by Lynn Austin
“Très bon, Violet,” Aunt Agnes said. “You seem very well prepared. It’s about time that your father decided to do right by you and send you to Chicago to find a proper husband.”
I stopped breathing.
“A-a husband?”
“Yes, certainly. Why do you think you were sent to Chicago? To see the fair?” She laughed at her own joke. “Mind you, I told your father it was almost too late, that you were almost too old. But I shall endeavor to make up for lost time.”
Was this really the reason my father had agreed to let me come? I was so astounded by Aunt Agnes’ news that I had no idea what I was supposed to say. Fortunately, Madame Beauchamps had taught us that expressions of profuse gratitude were suitable for nearly every occasion.
“Thank you, Aunt Agnes. Merci. I’m so very grateful.” But in truth, the idea of shopping for a husband made my heart pound— though whether from fear or excitement I couldn’t have said. Perhaps a bit of each.
“I’ll call for you tomorrow at two o’clock,” Agnes said. “Make sure you tell your grandmother that I’m coming. Bertha won’t even remember that I’ve called, the poor dear. And wear a hat. And gloves.”
She turned toward the door in a swirl of swishing taffeta, calling “Au revoir, Bertha,” as if poor Aunt Birdie were deaf as well as simple. To me she said sotto voce, “Don’t forget your calling cards. Au revoir.”
I must have looked like Aunt Birdie as I stood staring dumbly into space, completely flabbergasted by Aunt Agnes’ visit. The scent of her perfume lingered long after she left, along with her tantalizing words.
A husband! I could well imagine what Aunt Matt would have to say about that.
I was still standing in the hallway in shock when I heard someone coming through the kitchen door. I quickly raced into the parlor and stuffed the drawer full of photos back into the desk. Now that I knew where Aunt Birdie kept them, I could browse through them on my own another day. I picked up the feather duster and pretended to dust—just as my grandmother walked in from the kitchen to hang her hat on the hall tree.
“Did you mail my letter to Gilbert?” Aunt Birdie asked after greeting her with an embrace.
“I took care of it.”
It surprised me that my grandmother, a good Christian woman, would be deceitful. Evidently I came from a long line of accomplished liars. I knew firsthand the pain and disillusionment of being lied to for years and years, so I gave the feather duster to Birdie and followed my grandmother into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you tell Aunt Birdie the truth about her husband and the war?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“We have told her, dear. Countless times. And every time, when she finally grasps it, she grieves inconsolably for days and days. Then, by God’s mercy, she wakes up one morning and has forgotten what year it is and she’s happy again—writing letters to Gilbert, awaiting his arrival. We don’t intentionally deceive her, and whenever she asks me for the truth I don’t lie to her. But it’s so much kinder for her this way, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure. My father might have thought he was being kind by sparing me the truth about my mother, but my shock upon learning the truth has been truly upsetting. It’s one of the reasons I needed to get away from home for a while.”
“I’m so sorry.” She rested a soothing hand on my shoulder. “I told John how displeased I was when he first invented his lie. That’s probably why he never allowed me to see much of you over the years. He knew I wouldn’t lie if you asked about your mother. But he made me promise not to talk about her. I may be John’s mother, but he made it clear that his marriage was none of my business.”
“Well, I would like to know the truth now.”
“What good can that possibly serve, Violet?” She slid her hand down my arm and took my hand in hers.
“I already know that Mother was never really sick, was she.”
“Not unless you count being sick at heart.”
“But what was she like? I barely remember her.”
Grandmother paused as she released my hand and picked up her apron, tying the strings behind her back. “In the beginning … ?Your mother was full of life. Vibrant. Vivacious. And very beautiful. You resemble her, you know.”
I shook my head. “I hardly remember what she looked like.Why aren’t there any pictures?”
But just as I was learning some useful information, Aunt Birdie interrupted us. She walked into the kitchen carrying Agnes’ calling card in the palm of her hand as if it were made of glass.
