A Tyranny of Petticoats (17 page)

“I had no choice but to sell them,” Grandmama says, pain lacing her words. “We’re almost bankrupt due to this railroad venture. I’d no choice but to accept the Confederacy’s offer. They pay me quite well in exchange for the secrets I glean at my afternoon teas. How else could I have bought the dress you’re wearing?”

I sink onto the bed, dizzy from her revelations. I wish I could tear off this dress and burn it.

“So now you understand the importance of you marrying well,” she continues. “The Confederates’ money may keep us afloat, but we’re standing upon a sinking ship. I
will
find you a husband — and a wealthy one at that — especially with your father off to who knows where.”

My thoughts immediately shift to Father. “Does he know what you’ve done?”

“Of course not,” she says. “Your sister, on the other hand. . . .”

My gaze bores into hers. “Whatever do you mean?”

With great flourish, she reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out my letter — the letter from Uncle Ambrose.

It grows difficult for me to breathe. “How did . . . ?”

“It appears I’m not the only spy in the family,” she says, fanning herself with the letter before I yank it from her. “Sophia was kind enough to retrieve this for me.”

My mind reels. No, I won’t believe it. I can’t. “She wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“She would and she did, while you two spoke in the library earlier.”

My memory skips back an hour to Sophie’s odd behavior in the library. Has my sister changed so much since I’ve been away at school?

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because I asked her to read all your correspondences,” Grandmama replies. “It’s my duty as your guardian to be privy to such matters, although little did I know that your uncle’s letters would prove so interesting.” She glances at me in her mirror. “Oh, don’t be too cross with Sophia. She didn’t want to read your letters — at first — but I told her that I’d never give her my blessing to marry that Radford boy if she didn’t.”

I don’t think I can speak. This is all too much. My grandmother, a spy? My sister, an accomplice? I want to believe that Grandmama is lying — that Sophie would never betray me — but my heart severs in half just the same.

“Wash your face and gather your wits, Elizabeth,” she orders me. “Now that you know the truth, we can return to the matter at hand: your nuptials.”

My jaw slackens. “After what you’ve told me, you expect me to rejoin the ball as if nothing has happened?”

“You saw my jewel box. Our family’s good name is in jeopardy — and
you
shall save it.”

Despite my trembling legs, I stand. “If anyone has jeopardized the Van Persie name, it’s you, Grandmama. You’ve committed treason.”

She laughs.
Laughs!
“Call it what you want, but I’ve done this for our family. If I hadn’t, we would have lost this house and the very clothes on your back.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a smart girl. Do you wish to spend the rest of your life in the poorhouse?” She looks me up and down. “Well, do you?”

I struggle for an answer. I struggle even to think. She expects me to wilt, like I’ve done so many times before.

Grandmama takes my silence for assent and marches for the door. “Come along.”

I don’t move.

“Stop dallying.”

I refuse to budge. I don’t wish to end up in the poorhouse. But how can we live a life funded by our grandmother’s traitorous acts?

“Move your feet,” Grandmama says.

Two choices fork in front of me. I can do as she says and preserve my family’s name. Or I can take another path. My fists clench and unclench, and I think of my mother.

“No,” I whisper.

Her eyes slash into me. “I beg your pardon?”

“I won’t play a part in your deceit.”

She hurtles toward me, her hand raised to slap me. “Listen to me, you —”

I block her blow. She grabs at my collar, and I realize she won’t let me out of this room until I bow to her demands. I yank the bedroom key from the desk and wrench away from her, my heart beating so quickly that I fear it might burst.

“You wretched thing!” she cries.

I reach the door and catch a flash of Grandmama’s murderous gaze before I shut the door behind me and lock it tight. She pounds her fists against the wood and spews terrible words at me, but I stuff the key into my pocket.

“Open this door at once, Elizabeth!”

I stare down the door. I quell the tremble in my voice and say, “My name is
Lizzie.
”

I force my legs down the hallway and stumble into my room. I’m unsure of what to do next, but I know I mustn’t tarry in the house, not with Grandmama yelling and pounding at her door. I throw a cloak over my shoulders and gather my mother’s ring and a small stack of spending money from my desk. There isn’t time for anything else. As I descend the servants’ staircase, my mind scrambles for where I should go — but I’m stopped midway by my sister.

“I heard shouting,” she says, her bottom lip quivering. Her gaze falls upon my left hand with my uncle’s letter still clutched inside it, and her face turns as white as her petticoats. “Where’s Grandmama?”

“Upstairs,” I mutter, her betrayal stabbing through me once again.

“Lizzie, please —”

“Grandmama told me everything.
Everything.
”

“Let me explain!” Her hands grab on to mine to anchor me next to her. “I never wanted to betray your confidence, but Grandmama said —”

“That she wouldn’t give her blessing for you to marry William.”

