The Parting Glass

by Gina Marie Guadagnino

  Indeed, Mr. Dawson’s increased presence in the Walden home seemed to drive the Grahams from it. While Prudence and Charlotte had once exhibited in the music room together, it soon became obvious that Mr. Dawson’s after-dinner conversation had but one object. Prudence Graham’s face took on a pinched and sour look as she watched Mr. Dawson’s attentions focus on her niece, and, rather than endure the slight, invitations to the Grahams began to return declined. Now Mr. Dawson himself played upon the pianoforte while Charlotte sang, and Mrs. Walden filled the void left by her family around her table with Jays and Astors to witness courtship’s triumph.

  The entire household was seized with anticipation for Charlotte; Grace Porter even took the opportunity to listen ignobly at the dining room door between courses one night, to the great annoyance of Mr. Buckley and Eben, until Mrs. Harrison at last banished her to her parlor for the remainder of the meal. Liza and Millie found every possible occasion to bustle quietly but industriously in and out of the hall past the sitting room when Mr. Dawson was paying court, and we hung upon each word of their reports. It seemed Charlotte Walden’s suitor spent hours conversing with the object of his affections and her mother, taking great care to cultivate Augusta Walden’s esteem along with her daughter’s.

  He needn’t have bothered. I hardly had to linger in halls to learn how my mistress felt about Mr. Dawson and his suit. There were no secrets anymore between Charlotte and me; in the weeks and months of Johnny’s absence, the warm intimacy of that night by the fire bloomed and deepened as I became her truest confidante in Prudence’s absence. Charlotte and Augusta Walden were both determined to ensure a proposal from Elijah Dawson by season’s end, and it would have taken some paramount scandal to have deterred them from this object.

  Determination was one thing, but enthusiasm quite another. Charlotte had given Mr. Dawson no reason to doubt her interest in his suit, and Augusta Walden had contrived many times to allow them the privacy needed for a declaration. Still, he persisted in his interminable suit, as cautious and circumspect as ever he had been before the ball. Charlotte thought of nothing else but enduring his modesty until his proposal, and I nodded while she listlessly told over the details of his wooing.

  “The periwinkle muslin this morning, Ballard. Mr. Dawson likes me best in blue.”

  “I enjoyed the opera this evening. I suppose it is a blessing I am fond of music, for he keeps a box, and attends every production of the season.”

  “Not dove-colored taffeta, Ballard. Mr. Dawson called me pale when last I wore it, and worried over me all evening.”

  “Indeed, miss?” I asked in concealed exasperation at this last, for this was not to be the first or last occasion that Mr. Dawson’s opinions of Charlotte’s gowns had caused me some concern. Her lemon ball gown with the cream and gold lace trim had made her seem sallow. The fawn poplin day dress with the coffee braid had been called mousy. Unsurprisingly, though, it was his reaction to her new Brunswick green riding habit that troubled me the most.

  “Mr. Dawson says I have a very fine seat when I ride. It is well to know he is a kindly liar,” Charlotte said, frowning at her reflection as I eased the velvet jacket from her shoulders. “Perhaps, though, Ballard . . .” She trailed off, hesitating, and I could feel the discomfort she could not seem to voice. “Perhaps it will be warm enough to wear my navy twill next time. The one from last season? I do not think Mr. Dawson favored my habit.”

  “Did he not, Miss Charlotte?” I inquired blandly, inwardly seething that yet another item must be banished from Charlotte’s repertoire. “I will own, the skirt is rather wider than your navy twill, but I do think it quite lovely when it is draped properly.”

  “I believe it was not so much the quantity of the fabric to which he objected as the color,” Charlotte said, still frowning. “He said the Brunswick made such a contrast with my hair that it looked far too red. Almost . . . almost Irish, he said.” My mistress had the grace to blush.

  I murmured something about having her navy twill habit ready the next time, eager as ever to soothe her disquiet, and inwardly reminded myself that I must not let my accent slip lest Mr. Dawson suspect me. After all I had sacrificed to stay by Charlotte’s side, it would not do to be dismissed now. Perhaps, I reasoned, it was merely a manner of speaking—but I vowed to take care in the event it was not. It was impossible to know, after all, what thoughts churned behind Elijah Dawson’s placid veneer.

  Perhaps it is very strange, but in the wake of all that had befallen, it was some time before it occurred to me that I had had but little opportunity to observe the man who now occupied Charlotte’s attentions, if not her affections.

