by Robyn Carr
“She asked you not to tell,” Lilly softly reminded her.
Patricia ignored Lilly. She let her hair drop and unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse, pulling it down so that the lace edging of her camisole showed. Patricia wanted a corset, but Emily wouldn’t allow her to be bound so young. She had just lately achieved a coveted bustle. She examined her cleavage. Then she swept up her hair again.
“Mary Ellen’s favorite dress, which she has offered to let me wear, is lavender. It’s scandalously low cut so that one must wear a sheer tulle about the shoulders. There are layers and layers of puffs and flowers and lace, and a tight corset and larger bustle are required. Do you think lavender a good color for me? I’m so fair as it is and--”
“Have you considered bloodred?” Lilly asked sarcastically.
Patricia let her hair fall and turned slowly toward Lilly, her hands on her hips. “Is there any particular reason you’re being so hateful?”
“At least you’ve stopped demanding that I practice fainting,” she replied.
“Because you’re perfectly hopeless. Be an old spinster then.”
“I’m sure I will be, and it’s just as well since I’m not willing to go through all that you are to get married.”
“Just when I thought my own sister would be thrilled for me--just when there are so many exciting things happening, you’re being perfectly hateful.”
“Mary Ellen needs your company more than I do. You could move in with her and have full choice of her secondhand gowns.”
“You’re jealous,” Patricia said, slowly advancing on Lilly. “Oh, my dear Lilly, you’re jealous of all the time I’m spending with Mary Ellen!”
Lilly shook her head and rolled her eyes. There were times it was impossible to believe how desirable Patricia found herself. “You’re looking for trouble, Patricia. You don’t even know these people.”
“But Lilly, they’re all the very best people. And don’t you ever worry that I’ll forget you. Why, I couldn’t. You’re my sister and will be my best friend forever!” Patricia leaned over and kissed Lilly’s forehead. “Don’t worry, Lilly, I’ll always love you best. I’ll even help you one day.” She smiled sweetly. “I have to ask Mama if we can have Mary Ellen to tea,” she remembered brightly, and out the door she fluttered.
Lilly had a momentary wish that Patricia would forget to fasten up her blouse buttons before facing their mother. It was not a vengeful wish, just a rational desire for their mother to discover Patricia and take action. No one knew Patricia the way Lilly did. Patricia had always been bright, happy, loving, and filled with fantastic plans. She could also be single-minded and selfish when there was something she passionately wanted. Lately her virtues were disappearing. She was more deceptive than ever and daily put her plans and wants above any consideration for others. Patricia was no longer charming, unless she could get something by it.
Lilly had a niggling feeling that Patricia was in danger, that her schemes had outgrown her ability to carry them off. According to the journal, Patricia had discovered men to be the most predictable creatures alive. They were outlandishly physical, partial to frantic kissing sessions. For a caress or nuzzle they’d trade anything. Fascinated with bosoms, they became panting, breathless beasts for a touch. Patricia found their wet mouths and roving hands disgusting, but she had developed a talent for pretending to be as desirous of all this fondling as they. She had allowed Dale Montaine a bold caress, but not under her camisole, which had driven him into a temper that she took as a warning to be careful of him. But he, of all her beaux, had been the most desperate.
Lilly was worried, but not inclined to confide in her mother. Patricia had always been a schemer when it came to these courting games. She had always been deceptive with the young men, if not a downright liar. But she had never before lied to their mother. Still, looking for a rich husband was certainly more logical than looking for just any husband. Somehow, teasing and flirting with the likes of Roger and Arthur did not seem as dangerous as all these little tricks being played on “all the very best people,” whoever they were.
Lilly faced her journal again. She had written a very long letter to her grandmother, brimming with news and filled with questions. She longed for a reply and could barely stand the wait. In her journal and in her letter to her grandmother she had speculated over how long it would take, how many hems stitched and jams put up before a second boardinghouse could be mortgaged. A boardinghouse for women who were not yet married, perhaps. Or women who had no interest in marriage. Young women, not old widows like Mrs. Fairchild who complained incessantly and were only fading away amidst strangers because their families could not tolerate them.
