The Daring Ladies of Lowell (8 page)

T
he carriage came, pulling up in front of the boardinghouse as all the girls stared through the glass of the front parlor. Alice sensed their eyes on her as she walked down the path and prepared to climb in. The driver opened the door and stood back. She pulled her skirts high enough to be above the slushy mud, hoping there would be no stains on her wonderful gown. She retied the strings on Mary-o’s bonnet, the loan of which Alice had ruefully accepted, knowing that wearing her beautiful new hat around Daisy would be an intolerable breach of decorum.

She looked around one more time—where was Lovey? She had been alternately lively and sober last night, but Alice had resolved to do no more probing. Lovey would keep her promise; she was sure of that.

Settling into her seat, she gratefully pulled Tilda’s borrowed cloak closer and held tight to Jane’s bag, a velvet pouch in which the devout Jane usually kept her Bible. “It’ll hold your comb and purse,” Jane had said somewhat shyly.

“Won’t God mind?” Tilda asked teasingly.

“No, I prayed on it.” Jane was so earnest, no one giggled.

The coachman closed the door and climbed back into the driver’s seat, poised to leave. Alice waved through the window to her friends.

“Wait!”

Lovey was running down the path to the carriage. The hood of her cape had fallen back, exposing her dark curls, whipped now by a slight, icy wind. Breathless, she reached up to the window, handing Alice a tissue-wrapped package.

“A gift for you,” she said. Her eyes were tense, but her smile was wide.

Alice unwrapped the tissue and lifted up a beautiful pair of dove-gray leather gloves. For her? Her hands were always gloveless, the knuckles raw and red.

“Lovey, what did you do?” Alice exclaimed. “Are they yours?”

“I’d have them on if they were, wouldn’t I? They’re for you. How could I allow you to visit the Fiske family without gloves?” Lovey laughed, her typical frothy laugh. “A lady has to have nice gloves. These are yours.”

Alice slipped one hand into the soft leather, rotating her fingers slightly, then slowly pushed each one into its proper place. They fit. She flexed her hand, marveling at its sudden languorous elegance. “Where did you get these?” she managed to say.

“The company store. The best they had.”

“You spent all your money, you must have—”

Lovey cut her off firmly. “There’s no way you’re going to Beacon Hill without proper gloves. We are ladies, and we hold our heads up high.”

“They’re beautiful,” Alice said. “Now all I need is a lesson on the proper way to wear them.”

“You’ll do it naturally, I’m sure of it. Now, do us proud, Alice. I know you can.”

Alice nodded. “I’ll try. And please”—she paused, groping for the right words—“take care.”

“I won’t promise,” Lovey replied in an oddly jumpy tone. “You know me.” She drew a piece of paper from her pocket, hesitated, glanced at it briefly, then shoved it out of sight again.

“Is that something—”

“No, just my usual scribbles. More declarations for the manifesto.”

“Lovey?”

“I will tell you everything. I promised, and I keep my promises. And you will be sensible and scold me, and then we’ll hug and all will be well.” She made such a funny face, Alice laughed.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes, and we’ll sit out on the steps and you’ll tell me delicious stories about grand living in Boston,” Lovey said. Her words tumbled forth so rapidly, they ran together. “I’ll have to tug at your nose to bring it out of the air.”

Alice laughed again. She heard the smart, crisp crack of a whip, and the carriage began to move.

I
t was a beautiful, stately city, much grander than Alice had envisioned. Oak trees arched high, touching one another over tidy parks dotted with statues, creating natural cathedrals dappled with evening light. Homes with bowfronts and intricately molded iron banisters were everywhere. The carriage clattered over cobblestones, winding upward into the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, passing by tall houses dotted with glossy black shutters, each one with an iron boot scraper gracing its entrance. Clearly, tracking mud into these homes would not be tolerated.

She felt suddenly inadequate as to what she was supposed to do and be. This was Boston? She had never quite imagined the solid
permanence
of it all. Everywhere, well-swept streets of red brick, with soberly dressed matrons carrying packages wrapped in twine, chatting together as they strolled home. Even the horses seemed calm. It wasn’t like Lowell, where people elbowed one another on the streets and rushed about, carrying bags, shouting to each other, and pushing prams. Lowell was raw and unpredictable. Here, everything felt seasoned by time.

The carriage slowed at the peak of Beacon Hill, and Alice gazed at the mansion ahead pointed out by the carriage driver. “That’s where you’re going, miss!” he shouted.

The horses started up a steep brick driveway lined in stone, straining slowly past a grove of high maple trees gnarled with age. The house rose above all others around it and, bathed in the golden light of a setting winter sun, had a misty wash of unreality. Alice counted: five stories high.

