Emily, is the wife of Dr. Stephen Cabot, mother of three
small children and a lecturer at the University of Chicago.
When she is approached by socialite Bertha Palmer, also
known as the Queen of Chicago, to accompany her to Paris to
serve as her Social Secretary at the Paris Exposition, Emily
is flattered but has to refuse. Emily tells her she would
love to accompany her across the world to help organize
activities for the United States Commission but because of
her family she can not. Bertha is the only woman selected
to serve as U.S.Commissioner to the Paris World's Fair, and
hearing about Emily's talents, she makes her an offer she
can not refuse. A sabbatical for Emily, an invitation to a
congress of medical men with funds for it and a salary, even
a nursemaid for the children. Bertha calmly but firmly
changed all the circumstances of Emily's life in a swift
moment. To live with the Palmer's in the huge house they
rented on the Rue Brignole was the icing on the cake. Paris
here we come!
Emily and Bertha, along with her son Honore and his friend,
Lord James Lawford, carrying her seven strand pearl necklace
in a red leather box, to try on with her gown, arrive at
the House of Worth. The description of the rooms at HW is
pure delight. One filled with fabulous fabrics and
notions, another with mannequins wearing elegant formal
attire is mouth watering. Tables and chairs, with clients
drinking tea or champagne and soon Bertha sees Mary Cassatt,
the impressionist painter, an old friend and joins her. M.
Worth joins the party and the pearls are given to his
assistant, Mlle. Arquette to prepare for Bertha's fitting.
Talking together, the group is interrupted by a flustered
young lady who whispers to M. Worth. His face red, he tells
Mrs. Palmer, "the box in which you brought your pearls is
empty."
Several other robberies and two murders of young women
occur in the next few weeks and Emily, sleuth/heroine
becomes involved in solving the crimes. THE DEATH AT THE
PARIS EXPOSITION is the sixth in the Emily Cabot Mystery
series and she captivates! Francis McNamara writes a
historical/mystery with perfection with the glittering
backdrop of the City of Light.. This fashionista enjoyed
the Parisian fashions completely and the book is highly
recommended to all who enjoy a thriller with thefts, murder,
history, secrets and intrigue. 5 stars.
.
In Book 6 Emily, with her husband and three children has
traveled to Paris for the 1900 Paris Exposition. She
could
only do it thanks to the sponsorship of Bertha Palmer who
has hired her as social secretary. Mrs. Palmer is the
only
woman in the US delegation and her fame and money
inevitably
make her the subject of envy. When Bertha’s famous pearls
disappear, and then a young milliner is found dead in the
House of Worth exhibit, Emily must prevent disaster by
solving the crimes, even if she is in a foreign city. Her
adventure takes her behind the scenes at the House of
Worth
and into the art world of Mary Cassatt and Edgar Degas.
Excerpt
DEATH AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION
Frances McNamara
PROLOGUE
Paris. I haven’t yet made peace with Paris. Say “Paris”
and I still see the haughty wax figure in court dress. A
fake tiara anchors a mass of perfectly waved hair above
her smoothly vacant face. The choker of pearls
surrounding the unnaturally long neck is anything but
fake, though. And the court dress of heavy satin
embroidered with pearls and trimmed with lace is the real
thing. But it’s the extravagant fall of the satin train,
spilling down in a pool of fabric, trailing five feet
behind, that catches the eye. That train and the kneeling
wax figure of a seamstress who is carefully smoothing it
out. The standing figure is regarding herself critically
in a long mirror, so the eye almost misses the scuffed
little black boots lying at an odd angle. At first you
don’t see it—a figure wearing a simple muslin dress
printed with tiny flowers lying at the foot of that wax
figure like a discarded handkerchief. No warm wax here,
only cold, cold flesh with a face that is puckered in a
grimace. A royal blue satin ribbon—that should have been
tied around her waist—is knotted around that very young
woman’s throat.
And, once again, I desperately wish that I could somehow
have prevented it. Like a sore tooth, it throbs and
aches, that memory. If only I could have penetrated the
layers of European artifice and misdirection sooner. So
few Americans were capable of that. Certainly Bertha
Palmer was not. She was too easily misled. Perhaps Miss
Cassatt, with her artist’s eye, saw through it. But not
in time to save the girl.
We Americans were ruthless in our naïveté that long ago
summer. Still, when someone says “Paris,” I long to
return to engage in that struggle once more, to see if I
might not win and best them in this game of wits. But
life with all its responsibilities prevents me. I have a
family to look after. If the girl had lived, surely by
now, she, too, would have been too busy with the cares of
a family to remember it all. She would have moved on,
like the rest of us, beyond the transitory excitements
and seemingly critical discoveries of the Paris
Exposition of 1900. For the rest of us, its wonders were
gone in the blink of an eye, but she remains there
forever, frozen on the floor of the exhibit, a sacrifice
to the gods of modern Parisian fashion.