If women with skills shared bedrooms and chores, such a house could virtually run itself. Another might be started for young couples who did not yet have children. She had read about the Swedenborgian cooperative community where a group of women with children lived together and shared responsibilities, each contributing her best skill to the good of the group. Lilly thought this was a sensible idea and not unlike their own boardinghouse, especially since Annie Macintosh had begun to help with household chores. There was only one element missing, a thing that Lilly would not consider sacrificing: profit.
The worktable in the kitchen was covered with cinnamon buns. The aroma filled the house and wafted down the street. Mrs. Armstrong was baking, a pleasurable event for her neighbors and tenants. The crisp redolence of cinnamon had become frequent since Emily had gotten a lot of it in a good barter. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and Sophia had a streak of flour along her brown chin. Annie’s growing middle was pressed against the table as she kneaded dough and hummed an Irish tune. “We’ll keep that last batch, Annie--my orders are filled. I can’t subject John to the aroma all Saturday and not give him some with his dinner.”
“Mama,” Patricia said, entering the kitchen tentatively. She didn’t want to be called upon to help. “Mama, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Ah, I was just going to find you and Lilly. You can deliver these buns for me and collect for them. They should be warm when you go. Mrs. Wilder will be trading butter and eggs, so go to her last.”
“Mama, I’ve just come from Mary Ellen’s house.”
“I don’t usually bake on Sundays, but with all those eggs I might do some cakes. Patsy, you can ask the people who take buns if they’d like an apple bottom cake--that will make good use of all our apple preserves. And with the price on cinnamon…”
“Mama, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Yes, Patsy, what is it?”
“You’ve heard me mention Mary Ellen Jasper, Mama? Roger’s cousin? We’ve become such good friends; I’ve been to her house every day this week.”
Emily smiled approvingly. She was pleased that Patricia was spending more time with young ladies.
“She’s been so nice and generous with me, Mama. Could we invite her to tea? She might meet you then.”
“Tea?” Emily looked up from the mixing bowl.
“Well, Mrs. Jasper serves tea every afternoon, and I just thought we could too. I mean, you know all about that sort of thing, don’t you?”
Sophia made a sound that was not quite a word but carried a distinct tone of disapproval.
“What sort of thing, Patricia?” Emily asked, an edge of suspicion in her voice.
“It might make Mary Ellen feel more at home.”
“The idea is not to make her feel at home, Patricia, but to make her feel like a guest. This is our home. Would you like to invite her to dinner?”
“No, ma’am, I’d rather not. I mean, there are so many for dinner every evening, and I’d like you to know Mary Ellen without having Mrs. Fairchild…well, you understand.”
Emily looked into her daughter’s eyes for a long moment, her features tense. “Would you have me put on airs?”
“Oh, Mama,” Patricia whined, “I’d never had tea in the afternoon before. It’s fun. And elegant. We drink tea s
ometimes. Why can’t we have tea?”
Emily’s expression relaxed. Patricia was only a girl, she reminded herself. “I suppose we could. Next week?”
“Sooner, Mama? Mary Ellen has had me to her house so many times.”
Emily thought for a moment, thought of all her work and all the people who expected her good services. “Tuesday?”
“Tuesday! That would be perfect, Mama.”
“And will you be inviting Mrs. Jasper to come with her daughter?”
“I hadn’t thought so.”
“Well, it might be nice for her to get out of the house and meet the family of her daughter’s newest friend.”
“Yes, ma’am, I could invite her, but she doesn’t need to get out of the house; she has her clubs almost every day.”
Patricia had been watching the table, six hands working on the buns. Mrs. Jasper’s housekeeper frequently bought items and services for the Jasper household from women just like Emily. They came to the door with baskets on their arms. She had a sudden, desperate hope that her mother wouldn’t try to sell Mrs. Jasper something.
