stammered.
“Just off the boat?”
Maureen thought she’d best be clear, lest she lose her nerve and the opportunity to speak with someone in authority. “My sister has been detained at Ellis Island until I can provide proof of my ability to care for her.” No need, she thought, to mention the chicken pox.
“I see.” He leaned farther back and swept his eyes over her again. “Is she, by any chance, as good a looker as you?”
Maureen shifted her purse to her other hand. “I’ll need a letter statin’ guarantee of employment and my wages. I’ll need to earn enough to live on and to support us both.”
His brows arched. “Bold, too.”
Maureen astonished herself with her boldness.
“Sales clerking’s not the highest-paying job.” He stood and walked clear around Maureen, eyeing her up and down, then leaned against the desk, bringing his height more in line with hers, his eyes close to her face. “There’re jobs that pay better. Some jobs pay much better.” He smiled and moved closer, pulling a tendril from her upswept hair to her neck.
Maureen stepped back, but he stepped forward again, until she pressed against the wall.
“I want to be a shopgirl. I’ve always wanted to work in a shop.” Her nerve was fading fast and her brogue thickening.
He leaned closer, almost smirking. “A shopgirl?”
She shoved her purse between them, pulling out the letter with Mrs. Melkford’s signature. “You see, Mrs. Melkford of the Missionary Aid Society knows I’ve come, and she’s written this letter of recommendation.”
He hesitated but took the letter, running his eyes over the page.
“And I’ll be seein’ the Wakefields this evening. They’ll be eager to know who carried out their wishes so quickly.”
He stopped smiling, seemed to reconsider, and stepped back. “Sit down.” He pointed to a chair against the wall. “Fill out the application. I’ll have one of the girls start you on the floor.”
“Do you have a pencil, please?” Maureen regained a measure of composure. “And my letter of employment. I’ll be needing that.”
“Stop by before you’re through for the night; I’ll have it then.”
She straightened.
“Never mind. I’ll send it to you on the floor.” He lit a cigarette, threw the saving, damning letter on a pile of correspondence, and went back to punching buttons on the machine.
Shaken, Maureen took up the pencil. She carefully completed her application, boldly printing the Wakefields’ address as her place of residence and Mrs. Melkford as her secondary character reference.
By midday, Maureen had been given a tour of the store and cloakroom by a junior clerk, a rundown on company rules and regulations as they affected salesgirls by the floor supervisor, and a station as something of an apprentice beneath a weary clerk named Alice in the department of ladies’ hats.
Maureen didn’t know if her placement was a random choice on the part of Darcy’s staff or because they’d noticed her smart, deep-blue hat on the way in. She hoped the latter. Regardless, she was determined to make a good showing—a hard worker and a personable, fashionable salesgirl.
“What do you mean you can’t read the prices?” Alice snapped when Maureen made her first sale. “Don’t you read and write?”
“Yes, surely!” Humiliated, Maureen dropped the sales pad and pencil and whispered as she retrieved them from the floor, “It’s just that I don’t know American money yet.” How had she not thought to ask Mrs. Melkford? “I’ll learn ever so quickly—I promise—if you could just explain it to me, please.”
“Well, I like that. Girls smart as a whip apply here six days a week, and you waltz in off the boat with not a brain in your head!” Alice muttered, whispering the price to Maureen. “You’re lucky clerks don’t make change! Pretend you know what you’re doing!”
The afternoon wore on with no breaks; Maureen was loathe to ask even about visiting the
“Just off the boat?”
Maureen thought she’d best be clear, lest she lose her nerve and the opportunity to speak with someone in authority. “My sister has been detained at Ellis Island until I can provide proof of my ability to care for her.” No need, she thought, to mention the chicken pox.
“I see.” He leaned farther back and swept his eyes over her again. “Is she, by any chance, as good a looker as you?”
Maureen shifted her purse to her other hand. “I’ll need a letter statin’ guarantee of employment and my wages. I’ll need to earn enough to live on and to support us both.”
His brows arched. “Bold, too.”
Maureen astonished herself with her boldness.
“Sales clerking’s not the highest-paying job.” He stood and walked clear around Maureen, eyeing her up and down, then leaned against the desk, bringing his height more in line with hers, his eyes close to her face. “There’re jobs that pay better. Some jobs pay much better.” He smiled and moved closer, pulling a tendril from her upswept hair to her neck.
Maureen stepped back, but he stepped forward again, until she pressed against the wall.
“I want to be a shopgirl. I’ve always wanted to work in a shop.” Her nerve was fading fast and her brogue thickening.
He leaned closer, almost smirking. “A shopgirl?”
She shoved her purse between them, pulling out the letter with Mrs. Melkford’s signature. “You see, Mrs. Melkford of the Missionary Aid Society knows I’ve come, and she’s written this letter of recommendation.”
He hesitated but took the letter, running his eyes over the page.
“And I’ll be seein’ the Wakefields this evening. They’ll be eager to know who carried out their wishes so quickly.”
He stopped smiling, seemed to reconsider, and stepped back. “Sit down.” He pointed to a chair against the wall. “Fill out the application. I’ll have one of the girls start you on the floor.”
“Do you have a pencil, please?” Maureen regained a measure of composure. “And my letter of employment. I’ll be needing that.”
“Stop by before you’re through for the night; I’ll have it then.”
She straightened.
“Never mind. I’ll send it to you on the floor.” He lit a cigarette, threw the saving, damning letter on a pile of correspondence, and went back to punching buttons on the machine.
Shaken, Maureen took up the pencil. She carefully completed her application, boldly printing the Wakefields’ address as her place of residence and Mrs. Melkford as her secondary character reference.
By midday, Maureen had been given a tour of the store and cloakroom by a junior clerk, a rundown on company rules and regulations as they affected salesgirls by the floor supervisor, and a station as something of an apprentice beneath a weary clerk named Alice in the department of ladies’ hats.
Maureen didn’t know if her placement was a random choice on the part of Darcy’s staff or because they’d noticed her smart, deep-blue hat on the way in. She hoped the latter. Regardless, she was determined to make a good showing—a hard worker and a personable, fashionable salesgirl.
“What do you mean you can’t read the prices?” Alice snapped when Maureen made her first sale. “Don’t you read and write?”
“Yes, surely!” Humiliated, Maureen dropped the sales pad and pencil and whispered as she retrieved them from the floor, “It’s just that I don’t know American money yet.” How had she not thought to ask Mrs. Melkford? “I’ll learn ever so quickly—I promise—if you could just explain it to me, please.”
“Well, I like that. Girls smart as a whip apply here six days a week, and you waltz in off the boat with not a brain in your head!” Alice muttered, whispering the price to Maureen. “You’re lucky clerks don’t make change! Pretend you know what you’re doing!”
The afternoon wore on with no breaks; Maureen was loathe to ask even about visiting the
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