  Studying over the little notebook where I made record of what Charlotte had worn, and before whom, wondering a little frantically if perhaps a grayish lavender might satisfy Elijah Dawson’s mania for blue, I happened to think of that esteemed suitor’s valet. I had no notion who the man might be—old or young, knowing or naïve—but it occurred to me in a flash that, whoever he was, it was unlikely he was studying the contents of his master’s wardrobe and agonizing over the lack of variety his master’s intended had indicated in his choice of cravats. When it came to it, I had very little notion of Mr. Dawson himself, for all Charlotte might tell over his reactions and qualities at the end of each day, besides the sense that he was not to be pleased unless he had ordered things just so. If Charlotte suggested a duet, he had no compunctions about critiquing her choice in favor of his own. If she should propose a route to ride, he was ready with a more suitable alternative. I had had no opportunities to observe him closely, and what I could say of him, aside from being a careful and captious suitor, was, I suppose, in fact, praise for his valet. He was clean-shaven, save for neatly barbered side wings, and his straw-colored hair was always parted sharply to the side and sparingly macassared. He favored dark frock coats with fawn-colored trousers, when not in riding breeches, that is, and, aside from his equal appreciation for music and the equestrian arts, I knew nothing more of the man.

  There was little information to be gleaned from Charlotte, who seemed to take her suitor’s constant comments about her pallor and appearance in stride. When I had prepared Charlotte for bed each Thursday night, her milky skin had grown rosy and her green eyes bright. On those nights, her voice had fairly shaken with joy, her excitement palpable. I had hated those nights, hated her heated anticipation of my brother with a jealousy that writhed and seethed below the surface of my placid features. Now, all light had gone out of Charlotte. She confided the details of Mr. Dawson’s growing regard for her with all the vim of a reluctant schoolboy’s recitation. My heart, once full of spite toward her lover, grew heavy with borrowed sadness. I did what I could to buoy her: this new, sedate, and spiritless Charlotte.

  When it finally occurred to me that there was now one in this household who must know, if not Mr. Dawson himself, then the man’s valet, I made haste to this source of information. Surely, I thought, if I could but glean insight into Mr. Dawson’s mind, I could help Charlotte put an end to his interminable courtship and settle her for once and all.

  Mr. Vandeman had worked hard to ingratiate himself with the household since his arrival. Young Frank’s timid suggestion that the southern pastures of Harlem made for a fine place to break the yearlings was rewarded with the offer to assist that Young Frank had so coveted. Mr. Vandeman had squired Millie and Liza to a Bowery music hall one night, and he always seemed ready to assist Eben and Eugene in the heavier household tasks. He took pains to praise Cook’s dishes, and he even managed to put in a kind word for Agnes. In an effort to prove that I held no prejudice against all grooms, I had made myself civil with the man, but Grace Porter, despite her great respect for Mr. Dawson’s recommendation, remained stalwartly unimpressed. As a result of Grace’s aloofness, I had yet to have the opportunity to speak with the man at great length.

  Thus resolved, I made directly for the carriage house, grabbing an apple from the kitchen bin on my way out into the
mews. There was a light drizzle, and I strode quickly over the cobbles to duck inside. The carriage house was warm, smelling of sweet mash and musky horse. I went immediately to Charlotte’s palfrey, Angelica. I had avoided the stable since my brother’s departure, and found suddenly that I had missed my visits there, however rare they might be. Angelica, now spoiled by Young Frank with frequent attention, came eagerly to the side of her box, whickering expectantly. I laughed aloud at the lovely creature and her expectations, holding out the apple I had brought for her. It was gone in two bites.

  “She’s gotten greedy.” A low voice came from behind me. I turned a pleasant smile on Mr. Vandeman.

  “She works so hard,” I said, wiping the mare’s spittle on my handkerchief.

  He laughed. “Well, she’s no dray!”

  “That’s true enough. Though before Mr. Dawson began to pay Miss Walden court, she was idle more often than not.”

  Mr. Vandeman patted Angelica’s neck. “It’s not good for them to be idle,” he said. “They’re meant to run, see. This little girl should have seen a good deal more exercise before.”

  “Then it is well you are here now to attend to her properly,” I said. “We are grateful for Mr. Dawson’s reference.”

  “As am I,” he said.

  “The city must seem so close to you after living in the country.”