Emily’s hands stilled. “Her clubs?” Only women whose husbands were well-to-do could afford to occupy themselves with clubs. Emily had recently joined her first organization other than the church. Temperance. Even one monthly meeting had proved a difficult schedule.
“Will you have everything for Tuesday, Mama? Four o’clock?”
“Four? But Patricia, we serve dinner at half past six. That’s a little late in the day for working people.”
“But Mary Ellen isn’t a working person, Mama. She’s just my friend. With Lilly and Sophia seeing about dinner, we could--”
“I’d be pleased to help with the meal on Tuesday, Mrs. Armstrong, if it will help Patsy with her party,” Annie said. Patricia smiled at Annie, but it was a guarded smile. All this business of chores and duties seemed so ordinary. One day, she silently promised herself, she was going to demand that her kitchen girls get it all done on time.
“Very well, then, if Annie can help in the kitchen. But Patricia, I can’t spare more than an hour for this.” She locked on her daughter’s eyes for a moment. “Don’t be pretending we’re something we’re not.”
“No, ma’am,” Patricia said, but she was smiling very happily, not the least concerned with her mother’s wishes.
Emily’s eyes were drawn away from Patricia then. Noel Padgett stepped into the kitchen, lifting his nostrils into the air as he appreciated the aroma of warm bread and cinnamon. Patricia backed away. She was hoping to disappear before her mother remembered about delivering the rolls--later she would pretend to have forgotten. As she slipped out of the kitchen, she noticed that her mother’s smile for Mr. Padgett was a sort she had never seen before. It was lively and girlish and did not look quite right on Emily’s lips.
“Mmm-mmm, I was hoping all those good smells were coming from this house.”
Sophia laughed at him. “That ain’t no way to ask, Mistah Padgett. Not if you want to taste as I ‘spect you do.”
“Well, I’d be obliged,” he said, grinning broadly.
“Sit right down here, Mr. Padgett, and let me see if there’s any coffee to go with that roll. Have you had any dinner yet today?” Emily asked him.
She wiped her hands on her apron and pushed back a strand of hair that had escaped her bun. She opened the hutch cupboard and looked over the cups, selecting the largest and best mug. Sophia lifted one eyebrow and let her teeth show in a hint of a smile.
“I’m a little dusty from the road,” Noel apologized as he claimed the stool near the worktable.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Padgett, you could hardly avoid that. Would you like some jam?”
“Just the roll would be welcome, ma’am. Mrs. Armstrong, I haven’t been to services in a mighty long time and I wondered if you and your daughters attend church on Sundays?”
She looked into his eyes as she handed him the coffee. She knew he didn’t like it weighted down with cream. He had just come from a shave and a haircut; there were little snips of hair on his shoulders that she felt an urge to brush away. In fact, she wished to run her fingertips slowly through the shiny red-gold hair over his ears. His mustache had been trimmed and waxed. How atrocious that mustache had seemed when she first saw it. In her mind it was becoming more noble.
“We attend the Presbyterian church, Mr. Padgett. Services begin at nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Is it near? Will I need to hire a coach?”
Emily found she had to hold her hands together at her waist so she wouldn’t reach out and brush that hair away. “We walk, Mr. Padgett, and you’re welcome to join us if you like. We start out at half past eight.”
“That sounds just fine, Mrs. Armstrong. I believe that’s exactly what I’d like to do.”
“I didn’t know you were a Christian man, Mr. Padgett.”
He smiled just slightly as he gave his head a tilt that was not exactly an affirmative nod. “My mother was Presbyterian, and my father, well, I suppose he wasn’t much of anything, especially since my mother died. I was pretty young then, but I guess her lessons must have been powerful ones because I still want services now and then.”
“Your mother must have had a firm hand with you. Is there a suit you’d like me to press for you?”
“Yes, ma’am, since you ask. I’d be pleased to pay--”
“Nonsense. It’s the least I can do. It does my heart good to hear a man asking for church services. Have you just come from the barber, Mr. Padgett?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have. Did he do a poor job?”
