An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,37

feeling of storm in the air, when Dalton stood at the window of his office, looking down at the spectacle across the street. The windows of Goodwin’s had been darkened and boarded over, upon which notices had been posted advertising for available positions.

In blazing red letters on a soft pink background were the words WANTED: Women Who Want More. And then, in smaller print:

Goodwin’s is hiring clerks. Fair wages. Opportunities for advancement. Childcare provided. Inquire within.

This was the fourth day in a row in which women formed a long line, snaking around the block, to inquire within. The newspapers were certain this spelled doom for Manhattan’s most prestigious department store—his. Dalton would never admit it but he was starting to feel something like trepidation.

A knock at the door diverted his attentions. He turned.

“Do you have a moment, Mr. Dalton?”

“Good morning, Miss Baldwin. Do come in.”

He always had time for Clara Baldwin, one of his best shopgirls and department managers who was especially adept at training new hires. She hardly ever troubled him; she simply performed her job expertly and efficiently while he raked in the money.

Today she stood nervously before his desk.

“What can I help you with, Miss Baldwin?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Dalton, but I have come to give my resignation.”

“You’ll have to repeat that, Miss Baldwin. It sounded like you said you were offering your resignation.”

“I did. I am.”

“That is unexpected to say the least. May I inquire as to your reason? Good news, I hope.”

It was expected that women would resign when they were married or found themselves with child. Dalton racked his brain for facts about Clara that might explain this. Did she have a sweetheart who might have proposed marriage? Was she already secretly married and expecting? Perhaps she was moving home, wherever that might be.

“Oh, I have not been unhappy here, Mr. Dalton. However, I did learn of an opportunity for advancement . . .”

He refused to turn around and look at that damned line, that sign, that store.

WANTED: Women Who Want More.

“Goodwin’s?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, relieved.

“How much?”

“Ten dollars a week.”

He gave a low whistle.

“Exactly. And I am to be given a very prestigious title—vice president of training. I shall be training all the new hires.” She laughed nervously. “I do have my work cut out for me.”

“I didn’t realize you were unhappy with your position here.”

“I didn’t, either. But then I saw the signs and made some inquiries. I wanted to see what I was worth, Mr. Dalton. Then she gave me an offer I could not refuse.”

“I understand,” he said. And he did. Miss Baldwin was no different from him: she was not content with fine. She hungered for more and would seize opportunities that would afford her higher wages or a chance for professional advancement. He would have done the same thing in her position.

The mistake he’d made was thinking that women didn’t burn with the same ambition, that they would be content with five dollars a week, sixteen-hour days, and the title of shopgirl.

By that afternoon, it proved to be a costly mistake. Miss Baldwin was not the only employee to leave his store for the one across the street. Seven—seven!—other shopgirls gave notice, as well. Connor had come up to his office to give him the grim news.

“A few more and it’ll be a certified exodus,” Connor said darkly. “And then what will people say?”

The publicity would be unfavorable. The gossip would be unpleasant. If this exodus continued, service would suffer and customers would flee. Dalton’s was a place where a woman could come to have all her needs met right down to a porter to follow her through the store, carrying her purchases. Without such caring, attentive service, they’d go elsewhere. Say, across the street. Then he’d be in no position to exact his revenge.

He did not come so far to come up so short.

It was not to be borne.

He was going to have a word with her.

“They’re not going to say anything because they’re not going to know. This is going to stop. Now.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dalton!” The shopgirls chirped their usual greeting as he strode determinedly through the store on his way to the revolving door. This time there were no friendly winks as he passed by. Anger had sharpened his focus.

He pushed through the heavy glass doors, stepped out onto the sidewalk, strode across the street. He stormed into Goodwin’s on the heels of some laborers carrying in supplies, like lumber and tools and things