Inventing Victoria

by Tonya Bolden

  Your ma is a—

  “Shame? No, Wyatt, I am not ashamed of what I have done. I did nothing wrong. I simply said yes to an opportunity of a lifetime. If only you truly understood how hard I worked. If only you really knew the hell pit I grew up in! If only you truly understood how I fought to not end up like my mother … How can you not be proud of me in light of how far I have come. Before Miss Hardwick I knew nothing of fish forks and such, of etiquette. Those months of training were grueling. At one point I thought I would break and I ran away, but I went back, more determined than ever to do whatever it took to rise in life. I persevered. How, Wyatt, how on earth can you speak of shame?”

  Victoria inched over, put a hand on his shoulder.

  When he recoiled she burst into tears.

  “Please don’t make a scene!”

  Victoria moved away, clamped a hand over her mouth. Harnessing every bit of reserve she could, she dried her eyes, began to pack the picnic basket. Silence seemed the best, the only course. There was nothing that she could say, do.

  Never look back!

  She rebuked herself for not hewing to that advice.

  Not her soft hands, not her poise, not her ability to set a table for a three- or seven-course meal. None of it mattered. Not today. Not ever.

  Wyatt stood up, began to pace, rub his chin. The anger seemed to have subsided.

  A bit.

  Victoria could only hope—

  “In Savannah, when you lived in your mother’s house were you …”

  Victoria’s pain shifted to rage as she realized what was really on Wyatt’s mind, what he was fishing for. How dare he!

  “Wyatt, ask your question.”

  Silence.

  Wyatt stopped pacing, hung his head. “I am just trying to get the full picture.”

  The golden leaves blanketing the grass. The red, orange, and lingering green leaves on maples and other trees. The sunshine and clear blue sky. Everything that made this Indian summer day so wondrous now seemed to mock Victoria.

  She thought for a moment. Should she remain silent, make him ask the question, let those words come out of his mouth? Or should she put his mind to rest? What difference will it make? she concluded.

  Wyatt barely looked at her, then once again turned his back on her. He ran a hand over his head down the back of his neck, massaged it. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I feel bewitched,” he said, looking absolutely lost.

  Victoria frowned. “Bewitched? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s, it’s like you put a spell on me. I saw you for the first time at that soiree. With no introduction, without a single conversation between us there I was trying to find out about you, find out where you went when you left the city.” Wyatt turned around again. This time he craned his neck and stared up at the sky.

  That baby began bawling again.

  “It’s just not like me. It was impulsive. Too quick. I should have done more fact-finding before I …”

  Victoria, too distressed, destroyed to say another word, finished packing the picnic basket. When done she rose, removed the basket from atop the blankets.

  Wyatt shook out the blankets, folded them up, stowed them in the hamper by his feet.

  Their eyes met briefly.

  Victoria made sure the picnic basket’s lock was secure as Wyatt reached for the blanket hamper.

  In Savannah, when you lived in your mother’s house were you—

  “Wyatt?”

  “Yes.”

  Victoria looked down, slipped the emerald-and-diamond ring from her finger. “I imagine that you would like to have this back.”

  Wyatt put the blanket hamper down, took the ring from her trembling hand, swiftly tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

  It was a long walk home.

  NEVER LOOK BACK!

  Victoria entered that house with the mansard roof as quietly as she could. Relieved not to see Dorcas Vashon in either the sitting room or the parlor, she tiptoed down to the kitchen, placed the picnic basket on the counter, dropped the blanket hamper on the floor.

  She tensed at the sound of footsteps up above, on the landing, coming down the stairs, then stopping at the door that led down to the kitchen.

  Best to make herself busy. She began putting things away. Leftover food in the icebox, dishes and cutlery in the sink.

  “Is that you, Victoria?”

  “Yes, Aunt Dorcas.”

  Please don’t let her come down here.

  Her eyes were still red-rimmed and swollen.

  “I did not expect you back so early,” said Dorcas Vashon.

  “I began to feel unwell.”