She nods with teary eyes. “What was I to do? I love him.”

What of me?
I’m tempted to ask her.
Do you possess no love for your own blood?

Sophie dabs her eyes with her sleeve. “She forced me to do it. I’ve barely eaten or slept in weeks because of the guilt. You believe me, don’t you?”

She cries harder, and I can’t muster the strength to push her away. Despite the anger flaring inside my chest, I know that Sophie acted out of fear, not malice. And for that reason alone, I place my hand on her shoulder.

She laces her fingers against mine. “I’ll write to Father. I’ll tell him what has happened.”

“There’s no need.” I pull away. Grandmama’s shouting grows louder by the second, and I need to depart.

But how can I leave without Sophie?

I take her hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are you going?” she says, baffled.

“Away from this place. Away from Grandmama. Do you wish to keep living under her thumb?”

Sophie steps back. “We . . . we mustn’t be rash. This is our home.”

It isn’t mine anymore,
I think. It hasn’t been since Mother died.

“It’s Grandmama’s home,” I say.

“Not only hers. It’s ours too.” She gives me her best hostess’s smile. “Come, let me fetch you a glass of wine and a piece of cake. We’ll all feel better in an hour.” She tries to lead me down the stairs, but I shake my head sadly. It’s clear that she has made her choice.

I kiss her cheek and whisper into her ear: “Marry William. Make a new life with him, away from the city.”

That’s all I can wish for her now: a new home. A new future without Grandmama.

I wrench myself free from her and race toward the carriage house, where I saddle a gray mare and guide her into the street. I should urge her into a gallop, but I glance back toward our brownstone — the homestead of my family for so many years. Only a minute ago I was one of the mistresses there and one of the most eligible young women in our fair capital. But now here I am, with a few bills in my pocket and a workhorse to my name.

Fear thrums through me. For a moment I wonder if I should run back into the house and beg Grandmama for forgiveness. She’d likely make me grovel, but she wouldn’t turn me away. I’d have a bed to sleep on, fine food to fill my belly, new ball gowns . . . and it would all be a farce. A traitor’s sham. I shake my head and tap my heels against my horse’s sides. I can’t turn back.

I
won’t
turn back.

The mare trots forth, and I don’t know where to lead her. I could return to Westacre, but I’ve no money for tuition and I’m too young to be taken on as a teacher. I suppose I could seek out Father, but he’d likely send me back to Washington. Besides, we’ve become strangers these past three years. A thought strikes me then. It’s preposterous, not to mention dangerous, and I almost brush it away.

But it’s the only place left for me.

I urge my mare down the street. I’ll use what little money I have to spend the night at an inn, and come the morning I’ll head toward Sharpsburg — and my uncle. I’ll tell him about the Red Raven and the role my grandmother has played in this war. Whether he sends her to prison or not, that shall be his concern and not mine any longer.

I don’t know what lies in front of me. I have little to offer Uncle Ambrose aside from a half-finished education and a soon-to-be sullied surname. Yet I know one thing: whatever path I choose, I shall make my mother proud. I hold tight to this thought.

I pin a brave smile to my lips and bring my mare to a canter. The pounding of her hooves matches the thud of my heart, and I breathe in the crisp air that carries the scent of a new day ahead. A new start.

“Head north, girl,” I whisper into the wind. “We’re going home.”

I HAD DONE EVERYTHING RIGHT. IT brought me no comfort to know that now, but I
had
done everything right. It helped, of course, that I’d been born into the right family. My papa had invested heavily in the rail system before the trains connected east and west, and before that, his papa had invested in the War, and before that,
his
papa had invested in ships crossing the Atlantic. But it was more than just being born into the right family. I had cultivated the right friends, gone to the right parties, flirted with the right men.

Well, I thought I’d flirted with the right men.

And when one of the so-called right men had proven to be anything
but
right, well. Everything changed.

At breakfast the morning after, my father had been waiting for me. All I had wanted to do was pretend that nothing had happened, nothing at all, but Papa had stood in front of the door, not even allowing me into the dining room and the comfort of a warm breakfast made by our cook, Maggie.

“You were
seen,
” he had hissed at me.

I hadn’t even had the courage to speak. Again.

“You were seen with that man. Everyone knows you let him have you.”

Let.

“You could have done better, Helen. You could have married a Rockefeller, or a Vanderbilt at least. This one’ll do. But you could have done better.”

And then he had left, yelling for Maggie to bring coffee to his office. That had been my one chance to talk to my father about that night, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if I
had
found the courage to speak. He’d already decided what he would believe, and nothing anyone could say or do would have changed his mind.