Banished Love (13 page)

“Do you read the papers, Mrs. Sm…Sullivan? Talk with your friends?” At her cold stare, he continued. “The Boxers are discontented Chinese on the verge of rebellion who are indiscriminately killing Christians in China. Including American Christians,” Colin said helpfully. “I thought it was the topic of conversation these days.” He glanced toward Lucas and me, and we both nodded our agreement.

“A genteel woman,” Mrs. Smythe began, with a sniff in my direction to indicate I must be lacking in that regard, “would not know of such vulgar goings-on halfway around the world with a bunch of savages, my dear Colin. I do read the papers but only the parts that pertain to my world and me. The parts about running a good home, a good kitchen. About decoration.” With this, she waved her hand around the room to indicate its frightful state. “Decorum.” Yet another censorious glare was sent in my direction. “These are the important matters of
my
life,” she stated with one more sniff, showing her displeasure at the topic.

I gaped at her, unable to imagine finding happiness with such a restricted life. Lucas, in the meantime, had reached over and grabbed my paper. I tried to snatch it back but did not want to make a scene in front of Mrs. Smythe. He tucked it under his arm, as though it had been his all along.

“And I do not see why I should be made to suffer listening to music such as yours, Lucas,” she snapped. “I am sure your mother would be most displeased.”

Lucas smiled. “I’m sure she would, except she hasn’t heard me play recently.”

“I expect to hear calming, soothing music in my parlor in the evening, not a riotous mixed-up jangle of melodies. I am sure a simpleton with no musical abilities wrote that piece and duped you into thinking it had merit.”

“Well, ma’am, I never like to contradict a lady, but I think you’ll find you are wrong. I did just learn a much more basic song, with quite simple words. Would you like to hear it?” His feigned innocence, so like how Colin acted at times, put me on edge.

“Of course, Lucas, as long as it is more appropriate for the parlor,” Mrs. Smythe simpered, settling back into her chair with a sigh.

Lucas rose, walking back toward the piano bench.

I followed at his heels, unable to do anything more than hiss, “Careful, Lucas!”

His angelic smile did little to calm me.

Lucas sat at the piano bench, placing my paper away from me, stretching his fingers in a theatrical manner. Colin had moved over toward the piano, to distance himself from Mrs. Smythe and to better hear the performance. Lucas began to play a ponderous, plodding gospel hymn that I vaguely recalled from my sparse church attendance. I looked toward Colin, and he whispered the title, “‘Hold the Fort.’”

I nodded. Of course. A gospel hymn from the Civil War would be exceedingly acceptable to Mrs. Smythe. I looked toward her to find her humming along contentedly, swaying side to side with her eyes closed.

Lucas looked up at me, winked, and then began to sing.

Hark the sound of myriad voices

Rising in their might

’Tis the daughters of Columbia

Pleading for the right.

Raise the flag and plant the standard,

Wave the signal still;

Brothers, we must share your freedom,

Help us, and we will.

At this, point, I peered around Colin to look at Mrs. Smythe to find her watching Lucas with a horrified expression. I knew she had not meant a suffrage song, adapted to an acceptable gospel hymn, was to be sung in her parlor.

Think it not an idle murmur,

You who hear the cry;

’Tis a plea for human freedom

Hallowed liberty.

“Lucas!” Mrs. Smythe screeched, storming toward the piano. Lucas barely had time to snatch his fingers away before she slammed down the piano key cover. “How dare you sing such a song in my house? You know that such a song will never be acceptable,” she hissed. She glowered at the three of us, considering all of us as part of a conspiracy against her. “I know Clarissa has backward ideas, but they will never be acceptable, do you hear me?” she shrieked.

I grimaced from the high pitch of her voice, and Colin actually touched his ear as though in pain. Lucas smiled, seeming pleased that he had riled her so much.

“Mrs. Sullivan, I believe my musical talents are wasted on your discerning ear,” he said without a trace of mocking in his voice. “It is time I headed for home.” He rose, slipping my paper under his arm again. “Rissa, will you see me out?”

I walked by his side from the room, gripping his arm firmly as though expressing my displeasure with his outrageous actions.