“We had a social call, Florence—and I couldn’t find the silver tray!”
“Was it Agnes? Let me see that.” She lifted the card from Birdie’s hand.
“Aunt Agnes is coming for me tomorrow at two o’clock,” I said.
“Oh, dear.” Grandmother’s shoulders sagged. “I was hoping she’d be too busy to subject you to her social rounds—unless you want to be subjected, that is. You’re a grown woman, so I suppose it’s your choice.”
“What’s wrong with making social calls with Aunt Agnes?”
“Nothing. It’s just that she hobnobs with people like the Palmers and the Pullmans and the Fieldses, drinking gallons of tea, and I see no point in all of that social folderol. There are so many more important things to do in this brief life.”
“Aunt Agnes said my father sent me here to find a husband.” Unfortunately, Aunt Matt picked that moment to march through the back door. She nearly dropped all of her parcels when she overheard me.
“Agnes said what? Over my dead body she will!”
I felt like I was standing in the middle of one of those traffic snarls Mr. McClure had described, with vehicles colliding all around me.
“But where is the silver tray, Florence?” Aunt Birdie asked. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“I put the tray away in the buffet, dear. It was badly tarnished and I didn’t have the time or the patience to polish it—especially when Agnes is the only person who ever comes calling these days.”
“Now, Florence,” Aunt Matt said sternly. “Promise me that you won’t allow Agnes to sell your innocent granddaughter into servitude!”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Matt. You make it sound as if Agnes wants Violet to be an indentured servant instead of a wife.”
“There is very little difference,” Matt said with a sniff.
“Are we all out of silver polish?” Aunt Birdie asked from inside the pantry. “I can’t find it.”
“Look on the shelf behind the ammonia,” Grandmother called to her. She turned back to Aunt Matt. “Besides, it’s up to Violet and her father to decide whether or not she marries, not us.”
“Well! We shall see about that.” Aunt Matt dropped her parcels on the kitchen table and stomped off.
I worried that I had made her angry, and I couldn’t afford to do that. I needed Aunt Matt to talk Maude out of marrying my father. But at the same time, I wanted to go visiting with Aunt Agnes. How could I turn down the opportunity to hobnob with Chicago’s high society—not to mention, find a husband?
“I think I’d like to go calling with Aunt Agnes tomorrow,” I told my grandmother. “Would you mind?”
“That’s entirely up to you. Just watch out or she’ll quickly take over your life with her nonsense.”
“Here it is!” Aunt Birdie announced. She emerged from the pantry looking disheveled but triumphant, waving a very tarnished silver tray and the container of silver polish. “Now we’ll be prepared when callers arrive at our door!”
And if Aunt Agnes had her way, one of those callers just might be my future husband.
Chapter
6
Wednesday, June 7, 1893
I tried on three dresses before deciding which one I would wear to make social calls with Aunt Agnes. I finally chose one that accentuated my small waist, even though I couldn’t cinch myself very tightly without my friend Ruth’s help. She had been able to make me quite svelte—and quite breathless.
Ruth
Schultz had been an expert on what a girl could do to improve her figure, and everyone at school had come to her for help. When it came to nipping, tucking, and reshaping, Ruth’s knowledge of corsets was second to none. She also recommended daily doses of an Egyptian elixir that promised to provide “a graceful plumpness” to poorly endowed girls if taken regularly. It tasted like bile. Fortunately, my endowments didn’t need plumping.
“Small-waisted girls who are too top-heavy always look as though they’re in danger of falling over,” Ruth had counseled me. “Especially if they have tiny feet.”
