didn’t patronize one of the more glamorous French dressmakers.
“All the Blythewood women use Miss Janeway,” Agnes explained in a whisper as a shop girl escorted us into the dressing
room. “Caroline Janeway went to Blythewood on a scholarship,
as I did, and she still practices the old ways—at least when it
comes to clothes,” she added, her lips quirking.
The old ways again. What did that mean in a dress shop? I
wondered. Was I going to be outfitted in leg-o’-mutton sleeves
and stiff crinolines? I was expecting an antiquated fossil, but
Miss Janeway turned out to be quite young and pretty. She wore
a crisp white smock, a slim gray skirt, and a red beret pinned
jauntily over her smooth dark hair. When Agnes introduced me
to her, Miss Janeway held out her hand and shook mine briskly,
then folded it in both of hers.
“I was very sorry to hear about your mother, Miss Hall.
Evangeline was a legend at Blythewood. I’ll make you a dress to
do her proud—I think a French blue tea dress with white lace
trim for the interview, don’t you, Agnes?” She snapped her fingers and a shopgirl appeared with a little gold notepad affixed
to a chain around her neck, identical to the one that hung from
Miss Janeway’s neck.
“Mabel, check that we have enough of the white
featherpatterned lace and the French blue serge. I heard you worked at
the Triangle Waist Company, Miss Hall,” she added, as though
it were an afterthought.
“I did,” I said, holding my chin up, determined not to be embarrassed. “I was a sleeve fitter.”
“A difficult job,” Miss Janeway said, making a note in her
little book and turning to Agnes. “Shall we also make three
Blythewood skirts and matching shirtwaists with the Bell and
Feather?”
“Leave off the Bell and Feather for now,” Agnes said.
“Of course, we can add the insignia in a trice. You know,
Miss Hall, I worked as a seamstress in a factory before I went to
Blythewood,” she said, leading me toward a raised platform in
front of a set of triple mirrors and unceremoniously helping me
strip off my dress down to my loose cotton chemise.
“Really?” I asked, encouraged that someone from my own
background had made the transformation to Blythewood.
“Yes,” she replied, a smile quirking her lips. “Not all of us
Blythewood girls come from the four hundred. I remember
only too well the dreadful conditions in the factory, the long
hours with no breaks, the stifling heat, the humiliating searches
at the end of the day. When I think of those poor girls locked in,
unable to escape the fire, forced to jump from the windows . . .
Well, it makes me so angry I could spit! And how many women
among us are forced every day to make such horrible choices?
Without the power to determine our own fates we are like those
poor girls, choosing between fire and the street, which is really
no choice at all, now is it?” She looked up at me and I realized
she was waiting for an answer.
“I thought the same thing,” I said softly, my voice quavering, “when I saw the girls jumping . . . that they were like butterflies trapped between panes of glass.”
“ Exactly , Miss Hall,” she said with shining eyes, “butterflies trapped between panes of glass. I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s high time we broke that glass, don’t you think?”
Then she turned to Agnes. “You’re right, Aggie, she has the fire
in her. She’ll make a fine Blythewood girl. Maybe she’ll shake
things up a bit there. The bells know the old place needs it.” She
snapped her fingers and another shopgirl appeared with a measuring tape and began taking my measurements.
“You’ll scare Ava with your radical talk, Carrie,” Agnes
said. “She hasn’t even gotten through her interview yet.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Janeway said briskly. “A girl who’s survived the Triangle fire won’t scare easily. And it’s time things
changed. If we continue adhering to the
“All the Blythewood women use Miss Janeway,” Agnes explained in a whisper as a shop girl escorted us into the dressing
room. “Caroline Janeway went to Blythewood on a scholarship,
as I did, and she still practices the old ways—at least when it
comes to clothes,” she added, her lips quirking.
The old ways again. What did that mean in a dress shop? I
wondered. Was I going to be outfitted in leg-o’-mutton sleeves
and stiff crinolines? I was expecting an antiquated fossil, but
Miss Janeway turned out to be quite young and pretty. She wore
a crisp white smock, a slim gray skirt, and a red beret pinned
jauntily over her smooth dark hair. When Agnes introduced me
to her, Miss Janeway held out her hand and shook mine briskly,
then folded it in both of hers.
“I was very sorry to hear about your mother, Miss Hall.
Evangeline was a legend at Blythewood. I’ll make you a dress to
do her proud—I think a French blue tea dress with white lace
trim for the interview, don’t you, Agnes?” She snapped her fingers and a shopgirl appeared with a little gold notepad affixed
to a chain around her neck, identical to the one that hung from
Miss Janeway’s neck.
“Mabel, check that we have enough of the white
featherpatterned lace and the French blue serge. I heard you worked at
the Triangle Waist Company, Miss Hall,” she added, as though
it were an afterthought.
“I did,” I said, holding my chin up, determined not to be embarrassed. “I was a sleeve fitter.”
“A difficult job,” Miss Janeway said, making a note in her
little book and turning to Agnes. “Shall we also make three
Blythewood skirts and matching shirtwaists with the Bell and
Feather?”
“Leave off the Bell and Feather for now,” Agnes said.
“Of course, we can add the insignia in a trice. You know,
Miss Hall, I worked as a seamstress in a factory before I went to
Blythewood,” she said, leading me toward a raised platform in
front of a set of triple mirrors and unceremoniously helping me
strip off my dress down to my loose cotton chemise.
“Really?” I asked, encouraged that someone from my own
background had made the transformation to Blythewood.
“Yes,” she replied, a smile quirking her lips. “Not all of us
Blythewood girls come from the four hundred. I remember
only too well the dreadful conditions in the factory, the long
hours with no breaks, the stifling heat, the humiliating searches
at the end of the day. When I think of those poor girls locked in,
unable to escape the fire, forced to jump from the windows . . .
Well, it makes me so angry I could spit! And how many women
among us are forced every day to make such horrible choices?
Without the power to determine our own fates we are like those
poor girls, choosing between fire and the street, which is really
no choice at all, now is it?” She looked up at me and I realized
she was waiting for an answer.
“I thought the same thing,” I said softly, my voice quavering, “when I saw the girls jumping . . . that they were like butterflies trapped between panes of glass.”
“ Exactly , Miss Hall,” she said with shining eyes, “butterflies trapped between panes of glass. I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s high time we broke that glass, don’t you think?”
Then she turned to Agnes. “You’re right, Aggie, she has the fire
in her. She’ll make a fine Blythewood girl. Maybe she’ll shake
things up a bit there. The bells know the old place needs it.” She
snapped her fingers and another shopgirl appeared with a measuring tape and began taking my measurements.
“You’ll scare Ava with your radical talk, Carrie,” Agnes
said. “She hasn’t even gotten through her interview yet.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Janeway said briskly. “A girl who’s survived the Triangle fire won’t scare easily. And it’s time things
changed. If we continue adhering to the
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