19th Century Seamstress

Mr. Mercan

That night, Eloise was eager to wear her newly made gloves to work. Worried they wouldn’t dry in time by the window, she took them down and hung them closer to the stove to speed up the process. She added some good-quality coal, which would burn longer. Later in the night, her aunt got up and added another chunk of coal. When Eloise woke up, she didn’t feel the usual chill; the room had retained some warmth. A layer of melted frost formed on the window, and outside, a chaotic flurry of snow almost obscured the view.

Eloise had work today. She reluctantly crawled out from under the blankets, threw on her clothes, and, too cold to care, left her hair loose around her shoulders.

Nearby, Louise was brushing her teeth with a boar-bristle toothbrush dipped in tooth powder from a tin. She glanced sideways at Eloise, who was messily wiping her face with her hair down, and thought she looked rather disheveled.

“Why didn’t you brush your hair?” she asked.

“My neck feels warmer this way,” Eloise replied. “I’ll brush it in the dressing room.” She was already planning to check out the market after work and maybe buy herself a scarf.

As they prepared to leave, Eloise buried a few raw potatoes in the glowing red embers of the stove, hoping they’d roast by the time she returned. When they stepped outside, the gust of wind and snow made Louise immediately hunch over from the cold. She, too, had no scarf and, glancing at Eloise, decided to undo her braid and wrap her hair around her neck for warmth.

“This blasted weather!”

“I’m going to buy a scarf this afternoon,” Eloise mentioned casually. She didn’t know where in New York to find the best secondhand market, as her memories didn’t reveal much. But she hoped Louise might offer some tips.

At this, Louise perked up and replied, “Try the Lambourn Mill on 23rd Street. The peddlers there sell cheap, decent things. You might even find some scrap fabric for practice.”

“Great, want me to pick something up for you?”

Louise nodded, then dug into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out three dimes and a nickel, which she handed to Eloise. “Since you’re going, get me a scarf and a couple of cotton handkerchiefs. If they have any secondhand bonnets, grab one too.”

Eloise made a mental note, nodding in agreement. In weather like this, a hat was a necessity. Her aunt and Bella had even tied scarves around their heads to keep out the snow, and they’d suggested the same for Louise and Eloise. However, neither of the sisters wanted to wear something so unfashionable.

Louise calculated her remaining spending money for the week, and her face fell—she was nearly out of pocket money.

When they arrived near the Ritz Hotel, they had to go around to the back entrance. From a distance, Eloise could see the hotel entrance, where two very different vehicles were parked—a brand-new Victoria-brand four-wheeled automobile, the latest model featured in the newspapers, and a sleek, well-kept two-horse traditional carriage. A driver was busy brushing the accumulated snow off both, symbols of two distinct eras in transportation.

They lined up to clock in and entered the dressing room. Eloise put her hair in a braid, wound it around her head, and tucked it under a soft hat. Her work partners for the day included Laura and another girl with gray eyes named Amy.

Amy Aprilla’s brother, Anthony Aprilla, had just been promoted to assistant head chef in the kitchen, which gave Amy a bed in the staff dormitory nearby, allowing her to arrive early every day.

When Eloise entered Storage Room 11, she noticed Laura looking upset, sitting on a stool by the window and seeming to have a tense standoff with Amy.

The moment Eloise entered, Amy smirked, glancing at Laura, and said with a cold tone, “Looks like you’re assigned to clean the fifth and sixth floors again today. Not convenient, you say? Funny, you didn’t let me off the hook on my inconvenient days either.”

“Aren’t you the one who said that we’re here to work, not to lounge around?”

Laura had no response. The last time Amy had asked to trade for an easier floor, Laura had indeed given her a lengthy lecture on resilience. Today, it was technically Laura’s turn to clean the fifth and sixth floors, and in the past, she had managed to trade with others when she wanted.

Sensing the tension but unsure of the full backstory, Eloise hesitated, wondering if she should say something to smooth things over. However, Amy, feeling triumphant over Laura’s obvious discomfort, stood up as the work bell chimed and, grabbing Eloise, headed toward the door.

“What happened?” Eloise asked quietly, as she remembered that Amy and her had always been on decent terms.

“She claims she’s on her period and doesn’t feel up to it, so she wanted to take the seventh and eighth floors, which are easier. But she hasn’t done anything else all week.”

Eloise recalled how Laura had lectured Amy on "faking weakness" just the week prior.

“Today, whatever she says, I’m not switching with her. She needs to face the consequences for once.”

Everyone knew that Laura had some pull in the accounting office, and Amy, with connections of her own, was the only one bold enough to challenge her. Eloise just sighed, figuring that cleaning a stove shouldn’t involve this much drama—it was all just work, and to her, one floor was as good as another.

“Where am I working today?” she asked Amy, as they lined up for the morning briefing from Mrs. Morrison.

“Top and bottom floors,” Amy replied.

After Mrs. Morrison’s brief meeting, Eloise avoided Laura’s sour expression, grabbed an empty bucket, and made her way straight up to the eighth floor.

The manager didn’t come in this early, so the eighth-floor office staff opened the door for her. There was only one large fireplace here, shielded by an iron grate. Eloise removed the grate, cleaned out the ashes, and set up fresh wood and coal. She hardly knew the impeccably dressed staff inside, who busily brewed coffee and adjusted their brass pocket watches. After tidying up, she left and went down to the seventh floor.

The seventh floor had three luxury suites, though only the largest, known as the “Opal Suite,” was currently occupied. Outside its door stood two uniformed doormen in tight-fitting French-style tails and trousers, like sentinels, waiting for any command.

As Eloise approached, one of the doormen questioned her briefly, and upon learning she’d just been to the eighth floor, frowned and remarked, “Next time, try to come earlier—Mr. Murken has been up for fifteen minutes.”

Realizing her delay might have caused trouble, Eloise hurried into the suite’s drawing room, keeping her head down as she went to the fireplace. She carefully removed the grate, cleaned it, and started a new fire.

The suite was enormous, with two bedrooms, a study, a dressing room, a wine room, a parlor with a piano, a dining room, a sitting room, and a bathroom. From the adjacent open door of the study, she could hear the quiet scratch of a pen on paper, accompanied by the rustling sound of pages being turned.

She hadn’t done this kind of cleaning work before and could only hope that Mr. Murken wouldn’t file a complaint about her being fifteen minutes late.

But who would expect someone wealthy enough to stay at the Ritz to be up working at this hour?

As the orange flames flickered in the fireplace, the rhythmic sounds of reading and writing continued from the study. Glancing at the elegant wallpaper and wainscoting, she was suddenly struck by a thought—Murken? Could it be the same Murken as Murken Bank?