I took a long time pinning up my hair, unable to get it just right. I felt absurdly nervous, as if I were about to take an examination at school and all of the skills and lessons Madame B. had taught me would be put to a final test. What if I tripped over a rug and fell flat on my face in front of everyone? What if I dropped my teacup and it turned out to be a priceless heirloom that had been rescued from the Great Fire, the only surviving item of a precious family inheritance, absolutely irreplaceable and—
I stopped, took a deep breath, and told myself to think of all the good things that might happen today instead of the bad. What if I met a man who was everything I’ve ever dreamed of: handsome, charming, rich … but most of all, daring, adventuresome, imaginative? What if he fell in love with me at first sight, the way Aunt Birdie’s husband had fallen in love with her? My dream man would set out to win my heart, courting me in all of the most romantic ways, just like the heroes in Ruth’s True Romance Stories. Our story would be so touchingly beautiful that it would become a classic, read by millions of envious girls for decades to come. In fact, we would—
“Violet?” Aunt Birdie interrupted my flight of fancy, calling to me from the front foyer. “Agnes is here. Her carriage just arrived.”
“Coming.” I quickly pinned on my hat, gathered my gloves and calling cards, and hurried downstairs.
I couldn’t recall ever riding in a carriage as fine as my aunt’s, but a lesser vehicle would have looked completely out of place stopping at the elegant townhouse we visited first. A uniformed servant met us at the door and received our calling cards on a Chinese enameled tray. I wanted to gaze all around at the lavishly appointed rooms as he ushered us inside, but good manners forbade me to gawk. The small glimpses I did steal convinced me that this was the finest home I ever had visited. The servant led Aunt Agnes and me to the drawing room, where a handful of well-dressed women gathered around the tea cart.
I walked into the room with practiced grace and faultless posture: back erect, shoulders straight, and head held high. I had spent hours at Madame Beauchamps’ school walking with a book balanced on top of my head before being allowed to graduate to the next level of difficulty. I then was expected to gracefully sit down while holding a cup of hot tea and still balancing the book on my head.
“Ladies,” Aunt Agnes said in her cultured voice, “I would like to introduce my great-niece, Violet Rose Hayes. She’s visiting my sister Florence Hayes and our fair city of Chicago this summer.”
The ladies greeted me with pleasant smiles and a chorus of lilting voices: “Hello … How nice to meet you … Welcome, Violet… .”
“Thank you so much.”
I paid very close attention as our hostess introduced each of the women to me, recalling Madame B.’s stern warning: “I cannot emphasize strongly enough the importance of remembering the name of each person to whom you are introduced.” She would place strangers’ photographs on a row of chairs and make fake introductions so we could practice recalling names.
I had perfected my own secret system of memorization, fabricating scandalous stories about each person based on her name or physical attributes. For instance today, when our hostess introduced a Mrs. Smith, I imagined that the dear woman was having a secret romance with a large, muscular blacksmith.
Our hostess served tea to everyone from an engraved silver teapot, and we all sat down to drink it. A thrill of anticipation coursed through me. So many of the things one learns in school are quickly forgotten and never used, but now, in this very room, all of my hard work and diligent study would finally be put to use. I had always feared that my impeccable training would languish from lack of use back home in Lockport and eventually go to waste. But thanks to Aunt Agnes, I had finally found my place in life.
I spread the miniscule napkin on my lap, balanced the delicate teacup just so, and took the tiniest of sips. The afternoon sun dappled across the beautifully polished furnishings and exquisite carpet. I could get used to this life. I sat among some of Chicago’s most prominent women, the cream of society from one of America’s premier cities. Excitement filled me as I anticipated a discussion that would be both edifying and stimulating.
“Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?” our hostess began.
“My, yes. I cannot recall another June in recent years that has begun as lovely as this one has.”
“Let’s hope the summer continues to be as nice.”
“Mmm …” the ladies murmured in chorus, plumed hats bobbing. “Let’s hope so.”
“I so dislike the hot, muggy summers we sometimes have in Chicago.”
“I believe everyone does.”
“Fortunately, we have a home on one of the Finger Lakes in New York State, so we can always escape.”
“Yes, you are fortunate.”
