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Authors: Whitney Otto
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in with tea and cakes.
Amadora wanted to reach for a cake but thought better of it when Lallie Charles made no move toward the tray. She also said nothing, just watched Amadora.
“I admire you. I admire the way you’ve made your own way, having your own business. Everyone knows you and your work.”
Lallie Charles waited.
Amadora could feel herself starting to falter. She couldn’t tell if LallieCharles liked her, didn’t like her, wanted her, didn’t want her, or was even listening. Though she was a young girl with a young girl’s bravado, her respect for her elders led to a certain restraint.
“I know how much I can learn from you, Miss Charles. I’m a hard worker—you can ask anyone—and I tend to have a pleasant disposition—something for which I cannot take any credit, but it’s true nonetheless.” As more words tumbled from Amadora’s lips, she realized how very much she wanted to work for the photographer. What had begun as a place to start in the work world was, in the course of this interview, becoming something more urgent. Amadora was thinking of income but also thinking, This may be something I would love. “I know any number of girls would clamor for this opportunity, but I’m hoping you’ll offer it to me.”
The butler returned, took away the tray of still untouched tea and cakes. He also whispered to Lallie Charles that Mrs. Willoughby-Cole was due at 5:30. She nodded to him, then called out, “Chang!”
The volume of her voice contrasted with the stillness of the room. As Amadora waited, she began to question everything in the interview, including her outfit, which, at first glance, seemed fashionable enough, until closer inspection revealed the elegance of the material combined with the playful, slightly bohemian details of the pleating of her white and red pin-striped skirt, and the vaguely sailor-style of her gunmetal gray blouse, pinned with a sparkling diamond brooch, handed down from her grandmother (and representative of that era), where the tie would normally be. Her hat was a black straw boater, trimmed with black velvet ribbon and another diamond brooch. A silver Victorian buckle bracelet on her left wrist. Her attire was neither purely feminine nor in the more masculine suit-and-tie style of the day for young women. Everything together sartorially stranded her; she was dressed neither for tea nor for a job as a working London girl.
In the midst of Amadora’s second-guessing, in pranced a beautifully groomed Pomeranian. The hairy little dog wore a collar of three strands of pink pearls. It glanced over at Amadora before sitting down in front of its mistress, its back to Amadora.
“Dear Chang,” said Lallie Charles to the Pomeranian, “what are your thoughts about Miss Allesbury?”
Amadora could not have said what act of Providence silenced her laughter (though she was already rehearsing the story she would tell at dinner that night), but she was grateful, because it became evident that Miss Charles was serious.
“Go on,” said Lallie Charles.
The little dog with the pink pearls walked over to Amadora, gave her a sniff or two, then returned to its previous position in front of its mistress.
“Well?” said Miss Charles. “If you don’t tell me soon I will take it as a no.”
The dog wagged its tail.
“I’m not entirely convinced,” she said.
The dog then got to its feet, wagged its tail with more vigor, and delivered one, quick yap.
“It’s settled then!” Miss Charles said, facing Amadora (now torn between giving her attention to the dog or to the photographer), and slapped her hands down on the arms of her chair. The dog danced out of the room. “My fee is thirty guineas, covering your three-year tuition, paying you back at a wage of five shillings the first year, doubling in the second, and tripling in the third. We start at nine every morning.”
Amadora liked the novelty of work. The first year she learned how to load dark slides, prepare,
Amadora wanted to reach for a cake but thought better of it when Lallie Charles made no move toward the tray. She also said nothing, just watched Amadora.
“I admire you. I admire the way you’ve made your own way, having your own business. Everyone knows you and your work.”
Lallie Charles waited.
Amadora could feel herself starting to falter. She couldn’t tell if LallieCharles liked her, didn’t like her, wanted her, didn’t want her, or was even listening. Though she was a young girl with a young girl’s bravado, her respect for her elders led to a certain restraint.
“I know how much I can learn from you, Miss Charles. I’m a hard worker—you can ask anyone—and I tend to have a pleasant disposition—something for which I cannot take any credit, but it’s true nonetheless.” As more words tumbled from Amadora’s lips, she realized how very much she wanted to work for the photographer. What had begun as a place to start in the work world was, in the course of this interview, becoming something more urgent. Amadora was thinking of income but also thinking, This may be something I would love. “I know any number of girls would clamor for this opportunity, but I’m hoping you’ll offer it to me.”
The butler returned, took away the tray of still untouched tea and cakes. He also whispered to Lallie Charles that Mrs. Willoughby-Cole was due at 5:30. She nodded to him, then called out, “Chang!”
The volume of her voice contrasted with the stillness of the room. As Amadora waited, she began to question everything in the interview, including her outfit, which, at first glance, seemed fashionable enough, until closer inspection revealed the elegance of the material combined with the playful, slightly bohemian details of the pleating of her white and red pin-striped skirt, and the vaguely sailor-style of her gunmetal gray blouse, pinned with a sparkling diamond brooch, handed down from her grandmother (and representative of that era), where the tie would normally be. Her hat was a black straw boater, trimmed with black velvet ribbon and another diamond brooch. A silver Victorian buckle bracelet on her left wrist. Her attire was neither purely feminine nor in the more masculine suit-and-tie style of the day for young women. Everything together sartorially stranded her; she was dressed neither for tea nor for a job as a working London girl.
In the midst of Amadora’s second-guessing, in pranced a beautifully groomed Pomeranian. The hairy little dog wore a collar of three strands of pink pearls. It glanced over at Amadora before sitting down in front of its mistress, its back to Amadora.
“Dear Chang,” said Lallie Charles to the Pomeranian, “what are your thoughts about Miss Allesbury?”
Amadora could not have said what act of Providence silenced her laughter (though she was already rehearsing the story she would tell at dinner that night), but she was grateful, because it became evident that Miss Charles was serious.
“Go on,” said Lallie Charles.
The little dog with the pink pearls walked over to Amadora, gave her a sniff or two, then returned to its previous position in front of its mistress.
“Well?” said Miss Charles. “If you don’t tell me soon I will take it as a no.”
The dog wagged its tail.
“I’m not entirely convinced,” she said.
The dog then got to its feet, wagged its tail with more vigor, and delivered one, quick yap.
“It’s settled then!” Miss Charles said, facing Amadora (now torn between giving her attention to the dog or to the photographer), and slapped her hands down on the arms of her chair. The dog danced out of the room. “My fee is thirty guineas, covering your three-year tuition, paying you back at a wage of five shillings the first year, doubling in the second, and tripling in the third. We start at nine every morning.”
Amadora liked the novelty of work. The first year she learned how to load dark slides, prepare,
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