Author's Note: Watching lots of 1950s movies lately, I came up with the idea to update Sense and Sensibility to take place during that era. I'd like to dedicate this one to Rachel for being such a good friend, and supporter of the wonderful Mr. Yates! Enjoy!
Chapter 1
---Lorenz Hart
They reached Chicago in the dark. Coming out of Union Station, the four Dashwoods were greeted by lights--great fluorescents surrounding signs, announcing the shows and deals of '53; streetlights outlining the rows and rows of straight avenues; lights in every window of the tall skyscrapers the city was known for. Cars made their way through the busy roads, all the while dodging late shoppers who had stayed downtown to view the store windows in their brightened state.
The sight was a curious one for Marianne Dashwood, who was not used to seeing big cities. Philadelphia was all she had been to, since it was close to her rural Pennsylvania home. New York she had never seen, nor London, Paris, or any of the other cities she occasionally dreamt about after going to the pictures. It seemed to her that country romance was a thing of the past; handsome knights were never to be found riding horses through the woods anymore, or at least not in American forests. Marianne's more childish fantasies had long since given way to ideas of meeting strangers in Casablanca-esque cafes, or strolling Madison avenue on the shoulder of a man of Cary Grant caliber.
She did not see any of them tonight as she walked with her mother and sisters trying, and usually failing, to catch a cab. When they had finally successfully captured one, Marianne took the window seat and pressed her face to the glass to get a better view of the city. Fountains and elaborate architecture rolled by, dazzling the girl. She kept pointing things out to her family, though no one but her younger sister Margaret was paying attention.
"And the keys--you have those, dear? If Mr. Middleton forgot to send those..." The mother grew anxious, wringing her gloved hands.
"I have them," said the oldest girl. "He sent the keys and everything."
"And the address, Elinor? We haven't told the driver yet. Oh dear. Just a moment, sir," she addressed the man with a tap on his shoulder. He merely nodded back in the mirror.
Elinor quickly shuffled through the papers she held upon her lap. "26 West Barton Square." Squinting, she held up a hand-drawn map in the glare of a streetlight. "Barton Square--I believe it's south of State, further down.."
"I know, miss," the driver answered with his nod. "I--" He paused, eyes focusing on the road, as the car swerved. A small thud was felt by those in back followed by a bright flash of red on all sides of the windows. He soon steered the car into the right lane and continued as though nothing had happened, "I drive there a lot, Barton Square. Pick up lots of shoppers there--you know, the whole place is filled with salons, stores, that sort of thing. I do my best business there," he ended with a grin.
"Then do you know Mr. Middleton?" asked the mother with interest.
"Sure--we all do. Can't say that I know him personally since he never rides in cabs, but he's a real big citizen of this city. Actually my friend Bill chauffeurs for the lady."
"Chauffeurs," the woman repeated to her daughters with a smile. "I didn't know he was that well-off."
"What? Mr. Middleton?" the driver exclaimed. "Sure, he's got places all over town. Owns clubs and stores--lots of money in those."
Marianne's eyes shifted from a ritzy boutique they were passing to the driver. The prospects seemed to get better and better. When first told that they were to live in an apartment a cousin was offering, Marianne was not so eager. How could the loaned city house compare to the home she had always known? Being romantic, Marianne saw something of an adventure in the move, but it was still hard leaving the lovely old house, and harder still to see her half-brother and his smug wife waving them off.
Driving to a house was a much better experience, she soon found out. The cab driver left them off with his best wishes, giving them time to walk their new street and find the address. As indicated by its name, Barton Square was more an enclosed neighborhood than a street, being a polished and clean commercial area. A sort of park stood in the middle of the square that somehow seemed misplaced in Chicago. With its quaint garden, park benches, stone paths, and large trees, the grassy area seemed like a piece of London, while the shops surrounding the roads were more Parisian in appearance. Marianne was enchanted by the fantasy of the place. Perhaps the grandest building of them all was a tall, white townhouse that stood at the other end of the Square.
"That would be Mr. Middleton's home, I believe," Elinor replied as she glanced around the lit streets. Finally she came across number 26 in the rows of homes, and they all entered a narrow building wedged between shops of different kinds.