The conversation seemed to be rolling along nicely when suddenly, a brief lull occurred. I stopped breathing as the silence lengthened into several tense seconds. “One must never allow the conversation to lag,” Madame B. had instructed. “A lengthy silence spells the death of every social event.”
But just as a bead of sweat began to trickle down beneath my hat, our hostess asked the other women, “What did you think of the thunderstorm we had the other evening?” My admiration for her abilities soared.
“I found it rather frightening,” someone replied.
“Did you? I quite enjoy thunder.”
“As do I—providing it isn’t too loud.”
“I don’t mind loud thunder as long as it isn’t accompanied by wind.”
“Oh, yes. Wind!”
“Too much wind can be quite vexing.”
The ladies went on and on this way for some time, delicately sipping tea and discussing the merits of thunder and wind and several other weather-related phenomena, until I feared I might nod off. I hadn’t slept well the previous night as I’d nervously anticipated meeting my future husband. My eyes actually may have fallen closed in a prolonged blink when the hostess suddenly decided that the proper time had come to include me in the conversation.
“Do you enjoy the summer months, Miss Hayes?”
I felt the way I had in school whenever I’d been caught daydreaming— which was often. I gripped the teacup in my shaking fingers so it wouldn’t rattle. My heart raced as I formulated my reply.
“Yes. I’ve always enjoyed summer. But then, I enjoy all of the seasons equally well. It’s so nice to live in a climate that offers a variety of seasons, so one doesn’t become bored with any of them. Don’t you agree?”
I could tell by their smiles and nods of approval that I had answered well. I had spent hours practicing the art of conversation at school, and I knew that simply answering the question was insufficient. One must always add a question of one’s own to keep the conversation alive. Madame had compared a proper conversation to an elegant tennis match: “One must not only keep the ball in the air, but also return the serve with grace and finesse.”
I knew I had passed my first test. But by the time Aunt Agnes and I finished our tea and took our leave—and I had bidden farewell to each woman by name, of course—I confess that I felt a bit disappointed. I hadn’t encountered my future husband.
“That was for practice, Violet,” Aunt Agnes said as we settled into the carriage once again. “You did very well, by the way. But this next call is much more important.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Our next
hostess, Mrs. Kent, has better social connections, for one thing. But more important, she has a very eligible grandson, as do some of the other ladies who will be calling on her. Mind you, there also may be young ladies your age present, so stay focused and make sure you don’t underestimate the competition.”
“You mean we’ll be competing for the same suitors?”
“Why, of course.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the challenge. I realize that it was extremely unfeminine of me, but I enjoyed competition of any kind. I once tried to organize a betting pool at school where each girl would contribute two bits and the “pot” would be awarded to whoever scored the most points on an upcoming exam. But only one other girl besides Ruth and me had been willing to risk expulsion by taking part in a gambling ring—and none of us would risk it for only seventy-five cents. It was probably my competitive streak that contributed to my lack of interest in Herman Beckett; no other girl in Lockport seemed to want him.
Aunt Agnes and I called at a stately mansion on Prairie Avenue next, and this time the conversation took a much more interesting turn, even if it did revolve around my appearance for a while.
“Your niece is lovely, Agnes,” our hostess, Mrs. Kent, announced. “Where have you been hiding her all this time?”
“Violet has been studying at one of the finest boarding schools in Illinois. She speaks French as if she’d grown up in Paris. And wait until you hear her skills on the piano. She’ll take your breath away!”
Since my aunt had never heard me play the piano, her boast struck me as an astonishing leap of faith. I decided it would be prudent to begin practicing on my grandmother’s piano in my spare time.
I was the center of attention as the ladies gathered around, sizing me up as if I were merchandise on display at Mr. Marshall Field’s famous store. Their comments were all complimentary until Mrs. Grant joined the discussion.
“Don’t you think her complexion is a little dark? Violet has a bit of a gypsy look to her.”