Storing Up Trouble, стр. 27
For the longest moment, Mr. Selfridge stared at Beatrix, until he finally turned to Mrs. Goodman. “I don’t believe Miss Waterbury needs to be reprimanded further about the matter, Mrs. Goodman. As she said, the sale of one hundred forty gloves to a single customer is most impressive.” He turned back to Beatrix and nodded to her notepad. “Allow me to give you Mrs. Davis’s address again, sparing you a trip to the third floor.”
After Mr. Selfridge gave her the address, speaking slowly as she wrote the information down, Beatrix thanked him for his assistance, thanked Mrs. Goodman for hers, then excused herself, telling them she needed to package Mrs. Davis’s order to make certain it was delivered by late afternoon.
Thankful that Mrs. Goodman didn’t linger after Mr. Selfridge took his leave, Beatrix counted out the proper number and shades of gloves, wrapping them in brown paper. She then pushed one of the two buttons attached to the back of the glove counter, the one that would alert Mr. Ford, who was head of the delivery boys on the floor, that she had a package that needed to be taken to the delivery docks. The other button was only pushed when she had a cash sale and needed a cash boy to run the money up to the third-floor cash room and then return with any change the customer needed.
Less than a minute later, a young boy by the name of Bertie scampered up beside her, smiling shyly as he took the package of gloves.
Marshall Field’s employed many children in its store on State Street, as well as in their wholesale building located at Madison and Market Streets. Beatrix had been appalled to discover that these delivery boys, cash boys, and errand girls earned a scant two dollars a week. But when she’d broached the subject with Miss Louisa Brennon, a young woman who worked the handkerchief counter, Louisa had told her to have a care in case anyone was listening. Louisa had then, in a very hushed tone, explained that working at any other retail establishment was considered low class, but working at Marshall Field’s was considered respectable, which was why the positions were always in such demand, and why most everyone who worked there accepted their low pay with few complaints.
Beatrix had been less than satisfied with that explanation, although that was the beginning of her realization that she truly had been woefully ignorant about the plight of the working class.
Clearly, the working class was suffering, and women most especially. Salesgirl positions such as the one she currently held started off with a salary of seven dollars a week—a week that encompassed six days of work. Women who worked in the workrooms, sewing garments for the sales floor and for custom orders, made a little more, but their salary was only ten to twelve dollars a week. Many of the salesmen, on the other hand, made up to twenty-five dollars a week, although Beatrix had been told that they would have to secure a promotion to increase their salary from that point forward.
It was a humbling thought that Beatrix often spent more on a single gown from Worth than the employees who worked the floors of Marshall Field’s made in several years.
“Got anything else for me to take to the docks, Miss Waterbury?” Bertie asked, drawing her from her musings.
“Not just yet, Bertie, but give me another hour. I’m sure I’ll have another customer soon.”
Sending her a grin, Bertie hurried away as Beatrix began tidying up her counter, a responsibility she took quite seriously since it had been mentioned more than once that she could be dismissed out of hand if a supervisor found an area in disarray.
Turning around after she’d returned the last glove to its proper drawer, Beatrix discovered a gentleman standing a few counters away from her, holding on to the arm of a lady dressed in a drab gray blouse and matching skirt—a gentleman who was staring Beatrix’s way, and who just happened to be none other than Mr. Norman Nesbit.
Chapter 11
The most unexpected feeling of relief swept over Norman the second he clapped eyes on Beatrix.
She was standing behind a glass counter, wearing a plain white blouse, her brilliant red hair pulled back in some manner of knot at the nape of her neck, little wisps of curls escaping that knot.
Pulling Miss Theo Robinson, an associate of his, into motion, he strode toward Beatrix, unusually pleased when she sent him a smile that held not a trace of annoyance in it.
“Why are you dragging me across the room?” Theo demanded, trying to shrug her arm from his.
“I’m not dragging you,” he replied, refusing to let go of her arm as he continued forward. “I’m merely getting you to the, ah . . .” His gaze shot to the items displayed in the glass case Beatrix was minding. “Glove department in an efficient manner.”
“I don’t need any gloves.”
“Of course you do.” He stopped directly in front of Beatrix and smiled. “Good afternoon, Beatrix.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Nesbit,” she returned, her smile never wavering. “What a surprise to see you shopping at Marshall Field & Company.”
He frowned. “Why are you addressing me as Mr. Nesbit?”
Beatrix glanced around and lowered her voice. “I’ve already been taken to task for addressing one of my supervisors as ma’am earlier. Best not to chance any additional repercussions if I’m heard calling you by your given name.”
“But you know me.”
“True, but even if my aunt were to pay me a visit, I’d have to call her Miss Huttleston instead of Aunt Gladys.”
“Are there many rules an employee has to adhere to at Marshall Field & Company?”
“Indeed, but they’re not difficult. I simply haven’t gotten all of them down quite yet.” She nodded to Theo. “However, with that said, one of the rules is to