“No, no, he did a very handsome job, but he neglected to brush off your coat. Come out on the back step and let me. Otherwise those little snips of hair will drop all over my house.”
“We wouldn’t want that, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said, setting down his cup and roll and preceding her to the back door.
Emily stood just inside the house, door open, brushing off his shoulders, while Noel stood on the ground below her so she could reach. He made a remark or two, she laughed lightly, and Sophia leaned closer to Annie. “That man’s a whole lot smarter than he looks,” she whispered.
Annie’s eyes came up from her dough. Her mouth stood open in surprise. “You don’t think--?”
“I try not to think too loud, girl,” Sophia said in a tone of warning.
Annie’s mouth relaxed into a gentle smile, and she looked back into her dough. Emily Armstrong was so beloved to her that nothing would please her so much as to have Emily happy and in love. Annie thought nothing so vital as being in love.
“There,” Emily was saying as she came back into the kitchen, Noel right behind her, “that’s much better now. You know, Mr. Padgett, I can manage a snip or two that isn’t very fancy, but it serves to trim away a few shaggy ends when there’s need.”
“Mrs. Armstrong, that surely is generous of you. I believe I could make use of that skill now and then.”
“I can’t possibly help with something like shaving, of course.”
He took his place on the stool and Emily handed him his cup and roll. Her fingers lingered for a second against his--a second long and warm and sensual. He met her gaze, and she met his. He had wonderful eyes, not in their color so much as in their depth. Willing, serene, kind eyes, so gentle that she almost felt embraced by them. “‘Course not, ma’am,” he said at long last.
Emily had to shake herself free from his gaze. She felt a little light-headed. “Where is Patsy?” she said, turning about. “Now she was just here--where has that girl gone?” And she whirled away in search of her daughter--and composure.
Lilly leaned against a tree in Rittenhouse Square with a closed book in her lap. She stared straight ahead, her brow wrinkled with ideas that disappointed her. For once she had collected reading material from the librarian that he had no compunctions about letting her have. In fact, he had raised his eyebrows above his spectacles and smiled at her as he wrote out her withdrawal card, pleas
ed to be loaning her something that could improve her. She held in her lap a recent Boston edition of Mrs. Hale’s handbook titled Happy Homes and Good Society All the Year Round. Lilly was very unhappy with the reading. It seemed all wrong, and not only for herself, but especially for Patricia.
Mrs. Hale had covered the appropriate manners and dress for tea. There was the proper glove for the theater, the lawn party, Sunday church, and the formal dinner. The manners at a banquet versus those at a small dinner. And she pointed out the faux pas-- “A gentleman does not blow his nose with his fingers,” which had caused Lilly to hoot with laughter rather than shudder in revulsion. The tone of Mrs. Hale’s book suggested a preference for revulsion from her readers. Lilly also read: “A gentleman should restrain himself from all manner of showing affection.”
I am not capable of this kind of life--the pure dullness, the loneliness, the bland domesticity of it. No hilarity, no affection, and no nonsense? What about it is worth living it?
She did not see Andrew approach her. The smooth brown wool of his uncreased trouser leg and the shiny, slender booted foot came into her vision. Her pulse quickened before she even looked up at him. She met the bright Dublin green of his eyes, saw the anthracite black of his hair, his generous, careless smile. He was tall and broad-shouldered, of powerful form. She tried to pretend confidence--or at least friendly nonchalance.
“Lilly,” he greeted her. There were so many glaring reasons they were opposites--his maturity and her youth, his wealth and her austerity, his worldliness and her naïveté--yet he always seemed as pleased to see her as she was to see him. She loved to hear her name on his lips, said with strength and approbation. He crouched down to see the book in her lap, and his smile widened. “So, you’ve finally selected something Mr. Wendell approves of. This is quite a change for you, Lilly.”
How does he think of me? she wondered. As a girl? As naughty sometimes? Would he be shocked to learn I’m only seventeen? Does he find me remarkable because he has no obligation to me? Would he marry a woman of independent tastes?