A Proper Pursuit (7 page)

“Unpacked already?” Grandmother asked. “That didn’t take long.”

“I’m letting my dresses hang in the wardrobe for a while before I press them.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” Aunt Matt said, “I have an article to write. Good night.” She crossed the front hall to her room and closed the door.

“That reminds me,” Aunt Birdie said. “I need to write a letter to Gilbert. It always cheers him to receive mail from home.” She stood and floated to the tall secretary across the room, unfolding the drop leaf so it formed a desk. She sat down gracefully and took out her stationery and a pen. Meanwhile, my grandmother had retrieved a bag of yarn and knitting needles and settled into a rocking chair.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“Socks. They’re for the children down at the settlement house. Some of those poor little dears run around in the snow all winter with bare feet in their raggedy shoes. Do you know how to knit, Violet?”

“I learned how to once, but I’m not very good at it. I can’t say that I enjoy it.”

“Well, if you ever feel like helping me, I have extra knitting needles and plenty of yarn. I could use all the help I can get.”

I sat watching the women work. The only sounds were the steady ticking of the clock in the hallway, Grandmother’s knitting needles clacking rhythmically, and Aunt Birdie’s pen scratching across the page. I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake in coming to Chicago to live with a spinster and two widows. Was every evening going to be as boring as this one? I missed my friend Ruth from school, and I especially missed her exotic reading material.

I would have to come up with a plan to find my mother soon— before I died of boredom.

Chapter

5

Tuesday, June 6, 1893

I
slept late the next day. By the time I came downstairs for breakfast, the others already had eaten. “Where’s my grandmother?” I asked Aunt Matt. She was trying to fasten a hat to her head with a long hatpin, stabbing it into the straw so fiercely I feared she would draw blood.

“Florence left the house hours ago to do her charity work,” she said. “She told me to let you sleep, so I did. She also told me to fix you some breakfast when you finally woke up, so what do you want?”

Judging by Aunt Matt’s expression and tone of voice, it was going to be a terrible imposition for her to wait on me. She obviously had more important things to do.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. I never eat much for breakfast.”

“All right, then. I’m off to do the shopping.” She strode through the back door as if heading off to war, marching to the grocery store to conquer the cabbages. Once again, I was alone with Aunt Birdie.

I found her in the parlor, daintily scattering dust as she skimmed a feather duster over the room’s bric-a-brac. Neither she nor the feathers did much good, as far as I could see. Dust motes danced in the slanted sunbeams for a few seconds, then settled back into place on the cluttered furnishings. When Birdie saw me she hurried over to embrace me, as if I had just arrived home from a very long journey.

“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very well.”

It wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t slept well at all. But Madame Beauchamps had insisted that most people really didn’t want to know the answer to polite questions such as “How are you?” or “Did you sleep well?” The inquirers were simply making small talk, and so the proper reply should always be something like, “Fine, thank you. And yourself?”

In truth, my grandmother’s refusal to discuss my mother had upset me a great deal. I had spent a portion of the night tossing and turning on the lumpy guest-room bed, trying to devise a way to escape from the house so I could search for my mother. I then wasted a few more hours trying to figure out how I could get Aunt Matt to deliver her lecture on remaining free from domineering husbands to Maude O’Neill. When I finally did fall asleep, I dreamed that Chicago was on fire again and my father and I were racing through the flames to find my mother.

“I’m so glad you slept well, dear,” Aunt Birdie said. “We have a big day ahead of us, you know. It’s a good thing you got your rest.”

“Pardon me … ? Um, what is it, exactly, that we’re supposed to be doing today?”

Aunt Birdie leaned close to me and whispered, “It’s a secret!” She winked.

I had no idea if she was making sense or not. My grandmother hadn’t mentioned a “big day” or a secret. A moment later, Birdie returned to her dusting, and I spotted the wedding picture she had shown me last night still lying on the parlor sofa. I picked it up and studied this younger and surprisingly pretty Aunt Birdie.

“Do you have any more pictures, Aunt Birdie? Maybe a scrapbook of photographs that we could look at together?” I would recognize my parents, even if Aunt Birdie didn’t.

“Oh, yes. I have quite a collection of photographs. They’re not in a scrapbook, though.”

“That’s okay. I would still like to see them.”

“You would?” She smiled her dreamy smile. “Oh, how nice.”

Birdie went to the secretary and removed an entire drawer brimming with photos and other mementos. She carried it over to the sofa and sat down beside me with a sigh. I wanted to root through the pictures quickly, searching for my parents, but Aunt Birdie seemed to have all the time in the world for this task. Shielding the drawer from my grasping fingers, she patiently pulled out each picture, one by one, and described it to me in excruciating detail.

“This first one is my sister Agnes and her husband, Henry. She married Henry in 1847 … or was it 1848? His last name is Paine— Henry Paine. His people are very well-to-do, you know. Those are their two boys, Henry Junior and Michael. They’re grown now, of course, with children of their own. But aren’t they darling in this picture? I think little Michael must have been about twelve … or was he older? Let me think …”

At the rate she was going, I would be grown and have children myself by the time we reached the bottom of the drawer. I decided to hurry things along.

“It doesn’t matter how old he was, Aunt Birdie. Who is that in the next picture? Is that my grandmother?”

“Yes, this is Florence and her husband, Isaac. Too bad he isn’t smiling—he looked much nicer when he smiled. But, then, Isaac never did smile very much. He was a minister, you see. One of those fire-and-brimstone preachers you hear so much about, and he never seemed to think there was much in this life worth smiling about. Now in heaven, on the other hand … He would preach about heaven too, once in a while… .”

