The classical street corner, built of red brick and marble, was swept by a slanting wind that stirred up a small whirl of dust.
The heavens were unkind—by afternoon, New York was caught in a crossfire of rain and snow.
On the ground, the lted snow froze again, forming a thin, brittle sheet of ice over the pavent.
Eloise had intended to view a house, but faced with such weather, she had no choice but to return ho.
The streets were montarily empty, as horse-drawn carriages hesitated to risk slipping hooves. Many people walked ho with hats and scarves bundled tightly, so Eloise was not alone in her retreat.
In these tis, only the wealthy could afford tal umbrellas, each costing three or four dollars.
Drenched to the bone, Eloise returned ho and quickly lit the stove. Flas danced fiercely inside as the bitter wind howled outside the window.
Truth be told, she had initially miscalculated the cost of coal, being too conservative in her estimates.
In reality, during such frigid weather, a household like hers—unsparing in heating—would need at least three or four dollars' worth of coal per week.
Eloise did not remain idle.
She ward the house with the stove, boiled water to fill the tin-lined ceramic bottles, and began cooking her specialty—wheat porridge.
After tidying up, she turned to her side work: altering old garnts on commission.
Yesterday’s house visit had given her much to ponder. She had been too idealistic about her current living conditions.
The unreliable inco from the boutique could not be her sole reliance; she needed a job that paid better than sweeping chimneys.
Becoming a seamstress had always been Eloise’s original ambition, and she still held onto that dream. After Christmas, within a week, she resolved to secure a position at a tailor’s shop.
At the factories, the weekly wage barely reached four or five dollars. Even part-ti work at a hotel yielded only three or four.
But a tailor’s shop was different. From what Eloise had overheard her aunt ntion, even a modest shop catering to the middle class paid its errand hands seven or eight dollars.
The reason was simple—those doing odd jobs were essentially apprentices in training.
They helped with hemming, crafting small accessories, selling goods, and tidying up, all while observing the seamstresses’ techniques. Many juggled multiple tasks, hence the higher pay.
Then there were the elite establishnts, serving only the wealthy.
So specialized in n’s suits, others in bespoke won’s wear.
Newspapers often featured essays by socialites, critics, and writers ranking the finest tailors based on the attire of high-society ladies.
In such prestigious shops, assistants were plentiful, with only the most distinguished clients warranting the master tailor’s personal attention.
The division of labor was strict, hierarchies rigid, and workloads lighter.
Eloise mused that, given the choice, she would prefer a position at a grand establishnt.
The pay was secure, the workload manageable, and she might even save ti to craft items for sale on the side.
But such coveted spots were fiercely contested—when one opened, it was snatched imdiately.
Having settled on her plan, Eloise decided to seek out connections in the trade soon.
She banked the stove fire, cleared the table, and finished altering an old dress before unrolling a length of cotton fabric from her basket, ready to cut.
By the next morning, the weather had cleared slightly. Sunlight filtered through the mist as clumps of snow slid from the pine branches in the roadside park.
Carriages and pedestrians resud their usual bustle.
After covering half of Amy’s shift, the two shared lunch in the hotel’s back kitchen.
Only then did Eloise leave for the house she had ant to visit the day before.
It was a narrow building on a main street in midtown, easy to find.
For the outing, she had donned a sowhat shabby, long-stored cotton jacket—a hand--down in an unflattering beige, with tight sleeves—paired with a faded long skirt borrowed from Louise.
When Louise saw her dressed so plainly, she wrinkled her nose in disapproval.
Eloise explained that her unassuming attire was a tactic to discourage the landlord from inflating the price.
Convinced, Louise dug out a pair of cloth shoes from her trunk—slightly worn from two years prior but still intact, though now too tight for her.
Eloise layered two pairs of knitted socks before slipping them on.
The walk took nearly an hour, as the house stood so distance from the hotel.
Yet the neighborhood was peaceful, lined with residences and few factories.
Though not as bustling as the upper district where they worked, it had its own charm.
The landlord did not live on the premises. According to the newspaper, the ground floor housed a caretaker—an elderly gatekeeper—and prospective tenants needed only to speak with him.
Eloise double-checked the address before climbing the front steps and ringing the bell beneath the porch.
She quietly observed the exterior of the house—a small path had been cleared of snow outside, and the paint on the front door was impeccably maintained.
