’s pen was poised above a small pad.

  “Catherine Berrill, 127 St. Marks Avenue.”

  The pen dropped and ink splattered, black drops sprinkling the pale cream-colored rug and the bit of stocking revealed by the strap of Miss Bea’s shoe. “Excuse me,” the older woman murmured as she knelt to retrieve it. She didn’t seem to care about the ink—or maybe she didn’t even notice. When she looked up again, her face had paled, and this time there was no mistaking it—she was staring at Catherine, seemingly transfixed.

  “Well, thank you very much.” Catherine held out the bills but Miss Bea, still staring, ignored them. “The payment,” she prompted. This was all so strange. Strange and uncomfortable.

  “You’re welcome.” Miss Bea took the bills and hastily stuffed them into the pocket of her dress.

  Catherine fastened her coat and drew on her gloves. She loved the dress, she truly did, and she was sure that if she continued to look around, she would find others that were equally appealing. These women were clearly gifted. But Miss Bea’s manner was so unsettling, so peculiar, that Catherine didn’t care to shop any further. She hurried out and down the stoop, walking swiftly away, quite certain she would never set foot in that shop again.

  Chapter Two

  Bea

  Bea had seen her. At last, she had seen her in the flesh. Face-to-face. After the searching, the hoping, the waiting, the scheming. The young woman she’d been seeking, Catherine Delman, now Berrill, had walked up those steps and right through the doors. She clearly resembled the photograph the detective had provided, though in the sepia-tinted image, the dazzling blue of Catherine Berrill’s eyes were not visible. But today Bea had recognized them—they were unmistakable, even though she had spent years trying to stamp out the memory of their unusual shade, and of the only other person she’d known who possessed them. For years, she’d succeeded. If she didn’t allow the memories to bubble to the surface, she could live as if they weren’t there. Until she couldn’t.

  Bea’s growing disquiet had begun with something that had nothing to do with her: the Great War that was raging in Europe. President Wilson had kept America out of it for the first three years before deciding to send troops. That was when the department of the Navy had pressured the city to end legalized prostitution. She had been forced to close her business in the notorious New Orleans neighborhood known as the District and say goodbye to her life as a madam, a life that had sustained and occupied her for more than twenty years. She’d been in her forties, still relatively young, and still healthy, her spine straight, her waist narrow. Only a few strands of silver glinted in her dark hair, and her face was mostly unlined. She didn’t want to operate her house—one of the finest and most well-known in those circles—undercover, living as an outlaw. So she was faced with the task of figuring out what, exactly, to do with the rest of her life. Unmoored in those first strange days, she took to rising early and embarking on long, solitary walks. Some mornings she headed toward Tchoupitoulas, where a ripe, primal smell wafted up from the nearby river. Other days she’d go deep into the Quarter, peering into courtyards, tossing the occasional coin—without wishing—into a fountain, wending her way down alleys whose bricks were slick with moss. In Jackson Square, she spent too much time watching a disheveled and practically toothless old woman as she scattered birdseed to an adoring flock. Bea had the uneasy feeling that she was seeing her own future.

  As she walked, stray memories from childhood flitted through her mind: the slight furrow of her father’s brow, even when he napped, the raucous sound of her brothers’ laughter as they chased each other through the big stone house. What her room in that house had looked like, the heavy curtains that surrounded the bed and that, when pulled closed, created a cozy alcove for sleep, a meal during which she dripped borscht onto her starched, white pinafore and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the evidence from her mother. But Mama hadn’t been cross, not at all, and it was she, not the maid, who had accompanied Bea upstairs to find a fresh one.

  The empty hours allowed Bea to dwell on these memories. Some were sweet. Others were bitter, even gruesome. What had happened to her father, for instance. Yet terrible as that had been, his story had an ending she knew, and there was harsh comfort in that. What about the story whose outcome was unknown to her? It had no conclusion. She had just willed it away from her awareness, buried it deep inside of her. Now it was coming back, asserting itself loudly, stridently. It haunted her, taunted her even. And eventually it drove her to Chartres Street, and the shabby, second-floor office of a detective named Isadore Vernou.

  Vernou was a small, pallid man with a center part and a droopy mustache. Sitting across from him, the scuffed and stained oak desk between them, Bea told him who it was she wanted to find. He’d nodded, taken down the information she was able to provide—all of it more than a quarter century old—and said he’d see what he could do.

  For a long while, she heard nothing and feared her search would be in vain. It was almost a year later when he contacted her; he’d found a promising lead, but in the end it had led nowhere. Or at least not to the place she was desperate to go. Her house, where she’d allowed the girls to stay until they’d found other lodgings, emptied out. The rooms, which had been filled every day and every night, were now silent. Only Alice and a couple of servants remained.

  Then influenza swept the country, and New Orleans became a plague city. People Bea knew, young people, healthy people, died in droves. The newspapers reported on the deaths, the grim numbers mounting; funeral followed funeral. Everyone stayed in, and if they had to go out, they hurried about their business, their faces covered by masks. It was in the middle of this epidemic that Bea heard from Vernou again, and this time, he was certain he had the information she was looking for. So excited was Bea to get this news that she donned a mask and hurried to his office, where he presented her with a name, an address, and miraculously, even a photograph over whose sepia-toned surface she ran her fingertips gently, as if she could absorb the image into her skin. “You’re sure?” she had asked.

  “Quite sure.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “Then I’ll refund half your money. I’ve got to be paid something for my time. But I won’t be. You’ll see.”

  “It means I’ll have to go to New York. To find her.” Bea stared at the photograph, hoping to find an answer, a clue, lodged somewhere in it. “What will I say?” She spoke softly, as if to herself.

  “That’s up to you,” Vernou said again. “I provide my clients with information. I don’t tell them what to do with it.”

  It took Bea some time to act on what she’d learned—she didn’t want to travel while the disease still raged, and there was the matter of selling her house and almost everything in it. But finally, the epidemic subsided, the house and its contents were sold, the journey made. Vernou had not disappointed her. Catherine Berrill was the woman she’d been seeking—her eyes alone would have convinced Bea. She had to see those eyes again. To see Catherine again. Having come to the shop once, she might return, though Bea was well aware that she had behaved oddly and might have put her off.