  “How unwell?” Dorcas Vashon took a step down. “Shall I—”

  “It’s not serious. More like I’m just tired.”

  “Where is Wyatt?”

  “At the Motts’ by now I expect.”

  “Hmm,” said Dorcas Vashon, then she returned to the hallway.

  When Victoria could tell that she had gone into the sitting room, she hurried up to her bedroom.

  When no more tears would flow, Victoria rose from her bed, washed her face. She curled up into a window seat, stared at a now-stony sky. Every so often she went to her dressing table mirror to see what shape her eyes were in. Not until they were no longer red-rimmed and swollen did she venture downstairs. She was only there long enough to find Mrs. Rodgers.

  She was out back picking herbs.

  “Mrs. Rodgers, for dinner I would just like to have some broth.”

  “Yes, Missy.”

  “Up in my room, please.”

  “Yes, Missy.”

  Victoria again feigned sickness the following day, fretting about what to do next. If she kept claiming to be sick Dorcas Vashon would bring in a doctor.

  But Victoria was terrified at the thought of leaving the house. Not to church. Not to anything. Not anywhere where she might run into Wyatt.

  As she paced, she panicked.

  What has Wyatt told his family?

  Will he broadcast the truth about me?

  What will this mean for Dorcas Vashon?

  “I should have spoken to her,” Victoria muttered. Just when she thought she had a handle on life she had gone and made a foolish, foolish mistake. The greatest blunder of her life. She had shattered her own dream.

  Up in her room, in her solitude Victoria sketched. The street below. Wormley’s. Lafayette Square. Then she went back.

  To that narrow house in Baltimore with first-floor shutters askew.

  To the tubby man in the brown sack coat and brown pants and wearing a broad-brimmed hat. Walking briskly.

  That boy with a cart of melons.

  The wide woman scrubbing steps.

  The scary clock from which a monk popped out.

  Miss Doone.

  Miss Graves.

  Then Victoria went back to Forest City.

  Never look back!

  What difference does it make now?

  Back to the ragtag warehouses and offices that made up Factors Row.

  Green Mansion.

  Miss Abby’s boardinghouse.

  She made Ma Clara’s eyes larger than they actually were, never quite able to capture their twinkle.

  In a portrait of Binah, Victoria dispensed with the spectacles, made both her arms the same length.

  In a sketch of Old Man Boney she added canopies to his oxcarts as she wondered what his given name was. She figured “Boney” must be his real last name. After all, he was quite plump.

  Humming “Freewillum,” Victoria sketched ferryman Jack.

  Victoria put her drawing sticks and sketch pad down, walked over to her dresser. From the back of the top drawer she brought out a pouch containing those coral beads. She’d ask Mrs. Rodgers to take them to a jeweler to be restrung when next she had an errand to run.

  Just then there was a knock on her bedroom door.

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes.”
/>   RAISED AN EYEBROW

  When Dorcas Vashon entered, Victoria saw her eye the coral beads. She expected her to inquire about them.

  Dorcas Vashon didn’t. Instead, with her right hand clasped around her left wrist, she asked, “My dear, would you like to tell me what is going on?”

  Victoria swallowed, flailed around inside for a lie. “The engagement is off,” she finally replied.

  Dorcas Vashon raised an eyebrow. “My dear, what happened?”

  “We just decided that we are not truly suited for each other.”

  “You are lying, my dear.”

  After a long, painful silence, Victoria proceeded to tell Dorcas Vashon what happened during that picnic in the park.

  LIKE LEAD INTO THE SEA

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think,” said Victoria, head hung and too afraid to look Dorcas Vashon in the eye.

  “Think what?”

  “Think of speaking with you about it beforehand.”

  Dorcas Vashon patted her back.

  “In telling him about me I told him about you.”

  “What exactly did you tell him about me?”

  “Only that you are a wealthy woman from Charleston who took pity on me during a visit to Savannah and that you offered me a better life, that you go around eager to help people of promise rise in life.”