The owner clearly hadn’t skimped on the caretaker’s wages, and the property had been well looked after.
As for the price, it was likely as steep as advertised in the newspaper.
The doorbell rang twice, followed by a creak as the door opened, revealing a white-bearded old man in a coarse woolen coat, pen in hand as if he’d been writing sothing, alongside a boy dressed like a newsie.
Eloise took a deep breath and asked, “Hello, I saw the rental listing in the newspaper. Are you the owner?”
The old man with the white beard gave the girl at the door a once-over, suspicion flickering in his eyes. She looked rather down-at-heel—could she really afford this place?
Still, he didn’t voice his doubts outright. Instead, he turned to the boy behind him and said, “Rick, fetch the keys from the wall.”
Then, with a shrug, he gestured for Eloise to step inside. “I’m the caretaker here. You can call John.”
Old John explained that in this four-story house, only two units remained: a two-room attic space on the top floor and a ground-floor suite.
The attic was a half-loft with a balcony—two cramped rooms, neither with a bathroom nor a kitchen.
A shared bath was on the third floor.
“How many tenants live here?” Eloise asked, keen on this detail.
Old John told her the third floor housed two households: one, a family of three—the husband a low-ranking bank clerk, his wife a homaker tending to their infant daughter.
The other was a local girl who lived alone, working as a typist and copyist for a newspaper.
The second floor was the owner’s private residence, not for rent.
On the ground floor, there was a two-bedroom suite with a bath, still vacant at ten dollars a week.
Old John, his wife, and his grandson occupied a small room by the stairwell.
Eloise was here to see the eight-dollar-a-week half-loft in the attic.
As Rick brought the keys, she followed Old John upstairs, listening to his gruff descriptions of the neighbors’ occupations.
Though his expression still carried a hint of condescension, Eloise found herself growing satisfied. The rent was steep, but at least the neighbors weren’t riffraff—they held respectable jobs.
Truth be told, if her uncle and parents were still alive, with their steady incos, they might’ve lived in a place like this themselves.
The interior didn’t look worn. The walls were papered in an orange floral print, with wainscoting halfway up, likely pine, matching the polished stair railings.
The place was clean, the decor thoughtful—perhaps the owner had originally intended to live here?
The loft was split in two: one half a storage room for the owner’s unused belongings, the other a recently partitioned two-room space, the one Eloise was here to see.
At the top of the stairs stood a wall with two doors, a small window beside it casting bright, white light—not at all gloomy.
Old John gestured to the left-hand door and opened it.
“The owner doesn’t live here?”
Stepping inside, Eloise was t with a narrow living area—barely large enough for a double bed. Against the north wall was a balcony window, its fra stretching the low ceiling and tight space slightly, making it feel less claustrophobic.
Afternoon light stread through the wide window, illuminating the empty little parlor.
Old John explained, “The owner used to be a manager at a toy factory. He bought this place before his promotion. Later, when he was transferred to Chicago, he moved his family there two years ago.”
“He barely lived here two months. I reckon once he returns to New York, he’ll move back in.”
“So if your family stays here, you’ll have to take good care of the place. Otherwise, the owner will bla .”
Old John had once been the toy factory’s gatekeeper until his son took over the job. Now, he and his wife were hired by the manager to look after the house.
“Of course. We’re not the slovenly sort.”
Eloise briefly shared her background—her and her aunt’s steady jobs, their reliable inco.
Old John, puzzled, asked why she and her brother lived with their aunt.
Only then did Eloise ntion her parents’ deaths, and later, her uncle’s illness taking him too.
Old John’s expression softened, his earlier disdain shifting to pity.
No wonder she couldn’t afford decent clothes.
“I see,” he murmured, letting Eloise explore on her own.
Turning back to the stairwell, he called for his grandson to fetch the key to the adjoining storage room.
Inside the room, there was no ceiling. Eloise could reach up on her tiptoes and touch the roof beams, above which lay the sloping rafters, their tiles arranged in uneven rows.
She tilted her head to inspect the tiles and found no damp patches or signs of leakage.
If even yesterday’s violent storm had failed to penetrate, then the attic’s roof was sturdy enough. At least she wouldn’t have to dread the next downpour, anxiously bracing for leaks.
……
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