Inventing Victoria

by Tonya Bolden

  She opened the book.

  Waiting.

  For Mrs. Rodgers to answer the door.

  Waiting.

  For his voice, for the sound of the door closing, for the footsteps, for Mrs. Rodgers’s rap on her door.

  “Yes?”

  “Missy, a Mr. Riddle has come to call.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rodgers.” Victoria mustered up all the reserve she could. “Please tell him that I will be down momentarily.”

  Deep, slow breaths.

  Deep, slow breaths.

  Deep, slow breaths.

  She checked her face in the mirror. Confident that she looked sufficiently serene, Victoria headed down to the sitting room.

  “My dear Wyatt!”

  He was on his feet. Soon by her side, kissing her cheeks, then her hand.

  If only she could wrap her arms around him. If only he could scoop her up and twirl her around the room.

  But that would not do.

  Mrs. Rodgers brought in refreshments. An hour later Dorcas Vashon came down. She invited Wyatt to stay for dinner.

  Victoria and Wyatt were inseparable, with their long, languid walks around the city, with their favorite picnic spot in Lincoln Park, a spot not far from the monument to Emancipation.

  Penelope Fitzhugh did not approve. “Victoria, is it really serious?” she asked one day during a game of hearts.

  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “Do not play coy with me. You know very well that I am speaking of Wyatt Riddle. You really must not—”

  “I must not what?”

  “You cannot seriously be contemplating, you know …”

  “What would be so wrong with that?”

  “He has no real money, and this business scheme of his is dubious.”

  Fanny Miller also disapproved. “And think, my dear girl, if you marry him all your good color will go to waste!”

  “All my good color?”

  “The children you would have with him. They would most certainly be brown, perhaps as black as him.”

  In a short story or novel, Victoria had read of a character livid to the point of wanting to throttle another character. She had wondered what that much rage felt like.

  Now she knew.

  A few days later Victoria was in a panic over something that had absolutely nothing to do with mean ole Fanny Miller and Penelope Fitzhugh.

  THE PEOPLE WHO KNEW ME BEST

  “And how may I help you?” asked perky Bella.

  “I somehow managed to lose one of my kid gloves,” the young woman replied.

  Victoria was in Miss Dahlia’s small shop trying on a steel-gray bonnet with ombré feathers when the girl in need of gloves stepped inside.

  Victoria had come for a combination corset, petticoat, and bustle. It was easier on the spine, she had read, chuckling when she saw that the undergarment was actually called “the Victoria.”16 She forgot all about the Victoria when the bonnet caught her eye. A matching Medici collarette was on the mannequin beside it.

  Victoria had not turned around when the bell above the shop door did its ting-a-ling, but after she heard the young woman speak she froze.

  There was no mistaking the accent. There was something familiar about the voice.

  Victoria removed the bonnet and hurriedly reached for her black felt top hat with dotted swiss lace veil that fell to her nose. She headed for the door.

  “Oh, Miss Victoria!” the shop girl called out.

  Victoria stopped. “Yes?”

  “The shawls your aunt ordered have come in. I’ll get them for you now.”

  “No need, Bella. I can come back another time, as you are waiting on someone.” Victoria had yet to turn around.

  “Do you mind?” Bella asked the young woman at the counter.

  “Not at all” was her reply.

  “Really there is no—”

  “I’ll have them wrapped and ready in a jiffy.”

  Silly goose. How could you let yourself get so spooked by a voice?

  She headed for the counter.

  Lost-glove girl looked up at her and smiled.

  Victoria responded with a very forced smile.

  It was worse than she had feared. She could never forget that chestnut face, those wide-set, witching eyes with their hooded lids. She looked down and saw a heart-shaped birthmark on the back of the young woman’s right hand.

  What is she doing in Washington?

  “That’s awfully lovely,” said Sarah Pace, admiring Victoria’s terra-cotta visite trimmed in gold fringe.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that back home.”

