Sybil at Sixteen (22 page)

“I wash my hands of her!” Uncle Marcus had declared, and there was only Aunt Grace left to take her in. Meg's mother had been an only child, and her parents had died within a year of their daughter's accident. So Aunt Grace had the bedroom at Eastgate redecorated with a canopy bed, and Meg had moved in.

It wasn't so bad, she knew. Her school year she continued to spend at Miss Arnold's, and Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter were spent in Beacon Hill. Summers at Eastgate were all right, even with Aunt Grace's many restrictions. Not too much sun. No unsupervised swimming (well, she'd brought that one on herself). No socializing with the year-rounders (but then, none of them were supposed to do that, including Isabelle Sinclair, who was madly in love with the grocery bag boy). No excursions without Aunt Grace's explicit permission. No fun, really, but then Meg wasn't sure she remembered what fun was anymore. She supposed she must occasionally have fun at Miss Arnold's, all the other girls did, and they didn't shun her, as they did some of the more studious, less entertaining girls. She knew she had gone from Poor Meg to Meg at some point during her years there, but she couldn't spot the exact moment, and she couldn't recall ever really enjoying herself. But that didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

I'm sixteen, Meg thought. Today I am sixteen. In two more years, I'll be finished with high school, and I'll make my debut. All her friends were already discussing what they would wear at their coming-out parties. Meg hoped Aunt Grace wouldn't be offended if she got one of her friends' mothers to help her with the gown. Aunt Grace had the most abominable taste in clothes. Not her own, which were tweedy in the wintertime, and floral in the summer, but in the ones she selected for her niece.

Meg tried to imagine herself in her first formal evening gown. She knew she'd be pretty; everyone always said she was, and that wasn't the sort of thing people lied about. Boys would dance with her all night long. It wouldn't matter that all she had left to her was a small trust fund. She was Grace Winslow's ward, and Grace was a wealthy woman. That made Meg an heiress, as Aunt Grace was fond of pointing out to her. “You can never be too careful about the boys you get to know. Some of them can smell money a mile away. They'll pretend to be in love with you, only because of your relationship with me, and then they'll steal your money and break your heart. You must only see suitable young men, young men who come from your own world. No one else can be trusted.” That speech, Meg knew, was the equivalent for Aunt Grace of the birds and the bees.

Only suitable boys, then, would be asked to her coming-out party, and Meg supposed that a year or two after, she would marry one of them. She didn't know which one yet, or care. Maybe she'd met him, maybe she hadn't. She'd go to college for a year or so, then announce her engagement, and get married, probably by the time she was twenty. Being married had to be better than living with Aunt Grace.

Meg hated herself when she felt like that, disloyal to the only member of her family who was willing to put up with her. She knew she should love Aunt Grace, or at least be grateful to her, or at the very least respect her, but mostly all she could manage was dread. Just being in the same room with her frequently made Meg shiver. And when Aunt Grace turned her full focus of attention on her, Meg didn't know how she survived.

“What a dump,” she whispered again. It was a catchphrase she used to give herself strength. Bitsy Marshall had taught it to her. Bitsy's mother said it all the time. Bitsy's mother went to the movies, and could do imitations of all the stars, but her best was her Bette Davis, and Bette Davis had said “What a dump” in some movie or another, so Bitsy's mother said it, and Bitsy said it, and Meg said it too, when no one was listening. It wasn't as though she could do a Bette Davis imitation, so she didn't try. She just said it, mostly to herself, but sometimes under her breath. “What a dump.” It kept her going, that phrase. She frequently felt grateful to Bette Davis for ever having said it.

There was a knock on the door. Meg flushed with guilt. Had someone heard her saying it, and did they think she was complaining about her room? “I will not tolerate whining and complaints,” Aunt Grace had said to her shortly after she'd moved in. “You are a most fortunate child, and you should appreciate all the kindness you've been shown.”

“Come in,” Meg said, hoping her voice hadn't cracked with terror. Aunt Grace didn't like that either.

