A Proper Pursuit (3 page)

“If you could choose,” I asked him during a long, embarrassing pause in the conversation, “would you rather be a horse or a carriage?”

My friend Ruth and I used to entertain each other for hours debating questions such as this one, but Herman gripped his cider glass with both hands and bolted upright in his chair as if the fate of the world might depend on his reply.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s a simple question. If you could choose, which one would you rather be? There are advantages and disadvantages to each, you see. A horse is alive and can fall in love with another horse and have baby horses—”

“Oh my! Miss Hayes!” His face turned a remarkable shade of red.

“A carriage can’t fall in love, but it has the advantage of traveling to exciting, faraway places and conveying interesting people— perhaps even royalty. So which would you choose?”

He gulped a mouthful of cider, as if stalling for time, then said, “I-I wouldn’t care to be either one.”

Herman didn’t get it. I would have to make the game simpler. “Okay, then. Would you rather be unbelievably handsome but poor, or enormously rich but disfigured?”

This time his reply came quickly. “I’d rather be myself, thank you.” He frowned in a way that made his bushy black eyebrows meet in the middle, forming one long caterpillar-like eyebrow. I wanted to point out that the frown was quite unbecoming, but the resemblance to a caterpillar reminded me of another one of Ruth’s favorite questions.

“What’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten, Mr. Beckett? I hear that in some countries people eat things like insects and dogs and cats. Would you sample one if given the opportunity?”

“No.”

“What if you were
starving
? Or if you were a missionary to a pagan country and they offered caterpillars to you, and you had to accept them in order to be polite? What if your missionary endeavors would suffer if you didn’t eat one?”

“I hardly think—”

“At Madame Beauchamps’ school she once served snails because she wanted us to learn what the special fork was used for and how to handle it properly. Madame is from France, you see, and snails are a delicacy over there. As soon as Madame tugged one from its shell my friend Ruth gagged at the sight of the slimy thing and had to leave the table. None of the other girls wanted to eat one, but I removed my snail from the shell with great ease and gulped it right down. It wasn’t so bad. The only thing I could taste was the garlic butter. The snail was so slippery that it slid right down—”

“Please, Miss Hayes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m beginning to feel quite ill.”

I refused to give up. “So what was the most …
adventuresome
… thing you’ve ever eaten?” His mouth hung open, but no sound came out. “How about buffalo, Mr. Beckett? Would you eat a buffalo steak? They serve them out west, you know.”

Herman didn’t reply. He obviously had no imagination at all. I could see that a lifetime with him would be uneventful and predictable. Surprises would fall into the same category as typhoid fever: something to be avoided at all costs. I felt grateful to have discovered this truth about Herman now rather than after I’d consented to marry him. I would sooner become a spinster than spend a lifetime with a boring, unimaginative man.

Had that been the reason my mother had left us? My father could be boring and pedantic too.
“She hated her life with me,”
my father had said,
“hated living in such a small town.”
Had the monotony so wearied her that she simply had to leave? But then why not take me with her?
“She hated being tied down,”
Father had said. That must have included me. I must have tied her down.

“Miss Hayes?” Herman was staring at me as if I had devoured an entire bucketful of snails.

“I’d much rather eat buffalo,” I told him, “than dine on—” I nearly slipped and mentioned Maude O’Neill’s mutton, which had been as tough and tasteless as horsehide—not that I’ve ever tasted horsehide, mind you. But just in time, I recalled Maude’s friendship with Herman’s mother. I remembered the plans I had outlined in my journal last night to investigate her husband’s death and decided to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“That reminds me, Herman. I understand that we have a mutual acquaintance, Maude O’Neill?”

“Why, yes. My family knows her very well.”

“It’s so tragic that she was widowed at such a young age, isn’t it? I was away at school when her husband died, so I’m not sure I ever heard the cause of his demise.”

“It was most unfortunate, I’m sorry to say. He tumbled down the cellar stairs and struck his head.”

Ah ha! Just as I thought! Murderous Maude had pushed him! Homely and Horrid had probably strewn objects in his path to aggravate his fall, and greased the handrail for good measure. I masked my glee with what I hoped was a look of horror.

“How perfectly awful for Mrs. O’Neill! I hope she wasn’t home at the time.”

“I’m afraid she was. She sent poor little Harriet to fetch Dr. Bigelow, but he arrived too late.”

Probably
hours
too late—and only after Maude had caved in his skull with a sledgehammer for good measure. I was deep in thought, pondering these highly suspicious circumstances, when Herman cleared his throat again.

“Did I mention that I’m going to Chicago to see the World’s Columbian Exposition?”

“Really? When?” I handled the abrupt change in topics with finesse, taking care not to reveal the fact that I was investigating Mr. O’Neill’s murder.

“I plan to go next month, when the weather warms up a bit.”

Herman blathered on and on about the fair’s architectural marvels and educational wonders until, once again, his monotone began to induce a hypnotic stupor. My eyes watered from stifling yawns.

“Are you and your father planning to visit the fair, Miss Hayes?”

His question gave me a brilliant idea: I could use the Exposition as an excuse to travel to Chicago and find my mother! I would begin badgering my father to go immediately.

As soon as Herman finished his cider—I didn’t offer him a refill—and I’d closed the front door behind him, I turned to my father, who had ambled out to the foyer to bid Herman good-night.

“Herman is going to Chicago to visit the Exposition this summer. I would very much like to go as well.”

“It so happens I’ve planned a trip to Chicago. I thought that we all could go.”

“
All
of us? You don’t mean Maude and her children?”

“Well, yes—”

“Father, please—no! I don’t want to go with them. I’m a grown woman, not a child like Homely and Horrid.” I didn’t realize that I had used my secret names for them until I saw Father’s shocked expression.