“Lucas, how could you?” I whispered in the front hall as he donned a light jacket.

“The question, Rissa, is how could I not? She was begging for something like that. It was almost too easy,” he said with an impish grin.

I stifled a giggle as I thought back to her antics.

“Though I fear I might have lost the ability to hear a few octaves, sitting next to her as she shrieked,” Lucas said with a rueful shake of his head. He handed me my newspaper, winking at me again. “Careful with that one,” he said, nodding toward the parlor. “She won’t be kind if she finds this kind of paper in your room.” He gave me a quick hug and left.

I stood in the hallway a moment, battling my anxiety at what she would do if she were to find out about my planned attendance at the suffragette meeting.

CHAPTER 13

“FLORENCE,” I SAID two days later, twitching nervously, delaying my departure from school for a few moments, “won’t you come with me this afternoon?”

Florence glanced up from correcting ledgers, her black curly hair falling out of its pins, her dress sleeves pushed up around her elbows, her hands chalk and ink stained from a strenuous day of teaching, to study me curiously.

“Clarissa, I’ve told you I won’t go to hear those suffragettes belabor their lack of freedom as they sit in their expensive parlors, drinking tea, with servants waiting on them.” She eyed me severely, over her horn-rimmed glasses, daring me to contradict her.

“It’s a good cause, Flo,” I argued.

“So is correcting these ledgers so I can walk home in the daylight,” she countered with a hint of a smile.

I nodded, feeling somewhat dejected, yet mainly nervous. I had no idea what my reception would be at today’s meeting. “Well, in that case, good luck with the ledgers and I’ll give you a full report tomorrow.”

Florence nodded absently, already absorbed in her work.

I gathered my purse, gloves and shawl. As I pinned on my hat, I was thankful I had taken a few moments this morning to consider my appearance. My mint-green long-sleeved poplin dress and matching jacket with lace at the collar and wrists had been too fancy for school. However, I had known I would not be able to return home to change before the meeting, as Mrs. Smythe would have prevented me from leaving again.

I walked outside, attempting to breathe the fresh scents of spring. I focused on the positive to calm my nerves. I turned left from the school, down Blossom Street, right on Cambridge Street, and then onto Charles Street, which would allow me to circumvent Beacon Hill.

As I walked toward the Back Bay, I thought about the recent expansion of Boston. It had been a very small city before its leaders had decided to fill in the Back Bay. The bay had been a festering tidal flat until about fifty years ago when it was gradually drained for the filling project. Though controversial at the time, the filling project had been enormously successful, and the Back Bay was now the most desirable place to live in Boston with all the many modern amenities such as central heating, electric lighting, telephones, modern plumbing and a sewage system.

I continued to walk along Charles Street passing numerous stores including rope builders, carpenters, tailors, coffee shops and grocers. I crossed Beacon Street into the Public Gardens through wrought-iron gates and breathed in the fresh air, enjoying the momentary peace and the sensation of being in an oasis in the midst of the city. The trees were in full bloom, the tulips striking in their beds, all of one color. I paused on the bridge over the pond to bask in spring’s sunshine and to calm my nerves. Reluctantly I began walking again, exiting onto Commonwealth Avenue, slowly approaching my destination.

I crossed over from the central tree-lined, shaded mall in the middle of Commonwealth Avenue to stand across the street from an imposing redbrick mansion with its slate roof and a garden at the front of the house. Many of the bow-fronted windows had lighter brick inlay, outlining and highlighting their shape. The large, highly polished oak door with brass knocker gleamed in the sunlight. I tried to work up my courage to cross the street, ascend the steps and knock on the door.

I remained rooted to the spot, watching elegantly dressed women and a few men enter the house. I fretted that I didn’t have an invitation. I dithered a few more moments, attempting to gather my courage. As I exhaled loudly, a refined voice at my elbow interrupted my thoughts.

“It’s a bit overdone, wouldn’t you agree?” a scratchy, nearly hoarse female voice said.

I turned toward the voice, noting a stout middle-aged woman in an eggplant-colored dress in bombazine fabric with pearls sewn into the front. She wore a matching hat covering gray hair with ivory gloves reaching to midforearm. Her piercing aquamarine eyes assessed me as quickly as I had her. I must not have been found wanting as she looped her right arm through my left arm and started across the street, dragging me along with the force of her momentum.