Aunt Grace walked in. “Your dress has arrived,” she declared. “I thought I would bring it to you myself. Happy birthday, Margaret.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. She'd risen from her chair as soon as Aunt Grace had walked in, and now, she knew, she was expected to walk over to her aunt and give her a kiss, as well as take the box from her. She willed herself into action. Aunt Grace's skin was as soft as her face was hawklike. Meg brushed her lips against her aunt's cheek in what passed as a gesture of affection in that household.

“I trust you'll like the dress,” Aunt Grace said.

“I'm sure I will, Aunt Grace,” Meg said.

“What's that you said?” Aunt Grace asked. “You must learn to speak up, Margaret. This mumbling of yours is a disgusting habit.”

“I'm sorry,” Meg said. She didn't think she mumbled, although it was true she spoke softly, and many people had to ask her to repeat what she'd said. It surprised her that anybody cared enough to want to hear. She would have to learn to speak louder, she supposed. “I said I was sure I would like the dress, Aunt Grace.” Lies had to be spoken loudest of all.

“Your guests will be arriving shortly,” Aunt Grace said. “Have you bathed?”

Meg nodded. “I'm all ready, except for the dress,” she said.

“Very well,” Aunt Grace said, and then she cleared her throat. Meg immediately tensed up. “You are sixteen now, Margaret. I suppose a mother's duty on her daughter's sixteenth birthday is to discuss with her some of life's harsher truths.”

There had been no harsh truths in her mother's heart, Meg knew. And Aunt Grace wasn't her mother. She felt herself getting faint with resentment.

“When a girl is sixteen, she is physically capable of bearing children,” Aunt Grace declared. “Her body is eager for that sort of animal labor, so her emotions turn to boys, who can give her their seed. She mistakes those feelings for love.”

Meg nodded. It was the only action she was capable of.

“Boys will of course take advantage of this confusion,” Aunt Grace continued. “The male of the species enjoys nothing more than taking advantage of a female's need to reproduce. They whisper words of love that the female wants to hear, promise her a future together, and then they have their way with her. Do you know what having their way actually means, Margaret?”

“I think so,” Meg said. It seemed the safest response.

“In any decent society, a girl's reputation is paramount,” Aunt Grace said. “A girl who allows a boy to have his way with her is thought of as cheap. Such a girl never makes a good marriage, but goes on to a life of sin and degradation. True, she may marry, but if she does, it will be to a man of a lower social order, one who will not treat her with respect, and indeed, she doesn't deserve that respect. No girl who goes to her marriage bed impure deserves the respect of her husband. Virginity is the one true gift a bride can offer her groom. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Aunt Grace,” Meg said.

“Very well,” Aunt Grace declared. “I know your parents would have wanted you to be informed of such matters. Your mother might not have been from Boston, but she was a fine girl just the same, from an excellent family, and I regard your care as a sacred trust. I'm sure if they were alive, they would wish you a very happy birthday and tell you how proud they are of you. Stand up straight, Margaret. Nothing is less appealing than stooped shoulders.”

“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” Meg said, trying to unstoop her shoulders.

“Because it is your birthday, you may stay up until midnight,” Aunt Grace said. “The band has been hired to play only until eleven-thirty. I know many of your friends have parties that last until one or two o'clock, but I do not approve of that sort of revelry for a girl so young. You must dance with any of the young men who ask you. I'm sure they all will, because it's your birthday, and they will be disappointed if you seem to favor one of them over the others. You will be allowed one glass of champagne, when the toast is made. You are to thank each person who brings you a gift, and those who do not, you must thank as well, for attending the party. Tomorrow you will spend writing thank-you notes for whatever gifts you may receive. You are not to wander off from the party with any of your friends. I want to know where you are at all times. If you need to excuse yourself, please inform me first.”

“Yes, Aunt Grace,” Meg said.

“You're mumbling again,” Aunt Grace replied. “I trust you won't spend the evening mumbling and stooping, Margaret. It is your birthday, and people will expect to see you proud and tall. In addition, they'll want to hear you when you say your various pleasantries. Now, put on your dress, and meet me downstairs. I want you ready to greet your guests as they arrive.”