“Violet! I’m surprised at you.”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“It’s unlike you to be cruel, Violet. Are you … might you be … a bit jealous of them?”

“Certainly not! They’re children and I’m a grown woman—and that’s the point I’m trying to make, don’t you see? Maude spoke last evening as if we will all settle down and become one happy family, but her expectations aren’t realistic. I won’t be linking hands with her little urchins as we skip through the Exposition with a picnic basket. I would much rather see the fair with companions who are my own age.”

“I understand. But it’s out of the question for you to accompany Mr. Beckett without a chaperone.”

“What about Grandmother? Why couldn’t I spend a few weeks in Chicago visiting with her?” The idea came to me in a flash of genius. My father could hardly argue that his own mother was an unfit chaperone. Grandmother kept quite busy working for several charitable causes, so I was certain that I could slip away from her for a few hours to search for my mother once I was in Chicago.

“I don’t think that’s wise, Violet. Your grandmother doesn’t need the added responsibility of watching over you. She has enough to deal with as it is, with her sisters.”

“But I wouldn’t be any trouble at all. There’s plenty of room for me in that huge old house. Please, Father? Grandmother is always inviting me to come and stay with her every time she writes. Why won’t you ever let me go?”

Father paused as if carefully phrasing his reply. “You’re a very … impressionable … young lady. I fear that the Howell sisters would have a disruptive influence on you.”

His words intrigued me. Here was another mystery to solve. How could my devout grandmother and her three aging sisters possibly have a bad influence on me? I was more determined than ever to go—just to find out. I chose my next words with care.

“You began courting Widow O’Neill while I was away at school and never breathed a word of it to me. Instead, you’ve sprung the news of your engagement on me without any warning and without ever asking for my opinion on the matter. Next, I discover that you’ve been lying to me about Mother for more than ten years, telling me that she’s ill when it seems she isn’t ill at all. Taking all of this into consideration, one might say that you’ve been extremely unfair to me. And faced with such lies and betrayals, one might simply decide to leave home unannounced—
and
without a chaperone.” I had delivered a threat without raising my voice. Madame Beauchamps would have approved.

“I never intended to hurt you, Violet, I thought that—”

“Then you might show your remorse by treating me as a grown woman instead of a child. I’m merely asking to take a brief trip away from home to see the World’s Columbian Exposition. Perhaps the time away will help me accustom myself to the new state of affairs here at home. And I’ll be in the company of your own mother during that time.”

“That’s what worries me,” he mumbled.

“Why? What’s wrong with Grandmother?”

He gazed into the distance, slowly shaking his head. His eyes wore the vacant gaze of a stuffed elk.

“Father, why is it that we so rarely see Grandmother when she lives a mere train ride away in Chicago?”

“It’s complicated, Violet… .” Father groped for the comfort of his watch chain, as if reaching for a weapon to defend himself.

I refused to back down. “May I travel to Chicago to visit with her or not?” He opened the watchcase and stared at the dial before snapping it closed again. I was quite certain that he couldn’t have said what time it was.

“Let me think about it, Violet.”

“Very well.” I turned and glided regally up the stairs. “I will write a letter to Grandmother while I await your reply.”

Chapter

3

Monday, June 5, 1893

I
settled onto the stiff, velvety train seat, adjusting my skirts before waving a curt good-bye to my father, who stood outside on the platform. Then I turned my back on him. Maude O’Neill and her ill-behaved brats had accompanied us to the train station, and I had no wish to gaze upon them for another moment. She was not my mother and never would be. Homely and Horrid, who had entertained themselves by making ugly faces and rude noises at the other passengers, would never be my siblings. All in all, my send-off had been nearly unendurable. Maude talked on and on about Herman Beckett until I wanted to scream—in spite of everything I’d learned in school about proper manners.

“Mr. Beckett will be
so
lonely without you,” she’d insisted. “I understand Mr. Beckett is eager to accompany you to the fair …”
Mr. Beckett
this … and Mr. Beckett that!
If she had mentioned how “smitten” he was with me one more time I would have lost control and smitten her.

I had managed to hold my tongue by imagining what my real mother would be like, and how she would handle my courtship to a bore like Herman Beckett. I convinced myself that any gentleman Mother picked out for me would be infinitely more exciting than Herman.

The more Maude had hovered over me, the more determined I became to find my real mother—even if it was the last thing I ever did. Once I found her, I would convince her to come back to Lockport to live with Father and me. Wouldn’t Maude O’Neill be surprised when she invited herself to my welcome home reception and met the
real
Mrs. John Jacob Hayes?

Of course, I hadn’t told Father that I intended to find my mother or he never would have allowed me to go to Chicago. I didn’t inform Grandmother of my true plans either.

I wiggled in place, trying to make myself comfortable on the hard train seat, willing the whistle to blow and the train to hurry up and steam out of the station. I sensed Father’s worried gaze on me through the window, and I feared that at any moment he would change his mind and charge onto the train to yank me off. It had required prodigious efforts of persuasion on my part before he allowed this trip in the first place. And he had nearly postponed it when no one could be found to accompany me on the train.

“A woman needs a gentleman to watch over her,” he’d fussed. “Her husband or father or brother …”

“What for?” I had asked him. “I can watch out for myself well enough.”

“It just isn’t right. Who will handle your trunk and so forth? And what if there’s a problem? You wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I know everything I need to know. I’ll board the train in Lockport, sit in my seat—watched over by a very competent conductor—and get off at Union Depot, where Grandmother will be waiting for me. What could go wrong? Besides, the world is on the brink of a brand-new era, Father. We’re about to enter the twentieth century, and young ladies are being allowed a bit more freedom. After all, I am twenty years old.”