  Dorcas Vashon took Victoria by the shoulders. “Look at me, my dear.”

  Slowly Victoria raised her head.

  “Now tell me, do you think Wyatt will let others know what you told him?”

  One moment Victoria was shaking her head, the next on the verge of tears. “I honestly don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m so sorry. I’m so ashamed.”

  “Victoria, how many times must I tell you: there is no place for shame in your life.”

  Spent, Victoria now had no compunction about asking Dorcas Vashon something she had long wanted to know. “Did you know about my mother?”

  Dorcas Vashon nodded. “I made inquiries after I first glimpsed your potential. I found you all the more remarkable after I learned of your beginnings.” Dorcas Vashon stepped over to the window, looked out. “Now back to Wyatt. You may have made a mistake, and most mistakes can be remedied … Or you may have been wiser than you realized.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, in telling Wyatt the truth, you tested him.”

  “But—I gave back the ring and he took it.”

  “Did he hesitate?”

  Victoria thought back, saw him put the blanket hamper down, then in one smooth move take the ring from her hand and put it into his waistcoat pocket.

  “No, there was no hesitation.”

  “It sounds as if shock was the ruling emotion.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “From what I have observed of Wyatt he likes order. What you told him, well, it disordered him. Shock passes.” After a pause Dorcas Vashon added, “If, indeed, Wyatt finds shame where there is none, well then, he is not the man for you.”

  Was there really hope? “What should I do now?”

  “Have patience. And in the meantime we will say that you have gone to Baltimore to visit relatives.”

  Hope was hard. No amount of finery, no amount of polite conversation, no amount of poise and proper gait could change the fact that she was the daughter of a—

  Where once she had dreamed of being an asset to Wyatt, she knew now that she would only be a liability. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” came to mind.

  And from my neck so free

  The Albatross fell off, and sank

  Like lead into the sea.

  But maybe Dorcas Vashon was right. If he found shame …

  Victoria took most of her meals in her room. When she set the tray on the floor outside, the food was half-eaten.

  She paced, tried not to think.

  When she took up a book, it was a hazy read.

  When she looked out the window, the people, the sky—everything seemed dull, faded.

  Finally, with a drawing stick and sketch pad Victoria went back again to Forest City.

  To Strangers’ Ground. In a flight of fancy she rendered Spanish moss as big thick braids.

  To that saltbox house on Minis Street. From the front on a sun-drenched day. At eventide too. Under moonlight with frightened eyes peering out from the attic window.

  And then there was a face she had never, ever thought of sketching.

  Pouty mouth.

  Doe eyes sad and full of pain.

  In slavery her whitefolks abused her every which way, left her broken in mind. Because of things they made her do, your ma came to believe she had no talent for nothing except, well …

  The irony struck her. She had so hoped that Wyatt would understand, yet she had never tried to understand Mamma. Only judged, faulted, despised. What exactly her ma endured, she would never know. Just as she would never know why Mamma had held on to those coral beads and hadn’t done up her room in red.

  Maybe Mamma did the best that she could. Maybe had she had a Ma Clara … Maybe if she had had a Dorcas Vashon …

  Tears that failed to flow more than a year ago when she stood in Strangers’ Ground beneath that brooding, windswept sky …

  Victoria wept to the point of trembling, sketch pad and drawing stick fallen to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry, Mamma!” she sobbed. “Sorry for the way we parted … Sorry I stopped praying for you … Sorry for not rushing to your side when Ma Clara told me you had the waste-away. Dear God, forgive me!”

  Victoria’s appetite had returned by the time she sat down with Dorcas Vashon for the autumn feast. Cream of mushroom soup. Oyster pie. Chestnut stuffing. There were also mashed turnips, baked sweet potatoes, winter squash, succotash, and jellied cranberry sauce. Victoria had suggested roast pheasant over turkey or squab. For dessert there was pumpkin pie.

  Carving the bird, Victoria thought hard about the meaning of the day. Yes, she had lost Wyatt, but she still had so much to be grateful for. A beautiful place to live. Splendid clothes. For breakfast she never had to make do with pickles or a stale biscuit.