“Yes, Aunt Grace,” Meg said, and watched with relief as her aunt left the room. At least she hadn't been forced to open the box while Grace was there.

Maybe this time it'll be all right, she thought, but one look at the dress killed that fantasy. It was pink, a color Meg hated, because she blushed so often, and wearing pink seemed to emphasize her embarrassment. Pink chiffon with endless ruffles. Meg was not one for looking at
Vogue
, but even she knew ruffles were all wrong. It was a dress for a little girl. It even had a ruffled collar. The black velvet dress she'd worn when she was eleven was more sophisticated than this.

Meg put on the dress, and glanced at herself as best she could in the mirror over the bureau. Aunt Grace regarded full-length mirrors as an invitation to vanity, and refused to have one in her home. At that moment, Meg was just as glad. As awful as the dress was, it was comforting not to be able to see a complete view. Pink with a ruffled collar and puffed sleeves, and worst of all, even worse than all those ruffles, a bow to tie around her waist. The only thing you could do with a dress like that was burn it.

Meg allowed herself one moment to dream about wearing a different dress to her party, not that the rest of her wardrobe was so much better. But even if it had been, she was stuck with the pink ruffles for the evening. Aunt Grace had allowed her no alternatives.

She brushed her hair so hard she began to cry, then stopped, put on the white shoes that Aunt Grace had also insisted on, and the white gloves to complete the outfit, and went downstairs. No one had arrived yet, thank goodness.

“Very pretty,” Aunt Grace said, checking Meg out. “You took such a long time, though, I thought you were putting on makeup.”

“It was hard to get to all the buttons,” Meg replied.

“You should have rung for Mary,” Aunt Grace said.

“I figured she must be busy,” Meg said. “Preparing for the party.”

“You do not need to worry about what a maid is busy with,” Aunt Grace said. “They're paid very well to do what we ask them to. I would have assumed that that, at least, your mother taught you.”

Meg could feel herself blushing. “I'm sorry,” she said, although she was unsure what she was apologizing for.

“Don't mope,” Aunt Grace said. “This is your birthday. What will your guests think if they see you standing there looking so gloomy?”

Meg trusted that was a rhetorical question, since she had no idea how to answer it.

“Go outside now, and wait for the guests,” Aunt Grace said. “I'll speak with Delman to make sure everything is in order.”

“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” Meg said. It seemed to her that was all she ever said, “Thank you” and “I'm sorry.” No wonder she mumbled, with such a restricted vocabulary.

She stood in the garden, in front of the bar, and blushed when she felt the bartender's eyes on her. He was a year-rounder, hired for these occasions, and Meg had seen him at parties she'd attended.

“Nice dress,” he said. “How old are you? Fourteen?”

“Sixteen,” she choked out.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

Meg nodded, and walked away from him. The bartender wasn't half as sorry as she was. What a dump, she thought. What a dumpy dumpy dump. The words proved no comfort at all.

Then the guests began arriving, and although Meg was sure their looks were full of pity for her, at least there were a lot of people, and she didn't feel unprotected anymore. Aunt Grace stood by her side, and made sure she said thank you to everybody.

“Hi, Meg,” Tinker Thomas said as she came over, carrying a large, promising box.

“Her name is Margaret,” Aunt Grace declared, and Meg took a certain pleasure in seeing Tinker blush.

“I meant Margaret,” Tinker said. “Hi, Margaret.”

“Hello, Margaret,” Aunt Grace said. “We do not approve of slang here.”

Tinker clenched her teeth, and Meg's pleasure in the moment evaporated. She liked Tinker, and thought Tinker liked her, and now Tinker would avoid her or feel sorry for her or simply not bother to be her friend. “Hello, Margaret,” she said. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Tinker,” Meg said, and watched helplessly as Tinker ran from her side to join some of the other kids. Meg could see them all staring at her, and knew they were laughing at her, at her dress, at her party, at her obvious misery.

“Hello, Margaret.”

“Hello, Clark,” Meg said, smiling at the one true friend she had among the party guests.

“I brought you this,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. “Thank you for coming.”