  “True, true, but I’d come here enough times to know what to expect. And, naturally, I’m grateful to Mr. Dawson for helping me to the position. Salisbury Park is a fine estate, as fine a one as you’ll find on the Island, I believe, and I’d spent my whole life there, but there was no room to rise.”

  “How fortunate, then, that Mr. Dawson was able to recognize your talent and ambition and help you to make the most of it!”

  “Well, I’ve known him since we were both lads,” Mr. Vandeman said. “Mr. Elijah, as he was then, he always had one eye on the stables, see? Riding and hunting—it was him that taught me to shoot. Fine seat, that man, and a fine shot as well.”

  “Oh?” I asked. “Do you hunt, then?”

  “I did, out on Long Island. Used to go with the farrier, Ned. Fine tracker, Ned. Well, he’d have to be, knowing hooves.”

  I felt distinctly out of my depth in this conversation of masculine pursuits, and so nodded absently as I tried to compose a way of turning the subject. My misgivings must have shown in my face, for Mr. Vandeman smiled broadly and said, “Ah, but I am certain you must have ventured over for something other than a tale of Ned Walton’s tracking skills. May I assist you, Miss Ballard?”

  “You are good, Mr. Vandeman,” I said, “to divine that I am indeed in need of aid.”

  “You have but to ask,” Mr. Vandeman said. “Though I must warn you that while I’m a fair hand with a currycomb, I know little of hairdressing.”

  “Then permit me to be blunt—perhaps even indelicate,” I said, plunging forward. “Surely it has not escaped your notice that Miss Walden is being courted earnestly by Mr. Dawson.”

  “I’d be a purblind fool not to have noticed,” he said, mirth playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “And I could not help but wonder, if, knowing Mr. Dawson as well as you do, you might have some . . . insights that would benefit my mistress?”

  “Well, I can see your dilemma plain. May I be blunt in return?”

  “You may,” I said, relieved he had grasped the situation so quickly.

  “Then I can offer you this,” Mr. Vandeman said. “Mr. Dawson was never one to do a thing in haste. If he was hunting, he would lie in wait until he was certain beyond a doubt he’d have a clear shot and assured of his success. I’ve never been courting, but for a man like Mr. Dawson, I would reckon he might take that approach to it, see?”

  “I do see,” I said. “He must be assured that the way is clear. I believe I can help Miss Walden to give that impression. Thank you, Mr. Vandeman. You have been most helpful.”

  “And one thing more,” Mr. Vandeman said. “Mr. Dawson might prefer to hunt game, but more often than not, you’d find him shooting grouse for his grandmother’s table. He’s devoted to old Mrs. Dawson.”

  “I’m grateful, Mr. Vandeman,” I said, filing that away. “Truly.”

  “I’m simply glad I could oblige you, Miss Ballard. Are you returning to the kitchen? Perhaps you could tell Young Frank he’s wanted out here.”

  I assured him I would do so, and, thanking him again, went back to the house.

  Grace Porter, happily, was in the kitchen, and after I had let Young Frank know he was wanted, I turned my attention to her. Mr. Vandeman’s information would do little for Charlotte—Mrs. Walden was my target now.

  I allowed Grace to pour me a cup of the tea she and Mrs. Harrison had brewed, and sat to wait for my opening. It didn’t take long; Grace was eager to discuss the next evening’s dinner, at which Mr. Dawson would be in attendance.

  “Do you think it might be tomorrow?” she asked. “Perhaps he will arrive early and ask her then.”

  “I have wondered,” I said very slowly, “if perhaps it is the choice of company that has deterred him.”

  “What on earth can you mean?” Grace asked. “Who could object to dining with the Astors?”

  “Certainly that is not what I wanted to imply,” I assured her. “But an invitation to the Astors always includes Miss Emily Astor and young Mr. John Astor, and I must wonder if another young man at the table might give Mr. Dawson reason to pause in his suit.”

  “Why, Mr. John is still at college—he is practically a child,” Grace scoffed. “Certainly Mr. Dawson cannot see him as a rival?”

  “But what of Mr. Ward, who sometimes comes with Miss Astor?” I pressed.

  “He is Miss Astor’s beau. Mr. Dawson must have eyes in his head to see that,” Grace said. “Mrs. Walden only invites him when young Mr. Astor cannot make up the party.”

  “But do you agree that Mr. Dawson sees it that way? He has been such a careful suitor, and perhaps he supposes that Miss Walden’s affections are not secure.”