  “And where might that be?” asked Bella.

  Victoria was beside herself with fear. Bella, please, just get on with wrapping! she wanted to scream.

  “Savannah,” replied Sarah Pace.

  “Oh, and what brings you to Washington?”

  Bella, please!

  “Oh, I’m just passing through with my aunt Drusilla. We are on our way to Philadelphia. We thought it would be nice to visit the capital for a few days. Our train leaves later today.”

  “Here you go, Miss Victoria.”

  As soon as Bella placed the package into her hands, Victoria gave her a clipped thank-you and headed for the door. She managed a quick “Good day to you both” before she reached it. As she opened the door, she hesitated. The ting-a-ling seemed extremely loud.

  She swallowed, took a deep breath, sailed through the door.

  What if Sarah Pace had recognized me? Let it out right there in the shop who I really am?

  Bella was a gossip. Before dinnertime the news would have been all over town.

  “You look as if you have seen a ghost,” said Dorcas Vashon when she passed Victoria in the hallway.

  “Oh, just a little weary.” She headed up to her room cloaked in dread.

  What if there is a problem with their train? What if Sarah Pace and her aunt Drusilla do not leave today?

  Victoria did not dare leave the house for days. With invitations she had accepted she sent her regrets. When Wyatt suggested a stroll, she suggested they play cards or checkers or chess in the sitting room.

  “You do no quite seem yourself,” he said one evening.

  Just then Victoria realized she had missed out on a chance to capture one of Wyatt’s rooks. “I am fine. Just a bit of a headache.”

  What if Wyatt ever finds out?

  “How many other people who know me from Savannah might come here?”

  Victoria and Dorcas Vashon were in the backyard, where the older woman pruned roses while the younger tended to the herb garden she had planted in a pocket of the yard months back. Victoria had bordered her garden with oyster shells.

  Several days had passed since that close encounter with Sarah Pace, and Victoria was just now telling Dorcas Vashon about it.

  “But, my dear, think about this simple fact: this Sarah Pace did not recognize you.”

  “But what if—”

  “Victoria, do not borrow trouble.”

  Victoria felt somewhat comforted, then a tinge sad. “And what are the chances that Ma Clara, Miss Abby, or Binah will ever come to the capital?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Or ferryman Jack.” Victoria saw herself singing “Freewillum” all those years ago.

  “Who?”

  “Just a man who used to ferry me over to Shad Island … The people who knew me best, they would recognize me, but probably no one else from Savannah.” Victoria thought of Old Man Boney too.

  The people who knew me best.

  There had been that moment of hesitation in Miss Dahlia’s shop, that split second when she had an urge to reveal herself to Sarah Pace and ask her about the people who knew her best despite the fact that deep down she knew that Sarah Pace would not give Ma Clara, Binah, and Miss Abby the time of day, let alone keep up with their lives.

  Onward! Victoria had told herself. Onward!

  BAY RU
M

  Victoria was not due back for a few more hours, but shortly after she and Claire met at Miss Carrie’s Tea Room, Claire came down with a dreadful headache.

  Victoria had walked her home and then headed for the house with the mansard roof, intending to change into something more suitable for sketching out back.

  When Victoria entered the house she was brought up short by the sight of a man’s lightweight frock coat hanging on the coat rack.

  Wyatt had a coat like that.

  Victoria stepped closer, allowed herself a sniff. Bay rum.

  Wyatt’s scent.

  Why are the sitting room’s sliding doors closed?

  Victoria tiptoed over, put an ear to the door.

  Voices.

  Wyatt’s.

  Dorcas Vashon’s.

  Victoria tiptoed to the kitchen in search of Mrs. Rodgers.

  With the back door ajar, she saw Mrs. Rodgers hanging laundry on the line.

  “Mrs. Rodgers, is that Mr. Riddle in the sitting room with my aunt?”

  “Yes, Missy.”

  Odd. He knew that I was seeing Claire today.

