Nineteenth Century Woman Tailor

From the outside, the school appeared peaceful and warm. Though small, the snow in front of the entrance was neatly cleared, giving it an air of simplicity and elegance.

Eloise rang the doorbell.

While waiting, she tried to pull Bella forward, but Bella seemed reluctant to move. Her small, patched shoes were firmly planted in the snow.

Eloise bent down, cupping Bella's porcelain-like face in her hands. She could see the fear of the unknown in Bella's expression.

"Don't be afraid," Eloise said with a gentle smile. "Bella, no matter what's inside, we have to go in and take a look. If we don't, we might miss something good, right?"

Bella, with her golden hair tied into two pigtails, kept twisting the ends of her braids nervously. Her cheeks were warmed by Eloise's hands as she pouted hesitantly, "But what if I don't like it?"

"Then we won't come back. No one can force you," Eloise reassured her.

With that, Eloise stood up. Behind the black-painted wrought-iron gate, a slightly stout middle-aged woman in a cotton dress emerged from the porch.

She walked over and opened the gate for the visitors, asking thoughtfully, "Hello, are you here to inquire about enrollment?"

Eloise, with her professional habit, first sized up the woman from head to toe. There was nothing unusual about her appearance.

She wore a cobalt-blue round-neck coat and a long, finely woven but slightly worn Indian cotton striped skirt that covered the tops of her shoes.

Her outfit was neat, suggesting she wasn't struggling financially but wasn't chasing trends either. She seemed like someone who might receive a modest annuity from a bank trust.

"Yes, we saw the information in the newspaper. May we come in and look around?" Eloise asked.

"Of course. You can call me Madeline. I'm unmarried," Madeline said, pulling the gate open and inviting Eloise and Bella to enter. She then stepped aside to lead the way.

"Thank you, Miss Madeline," Eloise replied, introducing herself and Bella.

Miss Madeline showed them around the classrooms, dormitories, dining hall, and a small library with wide, bright windows that felt warm and inviting.

"The children are reading on their own right now," Miss Madeline said, gesturing for Eloise to peek through the glass door.

Inside, there were only about thirty children, mostly between five and twelve years old, along with two young female teachers sitting on a bench by the wall.

Eloise observed them carefully for a moment before following Miss Madeline to her office.

"Bella, do you like it here?" Eloise asked softly.

Bella couldn't quite articulate her feelings but nodded slightly.

Miss Madeline could see that Miss Zanilong (Eloise) deeply respected her cousin's feelings.

Only after Bella nodded did Eloise begin discussing tuition fees with Miss Madeline.

Earlier, outside the library, Eloise had carefully observed the little girls' hands, feet, and hair.

Their nails were neatly trimmed, free of dirt, and their hair was combed with oil, showing no signs of malnutrition or dryness.

This suggested that the school provided decent meals, but if the care was this thorough, the tuition seemed far too low.

Miss Madeline opened a thick leather-bound notebook on her desk. She was slightly nearsighted and put on a pair of glasses to write, her gaze sharp and shrewd.

"Bella is lucky to have such a caring sister. It's rare to see someone as attentive as you," Miss Madeline remarked.

Eloise didn't respond, simply lowering her head and counting out a week's worth of room and board from her pocket.

She thought to herself that it must be because of the hardships she had endured in her past life.

After leaving Bella at the school, with pickup scheduled for 5 PM before dinner, Eloise glanced back through the window and saw Miss Madeline handing Bella a piece of malt candy. Only then did she feel reassured enough to leave.

Amy's request for a summer blouse could wait a little longer.

Eloise's current plan was to finish the two pairs of gloves for Louise's colleague first.

They were already cut and designed; with another day of sewing, they would be ready.

She still had a full day tomorrow.

Eloise walked home at a leisurely pace, passing a row of shoe stores that tended to cluster together.

In one shop window, she noticed a pair of exquisite low-heeled blue silk shoes.

The shoes were elegant, adorned with floral red crystals and a ribbon trim at the opening, with delicate straps perfect for a ball.

Next to the display was a brass price tag boldly marked at $30.

Eloise stared, stunned.

Suddenly, she turned away, her steps heavy and her face pale.