ONE
I was really in Paris. I sat in an open carriage with
deep purple cushions on that fair spring day, being
wafted through the town. The air was soft, the brightness
of the sun broken by dappled shade from trees, as the
horse clip-clopped down the broad avenue. From the
Trocadéro to the Champs Elysees, we traveled in perfect
comfort. I was a world away from the grimy streetcars of
Chicago.
“I don’t know how to repay you, I never can,” I said. It
wasn’t the first time I had tried to thank the woman
seated beside me for her generosity, nor was it the first
time she had impatiently brushed away my thanks.
“My dear Emily, as I have tried to explain, providing you
with an ensemble from the House of Worth is part of my
plan.”
Mrs. Bertha Palmer was regal but quite at ease in her
corner of the carriage. She wore a high-collared jacket,
stiff with embroidery in fashionable black and trimmed
with narrow bands of red. A sweeping hat of black straw,
decorated with satin bows and fluffy black feathers,
framed her handsome, square face. Waves of silver hair
were piled beneath the millinery confection and her eyes
were a brown so dark they had been described as black. It
was not strange that Mrs. Palmer had set out to visit the
House of Worth on a fine spring morning in Paris. She had
been dressed by the famous couturier for years. Even
after the patriarch of that fashion house had passed away
several years earlier, she continued to patronize his
sons, who had, as long planned, stepped into the
business. For an occasion as important as the Paris
Exposition of 1900, Bertha Palmer would, of course,
require an outstanding set of costumes. As the only woman
commissioner in the American delegation to the fair, she
was determined to excel in dress, as in all aspects of
the job of representing her country. But no one could
expect her to also purchase an outfit for a mere
secretary. I knew she was doing so because I’d refused to
accept a salary. How could I, when she had already been
so generous to me and my little family? So, I was adamant
in my refusal of any pay for my work. But she was just as
adamant in her own right.
Back in Chicago, Mrs. Palmer had bemoaned the fact that
she would face her duties at the Paris Exposition without
the army of clerical staff she had employed during
Chicago’s Columbian Exposition in 1893. Miss Jane Addams
had promptly recommended me for my organizational skills.
I was flattered by her offer of a position, but I
couldn’t take it seriously. I had a husband, three young
children, and a position lecturing at the University of
Chicago. In different circumstances, I assured her, I
would have loved to accompany her across the world to
help organize activities for the United States
Commission. But when I explained why it was impossible
for me to travel to France, I had no idea what a strong
will I was up against. Mrs. Palmer listened calmly to my
objections and proceeded, just as calmly, to change all
of the circumstances of my life. She had my husband,
Stephen, invited to a congress of medical men and saw to
it that funds were provided to support travel, not only
for him but for his entire family. At the same time, she
arranged for the university to grant me a sabbatical and
even insisted that we bring our nursemaid, Delia, to care
for the children. Finally, she arranged for our family to
join the Palmers in the large house which they took for
the duration on rue Brignole. It was a magnificent plan,
and I soon found Mrs. Palmer was not to be denied. It was
this lucky circumstance that had brought me and my family
to the City of Light on a trip that exceeded all of my
dreams. And now she was taking me to the House of Worth
for final fittings of her wardrobe, with every intention
of improving mine as well.
We had already been busy with a whirl of letter writing,
committee meetings, the planning of salons, and endless
consultations. Today was a welcome respite from it all.
The horse trotted along under dappled shade from trees in
the Tuileries gardens. Mrs. Palmer’s son Honoré, who sat
opposite us, smiled at my protests. “You know Mother will
not be thwarted. She truly means it when she says it’s
all part of her plan.”
He was a solid young man only a few years younger than
myself. He and his friend, Lord James Lawford, the
younger son of an English earl, had decided to join us in
our foray to the famous house of fashion. Their excuse
was to carry the jewel case containing Bertha’s fabulous
pearl choker, one of many jewels her loving older husband
had purchased for her. They assured me that men were
welcome at the House of Worth and that the champagne and
pastries offered to its customers were superb. The
entertainment was enough to attract young men like
themselves, even though it was really calculated to
appease the older men likely to be responsible for
payments. But the senior Mr. Palmer had scoffed at the
idea of accompanying us ladies. Like my husband, he was
content to remain at home with his papers.
“It’s true,” Lawford assured me. “Mrs. Palmer lays her
battle plans like a general.” He tapped my knee with the
top of his ebony cane. He was a fair haired, tall, and
stringy young man who had to fold up like a fan in order
to fit into a conveyance such as the carriage. It was
said that he went to great lengths to avoid socializing
with other members of the English aristocracy, ever since
he had escaped London for the French capital. He despised
his fellow countrymen and loved nothing so much as the
society of young Americans like Honoré. “The Queen of
Chicago knows how to impress our Parisian hosts,” he told
me, capturing my attention by the steady gaze of his
light blue eyes. “The fact is, they have been nurtured on
pictures of American Bloomerism, which terrifies them.