  “Gracious, what a queer thought,” Grace said. “If I were him, I should be quicker to secure them, if I suspected that there might be other admirers. And why shouldn’t there be, I ask you, with a young lady like our Miss Walden?”

  “I couldn’t say,” I relented. “But I am so fully in agreement that this courtship is becoming tedious that I am casting about for any reason I can think of for delay.”

  I could see the gears churning in Grace’s head and said no more: the seed was planted. Either she would find a way to speak to Mrs. Walden or no; there was nothing more I could do in the matter. Still, the weeks crept by and I was rewarded to see that the Waldens’ table was more frequently occupied with married couples.

  At last, in early May, there came the invitation for Mrs. Walden and Charlotte to spend the weekend at the Dawsons’ estate. Geraldine Dawson had not left the grounds in nearly twenty years, and it was not to be expected that she would do so now, even to approve her grandson’s choice of bride. Mrs. Walden directed Grace and me in the packing herself, forcefully asserting which gowns she felt showed Charlotte to her best advantage while the object of all this fuss sat in her tufted chair by the fire, her eyes downcast.

  Augusta Walden was not fond of visiting, and I had only rarely been required to travel outside the city since I’d arrived. There had been only the yearly sojourn the Walden and Graham ladies had taken to Saratoga Springs in imitation of the trips Augusta Graham and Sabrina Clemons had taken during their debutante years. On those occasions, Charlotte and Prudence had spent much of their time perched on the bench of the Grand Union’s pianoforte, strolling the grounds, or attending one of the salons organized by Madame Eliza Jumel and her daughter, Mary Chase. Packing for those occasions had been a simple affair, and Grace, familiar with the journey after years of accompanying them, had directed things with a steady hand. Now, as we prepared to visit the Dawsons’ estate, I thought back on Mr. Vandeman’s observation about Mr. Dawson’s
devotion to his grandmother. I tried to consider every possible item that I might need to attend to Charlotte whilst we were away. I remembered parties of Mrs. Boyle’s cousins coming up from Dublin to summer in Donegal, and tried to recall what the young ladies had done. The gentlemen had gone shooting, and the ladies had done a great deal of walking out. I had never been to Long Island—did the gentry go out walking there? Unresolved, I packed Charlotte’s sturdiest boots and spare traveling gown anyway. Grace Porter and I oversaw the loading of our mistresses’ trunks onto the back of the coach before Mr. Vandeman and Young Frank handed us up and we were off.

  The day was bright and brisk, a light breeze wafting off the river as we passed the docks. I’d had no occasion to come down to this district since the first time I’d been there. The shouts of sailors, the bustle of porters, and the mingled smell of brackish water and fish reminded me of that first fateful day I stepped from the Peregrine. I looked about, wondering how Johnny and I, ragged and dazed, had navigated our way out of the press—more people crowded together than we had ever seen before in one place—and made our way through the narrow, twisting streets. Above the box, looking down on the jumble below, I felt worlds away from the bewildered lass who’d clutched her brother’s hand. It must have been a lifetime ago.

  It was impossible, then, not to wonder where he was now, my brother. I tried to picture him as we stumbled through New York’s winding streets from the harbor, the way his arm curled protectively around mine, but the image was almost immediately replaced by the baleful look of hatred as he’d glared at me from his reddened eyes before cursing us, Charlotte and me, for what we’d done. My stomach lurched, and my carefully schooled features must have slipped, for Grace Porter patted my arm awkwardly and assured me that we’d be away from the dockside stench of fish soon enough. I smiled weakly at her, banishing Johnny from my thoughts with a flicker of anger.

  The ferry crossing was blessedly smooth, though I was grateful to reach the Brooklyn side. From the way Grace had gone on, echoing Mrs. Walden’s opinion that Long Island was a barren wilderness, I had expected a lonely, winding path through great, untamed forests. I was instead surprised by the neatly laid out fields, the tidy hamlets and villages we passed through on well-tended macadam roads. The farmhouses were of fieldstone and timbered, with a solid, patrician look to them, and I was impressed by the air of quiet, unassuming cultivation. The smell of freshly tilled fields and the warbling birdsong reminded me of Donegal, and I thought how strange and familiar it was to be in the country again after so long. I had closed the door so thoroughly on my old life, and, for the first time, homesickness welled up in me.