“So you will be parading about.”

“Not in the way you want me to.”

“I don’t ask for much. Just wear my clothes whenever you go out.” Retrieving her suitcase, she sets it on the chaise longue and unbuckles it. “They are scrummy, as you Brits like to say. Sinfully rich and tasteful. They will make you feel like royalty.”

“I plan to be in my room ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“I highly doubt that. A young woman who climbs cranes as easily as pulling on stockings is not someone who stays put for long.”

She holds up a pearl-white crêpe de chine dress. The English love all things Chinese—silk, tea, plates—just not if it comes with a beating heart. A cloth panel like a wall hanging overlies the front, hand painted with a crane and bejeweled with tiny beads that catch the light. My jaw yawns open, like I’ve caught a gullet of fish. It’s the most magnificent dress I have ever seen.

“You made that?”

“Yes, I did. A crane’s good luck. This is your daywear for tomorrow. Touch it.”

As cautiously as if the crane might take flight, I stroke my finger over the front panel. The fine fabric feels cool and slippery under my hot finger.

“I have the perfect one in mind for your meeting with the captain.”

I snatch back my finger. “What meeting?”

“Everyone gets to meet the captain. It’ll be your big moment. Everyone will be watching. Don’t worry, they’ll send along an invitation.”

As if that is the thing I’m worried about. “B-but why can’t you parade your own clothes?”

“The best way to sell your art is to let someone else do it for you. I’m trying to create a ‘stir’ around my line, and I can’t do it myself. It would be uncouth.”

She frowns at my black boots, which were made for a man with very small feet and could use a good scrub with a horsehair brush. Draping the crane dress on the bed, she pulls a dainty pair of tan pumps with straps from her suitcase and dangles them from her fingers.

“No one takes American designers seriously.” She closes the suitcase and sets the pumps on top. “All they want is Lucile, never mind that her overwrought ‘creations’ look like clown outfits. Those Merry Widow hats of hers—piled high with garden clippings—were abominable, a crime on the eyes and a pain in the neck.”

She must be referring to Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon, whose fashions are all the rage. I remember how Mrs. Sloane’s eyes became as big as chestnuts when I told her that the Scottish baron Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and his wife would be among the Titanic’s passengers.