A Tyranny of Petticoats (15 page)

Fear tremors through me. A traitor in our home. What will he look like? Does he hold any remorse for his actions? Or perhaps —

“Here are your earbobs, miss,” Mary says.

I smile at her in my mirror. “Won’t you fetch the pearls from Sophie’s room instead?” I nod across the hall toward my fifteen-year-old sister’s bedroom. As much as I like Mary, I yearn for a moment alone to gather my thoughts for the mission ahead.

Mary pales. “But Mrs. Van Persie set these aside just for you. Her own rubies.”

“I’d like to wear my mother’s pearls tonight.” Fear creeps into Mary’s round eyes, so I pat her hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ll tell Grandmama that it was my idea.”

“Yes, miss,” she squeaks.

Once Mary departs I release a sigh, which is rather difficult considering how severely my corset suffocates me, and I unlock the desk drawer. Inside, I find my most precious possessions: my mother’s gold ring, a lock of Sophie’s hair, and a stack of letters from my mother’s younger brother, my dearest uncle Ambrose. Or
Colonel
Ambrose Chamberlain, as he is better known, of the Pennsylvania Fourth Regiment. Most of his letters arrive via post, but his most recent was delivered by courier from his camp in Sharpsburg, Maryland. At first I thought something awful must have happened to my uncle, but once I read the letter I knew why he needed a more private correspondence. I open the envelope gently.

There’s a knock at the door, and I nearly leap to the ceiling when Sophie pokes her head inside my bedroom. I stow the letter in my dress pocket, but not before her eyes land upon it.

“I brought the earbobs you asked for.” Her pink skirts swish as she enters, and her sweet-as-pie face tilts toward my pocket. “Hiding a love letter, I see?”

I quell the flutter in my voice. “Of course not, you silly thing.”

“Do you have a secret admirer?” She makes a playful attempt to snatch the letter from me, but I swivel my hip away from her.

“It’s from a schoolmate at Westacre,” I lie, referring to the Quaker school in Pennsylvania where I lived these past three years. Our mother was educated at Westacre, and it was her last wish that Sophie and I would study there too. After she passed, Father sent us to the school to honor Mother’s request, but Sophie grew homesick after a single term and returned to Washington. I, however, continued on at school and adored every minute . . . until Grandmama stepped in two months ago, deeming my education complete and ordering me home. I refused, but Grandmama stopped paying my tuition. It pains me that she thinks so little of a female’s schooling, especially her own granddaughter’s. I had hoped to teach at Westacre myself one day.

“A schoolmate?” There’s a glint in Sophie’s green eyes. “Or a beau?”

“You’re nearly as bad as Grandmama.” I roll my eyes, but I’m not bothered by her prying. Being near Sophie again has been the one bright spot in returning home.

Sophie insists on helping me into my dress, a russet-colored gown that sits low on my shoulders. It’s the latest fashion in the city, but I feel entirely too exposed. I had no need for ball gowns or earbobs at Westacre, but now I have a wardrobe filled with velvet dresses and pretty jewels the size of my knuckles. All of this finery feels like the slippers that now adorn my feet: glittering and gleaming yet pinching my toes with every step.

I may be home, but I feel rather homesick.

Sophie hands me the pearls. “The suitors Grandmama invited aren’t all terrible. Samuel O’Hara is rather handsome, and Elisha Noble is . . . Well, he owns many nice shoes. And you may take a liking to Abraham Radford.”

“Radford? Do you mean William’s cousin?
Your
William?”

She blushes as red as one of Grandmama’s hothouse roses. “He isn’t
my
William.”

“Not yet, anyhow.” I grin. My sister and William Radford have had eyes for each other since childhood, and their romance blossomed while I was at Westacre. Grandmama has given her blessing for the union, although she sniffs that the Radfords aren’t as prominent as the Van Persies. “He’ll attend the ball tonight, won’t he?”

Sophie’s gaze darts away from mine, and she chews upon her bottom lip. “Why, yes, of course.”

“Did you two have a row?”

Before she can answer, Grandmama calls for us from downstairs and Sophie clasps my hands. “We best not keep her waiting.” She tacks on a bright smile, but I can see the brittleness behind it.

“Did William say something to upset you?”

“Nothing! It’s nothing at all.” She drags me away before I can wheedle another word out of her — and before I can hide Uncle Ambrose’s letter.

My stomach flutters. Not only have I lost my chance to stow away the envelope, I must soon undertake the mission he has entrusted to me. I agreed to help my uncle, of course. I’d do anything for him and the Union that my mother loved so much, but a dizzy spell hits me now that this moment has arrived. The Raven may be armed. He’s likely dangerous too — for if he’s willing to betray his country, then what else might he be willing to do? And here I am dressed in a pretty frock with nothing to defend myself with, unless you count my fists, and I wouldn’t count them for very much. But I can’t fail Uncle Ambrose and I won’t fail the men who serve him. If capturing the Raven means saving just one Union life, then I mustn’t falter.

We descend the staircase together and pass by the portrait of our great-grandfather Joseph Van Persie. Dutch by birth, he journeyed to America at the age of seventeen and made his name first in the steamboat industry and later as a congressman from Maryland. In the painting he possesses a furrowed brow and a weak chin. Grandmama says that I must take after him.

When I near the bottom of the stairwell, I gasp at the transformation of our home. I’ve not attended our ball in three years, and I’d forgotten the grandeur of it all. Candles abound throughout the first floor, casting a flickering light over the foyer and the three adjoining parlors. My eyes collide with the colors of autumn, from the boughs of golden leaves coiling around the banister to Grandmama’s deep-crimson dress. It looks as if the fall has blown in through the front door.