The horses stopped. Alice couldn’t take her eyes off the gracefully carved fanlight above the entrance as she lifted her skirts. Feeling quite grand in her borrowed dress, she stepped from the carriage.

Only then did the house door open; Samuel Fiske was standing in the entrance. She hoped her boots weren’t caked in mud.

“Welcome,” Samuel said. And this time there was no doubt. He was smiling, though somewhat tentatively.

A
lice walked into the center hall, shoulders straight, clutching Jane’s velvet bag in her gloved hand, trying not to gawk at the immensity of the place. An old Dutch clock was on her left, its silvery chimes marking the hour as she walked inside. A wide, gracefully curved staircase carpeted in red velvet swirled upward from the entrance hall to rooms out of sight. How was such a beautiful staircase built? The walls were covered in a silk floral paper, the likes of which she had never seen. To the right of the stairs hung—among others—an oil portrait of a man staring with haughty demeanor, his likeness encased in an elaborately gilded frame. There was a restraint to it all. Nothing was vulgar, and it all had the muted patina of age.

“My grandfather,” Samuel murmured. “He does look as if he might bite, doesn’t he?”

She tried to smile.

“This way,” Samuel said, beckoning her forward.

She put one foot ahead of the other, intimidated by the marble flooring, looking up only as they entered a large room that took her breath away. A library? Who had libraries like this? Deep-burgundy velvet curtains; walls of books perfectly aligned in glass-fronted cabinets. To read them all, how wonderful that would be, but she must not let herself be dazzled. She needed to pay attention to the people gathered here; they were already looking her up and down with daunting precision.

She focused first on Hiram Fiske and his daughter, Daisy. The family patriarch seemed to have stopped in midpace, hands clasped behind his back as he gave her a brisk nod. Daisy, wearing a silk jacket tossed carelessly over her roller-printed cotton gown, looked as if she had just collapsed into the sofa in which she was lounging. Sitting next to her was an elderly woman with hair as white as Hiram’s—perfectly sculpted but thin as spun sugar. A frosty-white lace collar had almost disappeared under the ample folds of her neck. Her cheeks blushed pink, and she seemed to be dozing.

The other woman in the room rose from her chair and faced Alice. Her face was long and narrow, and she wore her dark hair parted in the center. Elaborate sausage-shaped curls bounced when she stood. “How very nice to meet you,” she said in a cultivated, thin voice that conveyed the opposite. “Samuel, please introduce this young lady.”

“Miss Barrow, this is my mother—Mother, Alice Barrow.”

“And this is my grandmother.” He nodded in the direction of the woman on the divan, who instantly opened one eye and nodded affably.

“A good-looking girl, Samuel, which I’m sure you already noticed,” she said.

Samuel turned scarlet as Daisy laughed, a shrill little tinkle of noise that shattered in the air. “Oh, we’re off to a good start, aren’t we?” she said.

Hiram Fiske put out a hand to Alice. “Please come sit down, Miss Barrow. We are delighted to have you visit. Hopefully we can learn from each other.”

Alice sat down, tucking her boots underneath her skirt, folding her hands in her lap. A young maid in a white cap eyed her with a chilly expression. Alice’s clothes didn’t fool her.

“Tea, miss?” she asked.

Alice nodded, feeling the girl’s disdain, and reached for a cup.

“Oh my, you drink tea with your gloves on?” Daisy said innocently.

Alice’s hand shook slightly as she pulled back. “No, of course not,” she said. Slowly she took off her beautiful gloves and folded them carefully in her lap. They would not fit in her bag.

“You are wearing a lovely cameo,” she said to Daisy, admiring an intricate piece adorning the other woman’s long elegant neck.

“What do you know about cameos?” Daisy asked.

“I liked making them before I came to the mill.” At night, by candlelight, she had worked with tiny brushes, enjoying nothing more, even as her father declared making such silly little gewgaws was a waste of time.

“Of
this
quality?”

“Probably not.”

“Have you cut from ivory?”

“I have cut only from clay, I’m afraid.”

“Hmmmm. I see.”

“Where is Jonathan?” Hiram interrupted, turning to his son. “He was supposed to be here.”

“I don’t know,” Samuel replied. Jonathan did whatever he wanted to do and on his own terms, and Father knew it. It didn’t matter at the moment. He was more interested in watching Alice Barrow, with stiff grace, fend off his sister’s snobbery. The hint of fire in her eyes drew him.

Hiram snorted his annoyance. “Well, we’re not waiting for him. Miss Barrow, let’s get down to business. You have some complaints, as I understand. Are they shared by others?”