  “When did he arrive?”

  “About an hour ago,” replied Mrs. Rodgers with two clothespins between her teeth.

  “He came calling for me?”

  “No, Missy, for Miss Dorcas.”

  Puzzled, Victoria headed up to her room. To wait.

  Her heart skipped a beat when she heard the sitting room doors slide open.

  Footsteps headed for the front door.

  The front door closed.

  Victoria tipped over to a window, saw Wyatt walking away, hands in his pockets, striding easy.

  She did everything in her power not to fly down the steps.

  Perhaps he had come to speak with Dorcas Vashon about investing in his insurance business.

  Or perhaps—

  Someone was coming up the stairs.

  There was a knock on her door. “Missy?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Rodgers?”

  “Your aunt would like you to join her in the sitting room.”

  Victoria could not read Dorcas Vashon’s face. A strange look.

  Serious yet pleased.

  “How was your tea?”

  “Tea ended before it began. Claire came down with a wicked headache.”

  “I see.” Dorcas Vashon tapped her fingers on the armchair.

  Silence.

  “Has something happened?” Victoria was trying hard not to worry.

  “Not yet, my dear, but I do have some news. Your Mr. Riddle has asked for your hand.” Dorcas Vashon was smiling.

  Victoria went weak in the knees. She headed for a chair. “He wants to—”

  “He most certainly does.”

  “What did you say?”

  Silence.

  “I told him that while I appreciated the courtesy, marriage was entirely your decision.”

  Silence.

  “It is?”

  “Yes, my dear, it is.”

  “Well, what do you think?” Victoria tried not to wring her hands.

  “I think that he is a fine young man. Has pluck. And it is very clear to me that he absolutely adores you. But in the end, my dear, you must harken to your heart. That is, while at the same time, you keep your wits about you.”

  For the rest of the day Victoria floated. Floated back up to her room, where she stared at herself in the mirror. Floated while changing her clothes. Floated through Mrs. Rodgers’s dinner for her of mulligatawny soup, venison chops, mashed potatoes, and green peas. For Dorcas Vashon, added to the mashed potatoes and the peas, there was corn and stewed tomatoes.

  That night Victoria fell asleep with The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette in her hands. She had decided to reread chapter twenty-three: “On a Young Lady’s Conduct When Contemplating Marriage.”

  BENEATH A HARVEST MOON

  A simple band of gold. In the center, a round cut emerald encircled by rose cut diamonds.

  When Victoria said yes, she longed to be even more of a lady, yearned to do all that she could to make Wyatt happy. She would host however many luncheons and dinners for clients and prospective clients and investors. She would attend a million functions if that’s what he needed her to do. She would do her utmost to help him build his business. Then, in the midst of daydreams, conscience called.

  Should she tell him?

  Was it right to enter into marriage with a lie?

  Keeping her secret from others had never bothered her. But Wyatt was not others. She had been tempted to tell him the truth on more than one occasion, especially after running into Sarah Pace.

  He stayed for dinner after he went on bended knee in the sitting room. Victoria was too giddy to eat much, but she savored the way he enjoyed himself. The way he so masterfully carved the roast chicken, how he allowed himself a second helping of scalloped potatoes. And Dorcas Vashon was all smiles over her salad and tomato soup.

  There was a nip in the night when Victoria saw Wyatt to the door. And they kissed beneath a harvest moon.

  Wyatt pulled back, took her hands in his. “Someone across the street might be looking out a window.”

  “Let them,” said Victoria. She pulled Wyatt to her. “One more.”

  Later, up in her bedroom, in a window seat, gazing at the moon, Victoria imagined the hugs from the folks back home if they knew that she was to marry someone as wonderful as Wyatt. The thought of Ma Clara not being a witness to the wedding brought tears to Victoria’s eyes.

  And dear Wyatt …

  Tell him or not to tell him?

  She longed for a sign.

  A shooting star.

  A sudden gust of wind.

  Something.