They expect reedy spinsters in red shawls, who serve on
committees and battle for women’s rights.” He feigned
shock, while Honoré rolled his eyes and Mrs. Palmer gave
her attention to the strolling Parisians beyond our
carriage. “It’s true! They are amazed by Mrs. Palmer. She
is elegant, her French is impeccable, and her gowns are
some of Worth’s choicest productions. As such, she
confounds them.” The lady in question merely smiled at
the hyperbole of the young man. “She has them eating out
of her hand as a result,” he concluded.
I saw what he meant. “Ah, and she cannot have someone at
her side appear too much like the reedy spinsters, I
suppose?”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Palmer objected. “Lord James is correct
in that I plan to impress our Parisian hosts with an
adequate style. We do not wish to appear provincial in
any way. But it is merely a requirement of the position,
my dear. I am happy to provide you with an ensemble from
the House of Worth since I require you to attend so many
social gatherings during the duration of the Exposition.”
I smiled. It was a good excuse. I couldn’t dispute it,
not that I would want to. We turned onto rue de la Paix
where the great houses of fashion sat, waiting to fulfill
the dreams of any woman who had the temerity and
pocketbook to enter their doors. As we trotted up the
broad avenue I watched the throngs of well-dressed people
strolling along, looking into the glass windows. With
florid names in gold paint above the glittering
merchandise, the milliners, chocolatiers, and jewelers
presented their wares on the street level. Halfway up the
road, the House of Worth had an elegant stone façade with
blue painted window and doorjambs. Directly opposite were
the windows of Cartier. It was widely known that the two
families would soon be joined, when the daughter of Jean-
Philippe Worth became engaged to the jeweler’s son. It
would be a royal marriage of the two kingdoms of
merchandise.
They made it so pleasant to arrive at the maison on rue
de la Paix. When we halted, our coachman jumped down to
place stairs for us to descend, and a doorman from the
fashion house came over to assist. I took a last look at
the broad street with all the strolling people. It was
such an engaging scene on such a lovely day. I could
hardly believe I was there.
Before I could gather my skirts and take the hand of one
of the men to descend, a young woman rushed to the side
of the carriage, grasping it and calling up to the young
men in rapid French. I noticed that Mrs. Palmer pointedly
ignored the girl, while Lord James’s terribly pale
complexion flushed and he responded in French. Honoré
rolled his eyes and began to climb out over his friend,
so as to be able to help me and his mother. The young
woman, who was hatless, gestured to the shop she had come
from and I saw it had a selection of hats in the window.
I suspected this young woman was a milliner, a maker of
hats, and that she wanted to catch the attention of our
hostess, whose indulgence in millinery confections was as
great as her acquisitions of other fashionable items,
such as the gowns we were coming to view. I had heard
that millinery was an occupation much favored by young
women in Paris. It allowed a young girl some flexibility
in her lifestyle, as she exercised her talents in
decorating the massive hats that were such an important
part of any lady’s wardrobe at that time. But Mrs. Palmer
managed to ignore her, even as the Englishman answered
her in rapid-fire French. I had the impression he was
embarrassed by the attention, and desirous of getting rid
of the girl. I followed Mrs. Palmer, accepting Honoré’s
hand to help me descend.
“Jee – mee, Jee – mee” were the only words I could make
out from the young woman’s French. I knew Honoré’s friend
preferred to be called “Jimmy,” disliking the more formal
“Lord James,” but I couldn’t understand their
conversation. Then she grabbed Honoré’s arm in
supplication. I took a look at her as I stepped to the
pavement before following Mrs. Palmer through the door
which was held open by the House of Worth man in his
livery. She was a small girl, in a gown of figured
muslin, a white background with pastel flowers. Around
her neck a small locket hung from a black velvet ribbon.
She appeared to be earnestly entreating the young men but
they gently waved her off. As I turned away to enter the
sanctum of the great house of fashion, I wondered about
the lives these two young men led when they were out of
our company. Of course, while they had many opportunities
to go out and mingle with the everyday people of the
city, Mrs. Palmer and I were restricted to more formal
engagements with other ladies of our class. It made me
just a little homesick for Chicago, where I traveled
throughout the city to wherever my work took me. But I
was aware, as I crossed the threshold into the luxury of
the House of Worth, that in Chicago I was seldom called
on to enter such lavish surroundings, and never with the
object of being treated to the kind of attention I was
about to receive. I sighed. If Mrs. Palmer commanded it,
who was I to object? A certain excitement bubbled up in
me, as I wondered what the famous designer would produce
for me based on our visit and the instructions of my
hostess. It hardly seemed possible, but I was about to be
dressed by Worth.
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