Storing Up Trouble, стр. 26
“Perhaps you’ll find this pair more to your liking,” Beatrix said as Mrs. Davis leaned over the counter, inspecting the gloves with an eagle eye. “If I may direct your attention to the label sewn into the glove, you’ll notice it’s the famed Alexandre Kid Gloves, produced only in France.” She ran a finger over the fine leather. “Marshall Field’s is the sole agent of these gloves in America, having been given that honor after A. T. Stewart’s store fell on questionable times after his death.”
Mrs. Davis’s head snapped up. “You say that only Marshall Field’s sells this glove?”
“Indeed, and while it does come with a dearer cost than the other gloves you’ve seen today, there’s no finer glove to be had.”
“And does it come in other shades of ivory?”
Knowing there was nothing to do but pull out every shade of ivory the Alexandre Kid Glove came in, Beatrix set about doing just that, keeping a smile on her face as Mrs. Davis inspected every glove as if it were a life-and-death situation.
“I’ll take twenty in every color of ivory you have,” Mrs. Davis finally said with a nod. “See that they’re delivered to my residence this afternoon and charge them to my account.”
“Very well, Mrs. Davis,” Beatrix returned, flipping open the notepad where she kept track of her sales and poising her pencil over the page. “I’ll simply need your address.”
“You don’t know my address?”
“I’m afraid I don’t because I’ve only recently come to Chicago and—”
“I don’t need to know any of that,” Mrs. Davis snapped before she rattled off her address, forcing Beatrix to write down that information so quickly that her handwriting was almost illegible.
“Will there be anything else I may do for you today, Mrs. Davis?” Beatrix asked, lifting her head and blinking when she realized that while she’d been scribbling away, Mrs. Davis had taken her leave without a single word of appreciation for all the time Beatrix had spent assisting her.
“Aunt Gladys was right,” she muttered, closing her notepad. “I truly had no idea what the world was like for working women.”
“Miss Waterbury, have you not had an opportunity to completely read the handbook I know you were given on your first day of employment with us?”
Summoning up yet another smile, because Marshall Field & Company expected their employees to sport a smile at all times, Beatrix turned and found Mrs. Goodman, supervisor of the first floor neckwear, trimmings, notions, coat check, and glove department, standing a few feet away. Her pursed lips and sour expression were less than encouraging.
Beatrix nodded. “I have read the handbook.”
“Cover to cover?” Mrs. Goodman shot back.
“Yes, although I found some parts of it more riveting than others.”
“Shall I assume, then, that you were bored by the part regarding how much information our employees are expected to disclose to our customers about the products available here, unless directly asked?”
Before Beatrix could formulate a suitable reply to that, because she had read the part Mrs. Goodman had just broached but hadn’t agreed with it in the least, a sharply dressed gentleman stepped up to join them.
Standing before her was none other than the esteemed Mr. Harry Selfridge. Mr. Selfridge was known to be a most ambitious gentleman, and during the time he’d been at the store, he’d risen from stock boy to the assistant to Mr. J. M. Fleming, the superintendent of retail, within a remarkably short period of time. Rumor had it that Mr. Selfridge now had his eye on Mr. Fleming’s position, and given what little Beatrix had already observed about the man, she was relatively certain he would win that position within the next few years.
“Is something amiss, Mrs. Goodman?” Mr. Selfridge asked, his gaze never dropping from Beatrix as Mrs. Goodman gave a wave of her hand.
“Nothing that need concern you, Mr. Selfridge,” Mrs. Goodman returned. “This is Miss Beatrix Waterbury, newly employed here, and I was reminding her of a few of our rules.”
Mr. Selfridge’s eyes narrowed. “Which rules would those be?”
Beatrix cleared her throat. “I wasn’t familiar with where Mrs. Davis resides and asked her to provide me with that information.”
Mr. Selfridge crossed his arms over his chest. “I see. And how did Mrs. Davis react to that?”
“She took me to task and then interrupted me after I tried to explain why I didn’t know her address.”
Mrs. Goodman released a sniff. “You’re supposed to get that information from the credit department if you’re in doubt.”
“But what if there is more than one Mrs. Davis, ma’am?” Beatrix countered. “By asking her what was really only a simple question, I was given the proper address, even if I’m still going to have to double-check with the credit department because she rattled off the information so quickly that I’m now unable to read part of my handwriting.”
“It’s never ma’am, always Mrs. Goodman.”
Beatrix nodded. “Quite right. I do recall reading that in the handbook.”
Mrs. Goodman’s lips pursed. “Then I would expect you to remember from this point forward that we address everyone, whether they be employees or customers, by Mr., Mrs., or Miss, unless you’re speaking to one of the young cash boys or errand girls, of course. And do not, under any circumstances, address anyone as dearie.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever called anyone dearie in my life.”
Mrs. Goodman leveled a stern eye on Beatrix as Mr. Selfridge cleared his throat. “Were there any other rules you needed to address with Miss Waterbury?”
Mrs. Goodman turned to Mr. Selfridge. “Only the one pertaining to disclosing too much information about a product to a customer.”
Mr. Selfridge quirked a brow in Beatrix’s direction.
Beatrix forced another smile. “I thought Mrs. Davis would be impressed by the Alexandre Kid Gloves if I explained they can only be purchased in America at Marshall Field’s. And because she ended up purchasing twenty pairs of every shade of ivory we carry, which is seven shades, I