My grandmother, however, appears much more like winter with that icy glare upon her face. A shiver whispers down my back, and I feel like I’m a child again, cowering under Grandmama’s scowl when she’d come for a visit. I straighten my shoulders, reminding myself that I’m no longer seven years old.

“Girls! Let me take a look at you,” she says from the bottom step. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved gown trimmed with ruches of black silk, and her gray hair is pulled neatly behind her ears. Unlike me, she shows no trace of nerves or unease. After all, Grandmama has hosted balls, dinners, and her famed afternoon teas for nearly four decades. Playing hostess comes as naturally to her as nibbling on her morning scone.

Grandmama studies Sophie, and her prune lips twitch in approval. “Quite sufficient, Sophia.”

As she studies me, however, her mouth takes a noticeable downward curve. She scowls at my mother’s pearls, and her scowl grows fiercer when she notes the — pardon my language — ample bosom that presses against my bodice.

“I suppose there’s little we can do about
those
now,” Grandmama mutters. “You clearly inherited them from your mother.”

And what if I have?
I think, but bridle my words.

Grandmama prods a bony finger into my side. “Back straight! Chin up! What sort of gentleman would want a wife who slouches?” Her sharp eyes land upon my pocket. “What’s this I see? A letter?”

Heat inches up my spine. “It’s from a schoolmate, that’s all.”

“A schoolmate, hmm? From that fanatical institution of yours?”

I bristle in silence. She’s referring to the abolitionists at Westacre, teachers and students alike. It is a Quaker school, although I wouldn’t call us fanatical. Grandmama, however, has deemed everything “radical” where my mother is concerned.

“I’ll return the letter to my desk,” I say, and pick up my skirts.

For some reason, Grandmama glances at Sophie before she takes me by the elbow. “You’ll do no such thing. Our guests — and
your
suitors — will arrive at any moment.”

Her words prove prophetic. Soon our home swells with the most prominent men and women in Washington, all dressed in their very best: tailcoats for the men and ball gowns for the women. Many of them fawn over Sophie and me, asking us who made our dresses and what sort of fabric was used. My sister answers each question with ease, and I can’t help but gape at her. In my absence she has transformed into quite the accomplished hostess, and I’m left wishing that I could flit through the crowd as she does now. But I fumble to say the right thing and I keep tugging at my bodice because it’s far lower than I’m used to. I long for the simple muslin dresses that I wore at school, but I tell myself that if I’m to catch the Red Raven, I must look the part.

My gaze rakes the parlor, and I wonder if the Raven has already arrived. Will he be young or old? Plump or thin? With each new face, I wonder. And I keep my ears tuned for three names in particular.

“Blackgrace, Crandall, and Duchamps,” I murmur.

Sophie turns to me curiously. “Do you mean Senator Blackgrace? Or Congressman Crandall?”

My cheeks flame when I realize I’ve spoken aloud. Thankfully, Sophie soon forgets about me because the Radfords arrive next, with William looking very dashing in a black two-breasted tailcoat. With my sister occupied, I repeat the three names once more, this time in silence, and I recall my uncle’s letter:

Grandmama beckons me from the front parlor. “Elizabeth! Come say hello to Mr. Noble,” she says, motioning toward a man whose height may rival that of President Lincoln himself.

I’ve no choice but to heed her, but I halt when I hear Sophie welcoming an older couple.

“Why, how do you do, Senator and Mrs. Blackgrace?” she says, her voice carrying into my ears like the school bell at Westacre.

Senator Blackgrace!

I spin around and let my eyes lay claim to the senator. Well over sixty, he possesses oil-black hair and shifty dark eyes, like the crows that loiter in the square outside. Or even a raven. My heartbeat gathers steam.

“Elizabeth!” Grandmama says.

I step toward her automatically — loath to face her wrath — but then I pivot in the other direction toward the senator. She calls for me again, but this time I pretend not to hear her. A strange thrill courses through me at my rebellion. I’m not in the habit of disobeying Mrs. Lydia Van Persie. No one is.

As I approach the senator, I nod politely to his prim wife, who hails from South Carolina and who may be her husband’s connection to the Confederacy. I let Sophie converse with Mrs. Blackgrace, and I give the senator a smile, crooked as it might be.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, Senator Blackgrace,” I say. “I’m Lizzie Van Persie.”

“I see,” he says in a gloomy tone that matches the winters in his home state of Maine. “I’m acquainted with your father. Will he be in attendance tonight?”

“Unfortunately not. He’s out west handling our family’s affairs.”

“The railroad business, if I remember correctly?”

“You have an excellent memory.” My father travels often to oversee our family’s business endeavors in the rail industry. At my mother’s urging, he sold off the Van Persies’ steamboat holdings because many of our ships were built with slave labor. Father’s own feelings about abolition were more ambiguous than hers, but he would have done anything for her.

“Is your father well?” Senator Blackgrace continues.

“Quite well. The drier air in the West has done wonders for his lungs.” My father’s coughing fits have kept him out of uniform and away from home. He seems to avoid Washington — where he shared so many happy times with Mother — as much as he can. I’ve no doubt that he also wishes to avoid Grandmama’s nagging tongue, which constantly tells him to buy back our steamships or to eat more of his dinner. He has never possessed the backbone to stand up to her, aside from his decision to marry an abolitionist spinster from a no-name family.

“Excellent, most excellent,” Senator Blackgrace mutters. He appears ready to take his leave, but I can’t let him until I ask the question that Uncle Ambrose readied for me. My fingers tremble, and I shove them behind me.

“I’ve heard your wife comes from the Carolinas,” I start.

He arches a furry brow. “She does, though she prefers Maine.”