  Not things to take lightly.

  She thought about the Bay Street orphans, young Binah, young her. Maybe she would ask Dorcas Vashon to invest in that little school and home she once dreamed of. Then Victoria thought better. The alley dwellers. That is what I will do. I will start a club to aid the alley dwellers.

  She would visit with mothers, teach them things about nutrition and hygiene. She would raise money for food, clothing, home repairs, doctors’ visits. She wondered how many of the children went to school. “Mothers’ Helpers,” that’s what she would call it.

  If Dorcas Vashon decided that it was best to leave the capital, then she would start her Mothers’ Helpers club in the new city. There was sure to be colored in need of a helping hand no matter where they went.

  That night Victoria also decided that she was done with hiding, with feeling defeated. Once again she made up her mind to persevere. The day after Thanksgiving she picked up from her desk an envelope that had arrived a few days earlier.

  Mrs. Fitzhugh requests the pleasure of Miss Victoria Vashon’s company, on Saturday, December 23rd at 8 o’clock to take part in a Christmas Gala.17

  Victoria reached for notepaper and a pen.

  Miss Victoria Vashon accepts with pleasure Mrs. Fitzhugh’s polite invitation to the Christmas Gala.

  FULL OF CHRISTMAS CHEER

  The Fitzhugh double parlor was clear of much of its furniture.

  Side chairs ringed the rooms with rectangular tables, round tables, and in the center of the larger room an octagon.

  All covered with mint-green tablecloths.

  All heavy-laden with food, from elaborate pyramids of fruit to silver trays of cheeses and roast beef along with crystal dishes of Oysters à la Poulette, spiced oysters, fried oysters, and platters of tea sandwiches.

  On one round table sat a large crystal bowl of eggnog encircled by gl
eaming crystal punch cups.

  In corners stood tall sentinels of shining silver planters offering up stems of holly and cranberry branches, tufts of pine. The arches, doorways, like the mantels, were draped in luscious green garlands. The Fitzhughs had really gone all out.

  Victoria saw more than a few heads turn when she stepped into the room in one of Madame Keckley’s creations: a flowing emerald taffeta gown with a square neckline, square collar, fitted bodice, and long frill-ringed bell-shaped sleeves. At first Victoria had resisted the large bow on either side of the bustline.

  “It is not too much?” Victoria had asked.

  “No at all,” replied Madame Keckley. “With your height you can pull it off.” Then the modiste continued reviewing her sketch. “The bows will join vertical rows of frills that will run under the arm, then up over the shoulder and around the back of the neck. Your skirt, gathered tightly at the waist, will feature ruffle-trimmed crescent-shaped panels to join a simple bustle in the back.”

  I could probably pull off two bows! Victoria thought as she stood in the Fitzhugh parlor. Once again she felt like a Cinderella. She had decided against earbobs, a bracelet, and such. The only jewelry she wore was around her neck: those restrung coral beads.

  With her best party smile on, Victoria tried to read people’s eyes. She looked for traces of disgust or pity. She saw none. Pleased, she was also puzzled.

  “Beautiful Victoria, so glad you could come!” said Mrs. Fitzhugh, pulling Victoria farther into the room.

  “I am ever so grateful for the invitation,” said Victoria sweetly.

  “And here you are, lovely Victoria!” Timothy Fitzhugh rushed over with a cup of eggnog.

  Victoria was soon besieged.

  “Victoria, so good to see you!”

  “Victoria, when did you return?”

  “Victoria, how was Baltimore?”

  “Victoria, you’ll never guess what happened while you were away!”

  She began to breathe easier. Had Wyatt told others her secret, there would have been snide remarks, some rolling of the eyes. Too, had he broadcast that they had broken off the engagement surely someone would have let drop a comment such as “What a shame about you and Wyatt.”

  Perhaps, though, Wyatt told only his family and asked them to keep mum for the time being.