Though no one was inside at the moment, lights were on in every room. Purchased bakery goods sat upon the kitchen table, and upstairs, all of the beds in each of the three rooms were supplied with fresh linen that was so inviting that even Margaret didn't complain when it came time to go to bed. But Marianne, peering out of the window above her bed in the room she shared with Elinor, could not sleep so soon, for looking out upon the city that also wasn't asleep, and planning out her days.
Chapter 2
If only Elinor Dashwood had been as happy about the move as her sister was. Marianne had nothing to leave that made the job painful, but it was different for Elinor. City glamour was disgusting enough for her without having to remind her that she was far away from him.
What was Edward doing now? The question occupied Elinor's mind as she helped her mother hang their pictures upon the wall and settle everything else in the flat to make it seem more like home. Edward Ferrars was the type of man she had always wished to find: sensible, kind, and good-natured. What a loss for her! How could Chicago ever be for her what their old family house had been, with its horse stables and wooded walks? There was nothing more relaxing than the quiet, calm, true country with a friend--but no, that was over too.
They had been telephoned earlier that morning when Margaret had still slept with all the weariness of a traveler. Children were allowed that, but Marianne and Elinor were up by seven to help their mother, who usually needed all the help she could get. Marianne in her pajamas had answered the phone, soon to cover the receiver with her hand and peer at her mother with guilty laughter. A stern look told her to resume the call. "Yes, oui," she answered; then after a while, "I beg your pardon, but I can't understand you anymore. Yes, yes, this is Mademoiselle Dashwood." She soon handed the phone to her mother. "It's for you, mere."
A look of confusion spread across Mrs. Dashwood's face as she answered, but soon she smiled and conversed politely. "It was Mrs. Middleton," she explained to her daughters after hanging up the telephone, "or Madame Middleton, as she prefers to be called."
Marianne flung herself upon the brownish-orange couch and smiled. "Is she French? The way she spoke, it was perfectly lovely."
"Yes, well it would be more lovely if she could stick to one language--English, specifically, since I know no other. But French or not, we're to see her at noon at her house. I would dress up: if she looks like she sounds we'll be out of place dressed like this."
And even when dressed up, the Dashwoods felt somehow inferior to Madame Middleton, who was garbed in a light blue floating Dior, complete with a hat fit for indoors. She was thin, though she had children, and wore her blonde hair in a type of Grace Kelly chignon. Like her neatly trimmed brows and the streak of brown shadow outlining her eyes, her movements were graceful perfected. She welcomed her visitors politely, but not too warmly, as she pointed to two chairs and a sprawling red sofa for them to sit on.
"I am tres glad to see you," she said with a smile. "My husband is not here yet, but he should be home for dinner tonight. You will come, won't you? Splendid, I'm sure you will enjoy it."
"Do you cook also?" Mrs. Dashwood seized upon any similarity between herself and this relative by marriage with vigor. Madame Middleton responded with an airy laugh.
"No, I do not cook. My education never extended to those areas, though sometimes I wish it had. But anyway, I suppose I was never hurt by focusing on the French language."
"Then you're not from France?" Marianne asked with a frown.
"No, though my grandfather was a full-blooded Frenchman. I'm from New York. I go to Paris whenever I can," she went on, pointing to a city map that was framed and hung upon the papered walls. The Dashwoods took the opportunity to survey the room. Of course it was different than their small apartment a few houses down--they had expected that. No shades of deep browns here. A bright plastic chair was not to be found in the small sitting room that reminded Marianne of the hotel rooms she had seen in An American in Paris. The room easily could have been used as an elaborate set for a French picture in Hollywood with its French provincial influences mixed with American styles. Even local magazines intermingled with French publications upon the coffee table. "I sometimes wish I lived there," the lady sighed. "Not that Chicago's bad--I love it; you will too, I am sure--but still I think it would be lovely to be able to jump into that Matisse painting whenever I wanted to."
Soon a servant walked through a gold-painted doorway with a tray. Marianne was a little disappointed when plates were handed out. Naturally, the appetizers were scrupulously prepared and elegantly displayed, but she wished to hear their hostess talk more. The little the woman had said gave Marianne a fascinating portrait, a living romance. She longed to know more about the pretty wife's past. Why was she still living in Chicago when her heart was in Paris? How different city people were from the old men and matrons who inhabited Pennsylvania farms!