I gritted my teeth, struggling to be patient. We had reached only the third photo—one of Aunt Birdie’s father, taken shortly before he died—when I heard a horse and carriage drawing to a halt out front. I was afraid that it was my grandmother and that she would take away the photos or hide all the ones of my mother before Aunt Birdie could show them to me. I jumped up and parted the front curtain to peer out.

An enclosed carriage, complete with a driver and a matched team of horses, had parked by our front walk. I couldn’t see the occupants, but the elegant vehicle was a far cry from the run-down hansom cab and old nag that my grandmother had hired to fetch me from the train station yesterday.

“Does my grandmother—Florence—ever hire a carriage and driver?” I asked, ready to yank the drawer full of photos from Aunt Birdie and stuff it back into the secretary.

“Florence rides the streetcar, dear.”

“Well, someone is here to pay us a visit in a very expensivelooking rig.”

“Oh, how nice.”

The driver dismounted from his seat and hurried to open the carriage door. My suspense ended as I watched my great-aunt Agnes climb down. She was a stout woman, the most full-figured of the four sisters—and also the wealthiest. Prosperity, respectability, and the aura of riches hung from her like diamonds. She swept regally up the walkway, as if balancing a crown on her head. I could easily picture an invisible entourage of velvet-clothed pages rolling a red carpet before her and lifting a long, elegant train in her wake.

“
Bonjour
, my dears,” she sang as she flowed through the front doorway. An engraved calling card dangled from Aunt Agnes’ gloved fingertips. Madame Beauchamps would have praised the way she held her pinkie finger daintily outstretched. Aunt Birdie hurried out to the foyer to give Agnes one of her bone-crushing embraces.

“Where is the tray, Bertha?” Agnes said, smoothing the wrinkles from her gown again. “I know you own a perfectly fine silver tray for receiving calling cards. I’m the one who bought it for you.”

Madame Beauchamps had drilled into us at some length the importance of the calling-card ritual. I felt compelled to search for the lost tray immediately and correct this horrendous oversight. Since I had no idea what it looked like or where to find it, I turned in useless circles, peering beneath the hall table and into the coat closet while Aunt Agnes waited and Aunt Birdie stared dreamily into space.

“Never mind,” Agnes finally decided. The card fluttered from her fingertips and landed on the hall table. “Come here and let me look at you, Violet.”

She held me at arm’s length, studying me with a keen, critical eye. I feared she would find fault with my dark eyebrows and dusky complexion, but my great-aunt’s round, regal face broke into a genial smile.

“Why, you’re quite lovely. You should do very well—very well indeed. I’ll introduce you straightaway.”

“Oh, how nice,” Aunt Birdie said.

“Introduce me to whom, Aunt Agnes?”

“Why, to Chicago society, of course. You do have calling cards, don’t you? Properly engraved?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Madame B. had made certain of that.

“And suitable apparel, I presume? A proper hat? Gloves? Well, I can remedy that easily enough, if you don’t. I hope you speak French. I understand that you attended that boarding school in Rockford? What was it called?”

“Madame Beauchamps’ School for Young Ladies.”

“That’s the one. You may not be aware, but I was the one who recommended it to your father. I assume they taught you French there?”

“
Oui, Tante Agnes. Je parle treés bien francçais
. Madame wouldn’t have allowed me to graduate unless I’d mastered French along with the rules of etiquette and other social necessities.”

“Wonderful.”

“Madame also insisted that we learn a smattering of Italian in case the need ever arose to converse with a Venetian count; that we played the piano and sang; that we knew how to find her French homeland and other important countries on a map; and that we had a passing knowledge of poetry and literature.”

“
Très bon
, Violet,” Aunt Agnes said. “You seem very well prepared. It’s about time that your father decided to do right by you and send you to Chicago to find a proper husband.”

I stopped breathing.

“A-a husband?”

“Yes, certainly. Why do you think you were sent to Chicago? To see the fair?” She laughed at her own joke. “Mind you, I told your father it was almost too late, that you were almost too old. But I shall endeavor to make up for lost time.”

Was this really the reason my father had agreed to let me come? I was so astounded by Aunt Agnes’ news that I had no idea what I was supposed to say. Fortunately, Madame Beauchamps had taught us that expressions of profuse gratitude were suitable for nearly every occasion.

“Thank you, Aunt Agnes.
Merci
. I’m so very grateful.” But in truth, the idea of shopping for a husband made my heart pound— though whether from fear or excitement I couldn’t have said. Perhaps a bit of each.

“I’ll call for you tomorrow at two o’clock,” Agnes said. “Make sure you tell your grandmother that I’m coming. Bertha won’t even remember that I’ve called, the poor dear. And wear a hat. And gloves.”

She turned toward the door in a swirl of swishing taffeta, calling “
Au revoir
, Bertha,” as if poor Aunt Birdie were deaf as well as simple. To me she said
sotto voce
, “Don’t forget your calling cards.
Au
revoir
.”

I must have looked like Aunt Birdie as I stood staring dumbly into space, completely flabbergasted by Aunt Agnes’ visit. The scent of her perfume lingered long after she left, along with her tantalizing words.

A
husband
! I could well imagine what Aunt Matt would have to say about that.

I was still standing in the hallway in shock when I heard someone coming through the kitchen door. I quickly raced into the parlor and stuffed the drawer full of photos back into the desk. Now that I knew where Aunt Birdie kept them, I could browse through them on my own another day. I picked up the feather duster and pretended to dust—just as my grandmother walked in from the kitchen to hang her hat on the hall tree.

“Did you mail my letter to Gilbert?” Aunt Birdie asked after greeting her with an embrace.

“I took care of it.”

It surprised me that my grandmother, a good Christian woman, would be deceitful. Evidently I came from a long line of accomplished liars. I knew firsthand the pain and disillusionment of being lied to for years and years, so I gave the feather duster to Birdie and followed my grandmother into the kitchen.