Pandora’s wedding gown, with its scalloped hem sewn with pearls and a train attached by a satin headpiece, took her breath away. She stared in the mirror, her blond hair smooth at her shoulders, her blue eyes somehow larger than ever, and wished her mother could see her. If her mother saw how lovely she looked, how much Pandora resembled her, she might realize how much she had missed out on. Then Pandora deliberately pushed the thought away. Her mother had left because she wanted to. On her wedding day, Pandora would be surrounded by people who loved her. Her father would give her away, and Virginia would be the maid of honor.
Once the fitting was completed, Pandora and Adele ate lunch in the Mandarin Room on the tenth floor. Pandora had never eaten Chinese food before. She couldn’t wait to tell Willie about the huge bowls of noodles and chop suey. She even saved him a fortune cookie, a sugary sweet, golden cookie with a paper message tucked inside.
After lunch, Adele wanted to visit a factory to drop off a donation. The car delivered them to a men’s shirt factory on Thirty-Ninth Street in the Garment District. It wasn’t far from Lord & Taylor, but inside it was the exact opposite of the posh interiors of the department store. Instead of the spacious elegance and polished surfaces of Lord & Taylor, the factory was crammed with machinery and fabric and yarn. Workers were packed as tightly as sardines, and the click-clack of the sewing machines was deafening. Pandora was overwhelmed by the many smells—the glue, the ink for the labels, and even the women’s perfume. Adele told her that many of the women were so glad to be out of the house and at work they wore perfume, even though it was only to stand in an assembly line.
The chauffeur unloaded packages that Adele gave to the foreman. She had gathered stockings and biscuits and magazines for the women to read during their lunch break.
“It’s not much, but it helps,” Adele said to Pandora. “Women won the right to vote six years ago, yet in some ways their lives haven’t improved. They traded impossible conditions at home for longer, more-grueling days at a factory. What the suffragettes accomplished is admirable, but there’s so much more to be done.”
Adele was right. Pandora had attended a lecture about women in the workforce one weekend while she was visiting Harley at Princeton. Eight million women in America were earning salaries, but most of them were seen as unskilled workers and kept from high-paying jobs. The jobs open to women were often drudgework in cotton mills and rubber factories or telegraph operators. Pandora had experienced this herself when she tried to get a job as a secretary. Without dictation or typing skills, she wasn’t qualified to do anything besides be a maid or work in a factory. Even with teaching, the pay and conditions were terrible. Teachers could lose their positions for being over forty or having the wrong hairstyle. After women were married, they were expected to stay at home, and if they did work, they were paid half as much as their husbands.
Adele introduced her to a woman named Gladys who had been the factory’s first female employee and was still confined to the factory floor. She met Phyllis, a woman who was Pandora’s age and pregnant with her third child. Phyllis had terrible morning sickness but couldn’t take time off because she was afraid she’d get fired. Adele promised to bring her a special tea and instructed her to take naps during lunch.
“This is Millie Grimes.” Adele introduced Pandora to a woman of about thirty. Millie wore a faded cotton dress and plain black shoes.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Pandora shook her hand. Millie’s fingers were covered with little cuts from the machines, and her fingernails were round and short.
“Millie went to secretarial school; she’s the fastest typist I know,” Adele continued. “She was going to start work in an office, but her husband was injured at the docks. Millie’s salary is half what her husband’s was, and now she has to support her family.”
“Wouldn’t secretarial work pay more than a factory?” Pandora turned to Millie, recalling her own attempt to get a job as a girl Friday. The salary advertised in the newspaper had been quite a bit higher than what women earned in a factory.
“Much more.” Millie nodded.
Pandora didn’t understand. Millie was well spoken and pretty, with brown hair and hazel eyes.
“I can’t afford a nice dress for the interview,” Millie said matter-of-factly. “My husband’s medicine costs a fortune. We have three children to feed and clothe. There isn’t money for anything else.”
Pandora was about to reach into her purse to give Millie money for a dress, but something in Adele’s expression stopped her.
“Surely a dress can’t be the only reason Millie doesn’t apply to be a secretary,” Pandora said to Adele later in the car on the way to the townhouse on Park Avenue.
“I’ve offered her money for a dress, but she won’t accept it.” Adele pulled at her gloves. “She won’t take anything that isn’t given to all the women.”
Pandora suddenly had an idea.
“Could I use the car this afternoon?” Pandora inquired.
“Of course. Stephen will take you anywhere.” Adele patted Pandora’s hand. “I must be getting old. All I want to do is take a bath and lie down before dinner.”
That afternoon Pandora gave Stephen an address and sat back against the upholstery. She wondered if she was making a mistake. But girls like Millie deserved a chance; she had to do something.
Levi Dresses occupied a two-story building on Broadway a few blocks from Penn Station. A gold sign stood above the door, and in the window was a display of skirts and blouses.
Just a few days ago, Pandora read about Levi Dresses in an article about the New York fashion industry. More women were buying dresses ready to wear. The custom-made tailors were being replaced by dress shops that had a showroom and factory in the same space.
Levi Dresses wasn’t anything like Thomas Maisel Dresses, which had occupied a small set of rooms on the second floor of an office building. Inside were countless metal racks crammed with dresses. Pandora had never seen so many dresses. Bolts of fabric were stacked against the walls, and through a door she could hear the click-clack of sewing machines.
A middle-aged man wearing a dark suit approached her. He had thinning hair and a long, angular nose.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I wonder if I could speak to the owner.”
“I’m the owner.” He held out his hand. “Levi Rosen.”
“Pandora Carmichael.” Pandora shook his hand.
Levi led her to a quiet corner, and Pandora told him about Millie—how she was so bright, but she couldn’t afford a dress for a job interview, and she wouldn’t accept a dress as a gift.
“I was wondering if you could extend to her a store credit. Millie would pay for the dress when she gets a job. I’ll sign a guarantee, of course.” Pandora pulled at her gloves. “My fiancé’s father owns Enright’s Bank.”
Levi nodded in recognition. Pandora could tell he was impressed. Enright’s Bank was one of the most prestigious in New York.
“I admire what you’re doing,” Levi said. “But I’ve never met you. And I can’t let customers take dresses without paying for them. I have salaries to pay and business expenses.”