She was so poor!

Earning meager wages from altering old clothes was barely enough to get by. This was only a temporary solution. How many years would it take to afford a more spacious apartment for her family?

And forget about buying the things she admired.

To earn more, she would need to create entirely new items to sell.

Eloise pondered her options. She could either approach upscale boutiques to consign her work or set up her own stall.

Setting up a stall would require full-time commitment and carried risks. Her family couldn't afford any potential setbacks, so she dismissed the idea.

She needed a stable job with a basic salary and could treat her handicrafts as a side hustle for extra income.

That would be the safest approach.

Having made up her mind, Eloise slowed her pace.

She wandered into a modestly sized women's boutique.

In New York, there were hundreds of such shops scattered across the streets.

Their main customers were middle-income earners and young working-class girls looking to treat themselves to a holiday gift.

The boutique Eloise entered was slightly above average.

It displayed items that were cleaner and more fashionable than those in secondhand markets, though they were mostly generic with little design flair.

There were basic leather cigar cases, paper knives, ladies' smelling salts, double-layered nightcaps, lace parasols, gloves, and stockings.

They were neatly arranged on shelves, with fabric items priced similarly, starting at a dollar and going up to five dollars for more decorative pieces.

Eloise, dressed plainly, browsed without drawing attention.

The shop owner was a stout middle-aged man with curly mustache tips, sitting behind the counter smoking a slender wooden pipe. He had round, comical eyes.

"Hello, I have a few questions. May I ask how I should address you?"

Having mingled with the petit bourgeoisie, Eloise knew how to interact with such people.

Though her attire was simple, she was familiar with the pretentious mannerisms of this class.

The owner, noticing Eloise's polite speech, raised his pipe slightly and said, "I'm Anthony. What do you want to know?"

Eloise casually fabricated a more credible identity, maintaining a calm demeanor.

"You can call me Eloise. I'm a handyman at a tailor's shop, doing some private work on the side. I was wondering if you accept consignments of handmade items here."

Anthony shrugged noncommittally. It was common for people at tailor shops to learn the craft and sell their work privately for extra money.

Such individuals usually had some skill but weren't yet qualified to make proper garments, still building their experience.

Consigning items wasn't unusual, as most boutique owners did it to save costs.

He gestured lazily with his pipe toward a shelf by the counter, where items from home workshops were displayed—embroidered handkerchiefs, hand-sewn ladies' purses.

Anthony, proud of his respectable shop, put on airs as he explained,

"Want to consign something? My shop has high standards for quality. Not just any shoddy work can be displayed here."

"If your items meet my selection criteria, we'll split the gross profit 50-50. But you can set the prices yourself."

"In New York, few shop owners are as generous as I am," Anthony added, taking another puff of his pipe.

Gross profit, not net profit—meaning she would have to cover the cost of materials herself while splitting half the earnings with the owner.

After deducting the costs, the profit she could take home was a full two-thirds less than what the shop owner earned.

Truly, no merchant is without cunning.

Hearing this, Eloise's smile was almost imperceptible. She then asked,

"How much do consigned items sell for here each week? Does it account for one-fifth of your total sales?"

In her previous life, Eloise had been a designer—the most profitable one in her company.

She clenched her hands and continued,

"If my products can help you increase the sales of consigned items to one-fifth of your monthly total revenue."

"Could we then split the gross profit 70-30?"

"If you can achieve that, then of course," Anthony replied, letting out an incredulous chuckle. His average monthly sales here amounted to around two hundred dollars, so one-fifth would be forty dollars.

Based on past experience, individually crafted consigned items were limited in quantity, typically selling for only about ten to twenty dollars per month.

For her to sell forty dollars' worth, she would need the ability to sell every single item she produced.

And at high prices of seven or eight dollars each.

With that kind of money, one could save up a bit more and go for a private custom order at a tailor's. Anthony didn't believe she had such capabilities.

Eloise nodded. She didn't press further, calmly stating, "Next week, I'll bring my products for you to evaluate."

"You'll see if I can do it or not."

With that, she adjusted her scarf, pressed down on her hat, and strode out of the shop. She briskly made her way through the slushy snow toward the neighborhood where she lived.

…