  Never look back! It is excessively ill-bred.

  But was it right to go forward without going back?

  TOO GOOD A PERSON TO DECEIVE

  The plan had been for Wyatt to come to dinner on Saturday, but Victoria made a change.

  Before Mrs. Rodgers went marketing on Thursday morning, Victoria handed the woman her own list of groceries and bade her to deliver a note for Wyatt to the Motts’ home.

  Picnic instead on Saturday?

  V.

  When Mrs. Rodgers returned from shopping she had his reply.

  Marvelous.

  W.

  At their favorite picnic spot under blue-sky blue, after Wyatt laid out the blankets, Victoria laid out the food.

  Cold salmon with hollandaise sauce.

  Cold ham with French mustard.

  Cucumber sandwiches.

  Lobster salad.

  Potato salad.

  Asparagus and cauliflower salad with a light lemon dressing.

  Squab pie.

  A fruit tart.

  Pickles, jellies, relishes, bread, creamed butter.

  “You are too good to me!” Wyatt exclaimed when Victoria brought out the deviled eggs. “You don’t even like them.”

  “But you do and so it was my pleasure to make you a batch.”

  “You? Not Mrs. Rodgers?”

  “I even made the lemonade.”

  Three little girls filed by playing hoop and stick.

  Nearby a couple laughed out loud.

  Somewhere in the distance a baby bawled, whisking Victoria into a daydream of her and Wyatt in this same spot one day, her with a baby in her arms.

  All your good color will go to waste!

  Let it! Victoria wanted nothing more than to cradle brown babies, babies with no trace of the father she never knew, babies she would lavish with love. Most of all she hoped for at least one daughter, so she could give her everything she never had, a proper mother-daughter bond. She would pay close attention to her children all the time.

  Wyatt interrupted her daydream with some news.

  “I think I may have found our home.”

  A bit of wind picked up.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Pending your approval, of course.”

  “Well, where is it?
”

  “M Street. 900 block. We can start the business in the basement.”

  Victoria knew that block. “Claire lives on that block. When can I see it?”

  “How about on Monday?”

  All Victoria could think about was how wonderful Wyatt was. Too good a person to deceive.

  She took a sip of lemonade.

  “Wyatt, there is something I need to discuss—to tell you.”

  LONG WALK HOME

  He looked appalled, horrified. His silence was a slap.

  Confounded, confused, Victoria held up the plate of deviled eggs. “Would you care for another?”

  Wyatt winced. “You sound so nonchalant,” he snapped. “What would make you think that I could possibly want to eat anything after what you have just told me.” He turned his back on Victoria, drew his knees to his chest.

  Victoria, raised plate still in her hand, was paralyzed. Finally she lowered the plate.

  Hands trembling.

  Mouth quivering.

  A dam about to burst.

  “I thought the—thought you would appreciate honesty, I thought—”

  “Who else knows?” he asked.

  At that moment Victoria was glad that he had turned his back on her. His voice was so steely. She imagined his scowl. “Only Dorcas Vashon and Miss Hardwick, who is not even in Washington.”

  “What about Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers?”

  “No. I do not think so. I do not know.” She fought back tears. “Wyatt, please … I only meant to—would you have preferred that I—”

  “It is a lot to take in, Victoria, or whatever your name is. It is as if I don’t even know you.”

  “You do know me, Wyatt. I am the same person you first saw at the Fitzhughs’ soiree, the same person you sought out at Proctor’s Resort. No different.” She tapped her chest. “This is me. This is who I am now.”

  Wyatt hung his head. “How could I ever trust you?”

  A beautiful life was vanishing before her eyes. “I swear to you I will never tell another living soul.”

  “I don’t mean trust you to keep your dirty little secret. I mean trust you with … about anything.”

  Your ma is a—

  “No one else will ever know.”

  “I know!” he spat. “For goodness’ sake, have you no shame?”

  There it was again. The thing that had hounded her all her life.