Madame Middleton talked more, but not about Paris.
"I was delighted when Mr. Middleton told me of his invitation. It will be lovely to have young women around, for life in Barton Square can be dull, though I hope you will not think so. but I told my husband that the two eldest Mademoiselle Dashwoods can perhaps work in my salon! Oh, you will get paid, of course. Even I adore working at the shop whenever I get the chance, which isn't as often as I would like to. Children, you know," she said to Mrs. Dashwood, "can take up a great deal of one's time. But looking at you two now I can see that you have a certain. . .style that is wanting in most of the young ladies that work for me. With a few alterations I am sure that you will be unrivaled. I need only one employee at the moment."
Elinor and Marianne looked at each other, the latter with a pleading smile. "I think that my sister would like the job," Elinor consented. "But if you need my help for anything else, I would be happy to work."
"That is kind of you, darling, but right now a clerk is all I need." Madame Middleton turned her face towards Marianne. "How would you like to sell perfume?"
"Like Leslie Caron does in An American in Paris?" Marianne smiled. The offer was irresistible. "Yes, yes, sure." She was afraid of sounding too eager, but then shrugged. Madame Middleton, part Parisian, had the right to be amused by a girl who had lived rurally all her life.
Mr. Middleton proved not to be as intimidating as his wife. He walked in a little late as the Dashwoods and his wife were waiting for dinner to begin. Madame Middleton nodded coolly at his approach and introduced him to their visitors. His friendly features welcomed them warmly. He looked not at all what would be expected of the rich owner of many city businesses. He was a few years older than his wife, or at least looked it with the wrinkles that surrounded his kind brown eyes. Brown hair mixed with grey swept upward from a slightly receding hairline, and he was dressed casually in a green sweater.
He was glad that they were there--glad to finally see his relatives and to be able to help them. "It will be so nice to have you in Chicago," he said. "Think of all the places I'll be able to show you! Have you seen the lake? Oh, I guess you didn't see that when you were at the station. And Marshall Fields? I don't care much for shopping, but my wife will be happy to show you it. A beautiful building, really. How do you girls like it here?" he asked the youngest Dashwoods.
"It's nice," answered Margaret hesitantly.
"Lovely," smiled Marianne.
"Yes," agreed Elinor; "quite impressive."
Mr. Middleton smiled contentedly. "Well, I knew you would find it so. And I hope you'll like Barton Square. I've really been working on it for the last few years. It already has shops and such. Did you see the club? Now that's the nicest, I think, and the best for profits, too."
Madame Middleton put down her teacup lightly on the saucer. "I offered one of the girls a job, dear," she said. "At the salon--just a clerk job."
"Yes, yes, well that will be just fine. Nothing like having a relative on the job." His happy manner amused Marianne. Somehow, his loud voice and constant smile seemed out of place in the fine room where he sat by his elegant wife. But he was not the only one. Later the Dashwoods were surprised when a rather large elderly woman trudged in wearing dark green clothes in the style of army fatigues. The man and his lady, however, turned to her with a casual greeting.
"How was your day, mother?" asked Madame Middleton.
"Exhausting," replied the woman, dragging her hand across her sweaty forehead dramatically. "Really, the girls don't work hard enough. I'm always the one that ends up doing their jobs when they leave. They don't seem to care one bit about helping their country--all they do is show each other letters from their boys overseas. Just terrible."
Madame Middleton saw the need to clear things up for her guests. "This is Mrs. Jennings, my mother," she said quietly. "She works in a war supplies factory downtown--for the good of her country, of course."
"You bet it is," the old woman laughed. "They won't let me go to Korea so I work here. We make bullets, or at least I do. Tough job, but rewarding. The thing to do is to hang an American flag over the machines--that always reminds you what you're working for."
"Mother, these are the Dashwoods. Remember? They're staying in the apartment by the salon. This is Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret."
"And pretty girls they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Jennings. "Too thin to work in the factory, but pretty. Say, there are some young men I could introduce you to. Not all the men are in the war--I could hook you up with some of them around here."
The girls only laughed. They didn't know what else to do. But now that Mrs. Jennings had arrived, Madame Middleton took them all into the dining room to eat.