I found myself ushered into the enormous, opulent front hall. Floor to ceiling was paneled in gleaming dark mahogany. A large mirror sat over an onyx fireplace with two chairs on either side of it. I had never seen a hall so large as to merit a fireplace. The marble-topped entryway table held an enormous bouquet of flowers including daffodils and tulips. Dark blue plush carpets covered hardwood floors.

“Mrs. Chickering,” a high-pitched voice squealed, causing the hair on the back of my nape to rise. “How wonderful you could make today’s soiree.”

I could not tell if the speaker was sincere, but the grand dame next to me smiled with apparent delight.

“Ah, Bertha, always a delight to see you and to partake of one of your events. And of your fabulous teas,” Mrs. Chickering replied with a smile, patting Bertha’s hand with her free one but keeping her right arm looped through mine.

Bertha smiled, tilting her head toward me. Her thin lips, now turned down in disapproval, did nothing to improve her emaciated appearance.

“Bertha, I don’t know as you’ve met my dear friend?” Mrs. Chickering asked, pointing at me, then raising an eyebrow toward Bertha as though daring her to turn me away.

“Oh, no. It’s an honor, I assure you, to meet a…a dear friend of
yours
,” Bertha stammered out, her voice more whining and high-pitched than when she had first approached us, causing me to attempt not to grimace at the sound.

I wondered why she, the mistress of such a grand home, would be solicitous of Mrs. Chickering. “Clarissa Sullivan, ma’am,” I murmured, nodding demurely.

“Of course,” Bertha effused, her thin lips turned up in a slightly feral smile. “You always were a forward thinker, Sophronia. Just like you to invite the
immigrant
masses to our gatherings.”

I squinted at her emphasis on
immigrant
but knew now was not the time for clarification.

Bertha eyed my dress critically, raised an eyebrow and sniffed as though to imply my presence was tolerated solely due to my association with Mrs. Chickering. “Please, make yourselves welcome,” she called out in her grating voice.

Mrs. Chickering and I moved on; she cut a wide swath through the room with me following in her wake. Either the other guests did not like her, or they were in awe of her, and attempted to appear busy with their own conversations. I imagined it was a mixture of the two. We arrived at a black walnut settee covered in mauve-colored satin with an ornately carved back panel of a hunting scene.

“Harrumph,” Mrs. Chickering muttered. I glanced curiously toward her, wondering what had upset her. Mrs. Chickering murmured, “I’ve always hated this settee, never understood why a suffragette would own the piece. And I’ve told Bertha. Now for some perverse reason, I find this is always the settee open to me.”

I unsuccessfully attempted to glance at the carving to determine why it was offensive, craning my neck to decipher the scene.

“You’ll pull a neck muscle, and you look like a simpleton, turned around like that,” Mrs. Chickering barked. I hastily faced forward, flushing fiercely. I began to doubt that meeting her had been providential.

“It’s a scene of Apollo hunting Daphne and her running away,” Mrs. Chickering hissed. “I
know
it’s from mythology. I
know
we must respect the past and ancestors. But don’t you think a good suffragette would turn and fight? Not run away and want her father to turn her into a tree, but to give her quivers and arrows and
shoot
him
?” she demanded with righteous indignation. I laughed, caught completely off guard by her outrageous comment.

She turned toward me, her aquamarine eyes bright as though fire-lit. I sensed she, too, was trying not to laugh. I finally said, “It would be a nice twist to the story and a wonderful conversation piece.” My eyes danced with mischief and merriment. I began to relax in her presence.

“Exactly, my girl,” she said. “Unfortunately, Bertha, not the smartest woman of her day, married an even simpler man, a
banker
,”—this word said with absolute derision—“and he wants everything as basic as possible. Lest he become confused.” She grunted as though she couldn’t imagine such people. “Though of course the Searles are exceedingly wealthy and the ‘right’ sort of people,” Mrs. Chickering said with a quirk of her eyebrow.

Mrs. Chickering attempted to settle back against the uncomfortable carving of the settee, grimacing in disgust.