A Proper Pursuit

by Lynn Austin

  “From now on when you pray, ask God to show you what He wants you to do.”

  As I sank down into the tub to scrub my hair, I pictured Louis standing in front of the crowd in the rain shouting, “Come home and let the love of Jesus Christ wash you clean.”

  I knew then that even though Silas McClure and his friends might need to be washed clean, I was in no position to point a finger at them. When I went upstairs to my bedroom to get dressed, I tore up the rally tickets and threw them away.

  Chapter

  17

  Saturday, June 24, 1893

  I was upstairs still getting ready when Herman Beckett arrived on Saturday morning to escort me to the World’s Fair. Aunt Birdie answered the door.

  “Oh, Florence! Come quick!” I heard her cry out. “Someone died! The undertaker is here!”

  I reached the top of the stairs in time to hear Herman say, “I’m here for Violet.”

  “Oh no! Not Violet!” Aunt Birdie moaned. “She was perfectly fine at dinner last night. How could she pass away so quickly?”

  “Wait! I’m not dead, Aunt Birdie!” I thundered down the stairs as gracelessly as a six-year-old.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” She pulled me into her arms and hugged me tightly. I could feel her heart pounding. When she released me, she turned to Herman. “It seems that your services will not be needed after all, young man. Violet is perfectly fine. Good day.” She closed the door in his face.

  “Aunt Birdie, wait! Mr. Beckett is here to take me to the fair.”

  “Why in the world would you want to go to the fair with an undertaker?”

  “Herman isn’t an undertaker,” I said, opening the door to him again.

  “Well, he certainly looks like one. It just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover, Violet. Remember how you thought that other gentleman caller of yours was a thief? But see? Our silver tray is still here.” She held it up for me to see.

  “Have there been other gentlemen callers?” Herman asked in a worried voice.

  “Please come in, Mr. Beckett,” I said, ignoring his question. “I’m sorry for all the confusion.”

  Herman stepped aside and gestured for our chaperone to enter first. “I’d like you to meet my sister, Mary Crane,” he said. She was dressed entirely in black and wore such a gloomy expression on her face, I could see how Aunt Birdie might have mistaken her and Herman for undertakers. The small picnic basket that she carried on her arm offered the only hint that we were out for a day of fun.

  “Mary lives in Riverside with her husband and two children,” Herman explained.

  “Oh, will your family be joining us as well?”

  “No. They won’t.”

  Herman offered no explanation for the missing family, so I didn’t pry—although my imagination quickly supplied several reasons. Maybe she had chained them in the cellar for a few hours so she could have a day of fun without them. Or maybe they were horribly disfigured and she was ashamed to have them be seen in public. Maybe they were feral children who ate raw meat and howled at the moon, or maybe …

  I noticed Aunt Birdie hovering in the hallway behind me, and I introduced her. She nodded curtly in reply. Herman Beckett and his sister were the first visitors we’d had that Birdie hadn’t greeted with one of her famous hugs. I could understand why.

  “Would you care for a cold drink before we leave?” I asked.

  “Thank you, but no. We have a lot to see today, and I think we should get going.”

  I had dreaded returning to the fair and being reminded of my unsettling visit with Silas McClure, but seeing the fair with Herman Beckett turned out to be a completely different experience. Herman had purchased Claxton’s Guidebook to the World’s Columbian Exposition and he followed it as religiously as Louis Decker followed the Scriptures. He opened to the first page as we rode the streetcar to the fairgrounds and gave us a taste of what was ahead.

  “It says here that the fair offers ‘the assembled achievements and products from the mind and hand of mankind, such as never before presented to mortal vision.’ ”

  “My word,” his sister murmured. She was evidently too overwhelmed to say more. I said nothing. It was going to be a very long day.

  We got off the streetcar at the fair’s 57th Street entrance and stood in line for our tickets. Herman showed me the guidebook’s map as we waited. “This red line shows the recommended route we should take. It’s the best way to experience the fair. We’ll start here,” he said, tracing the line with his finger, “and gradually make our way around from the north end of the fairgrounds to the south. The recommended pavilions and exhibits are highlighted.”

  “Why see what the author wants you to see, Herman? Why not decide what you’re interested in and skip the rest?”

  Herman’s dark brows met in the middle as he frowned. They reminded me of two wooly caterpillars kissing. “The author made a thorough study of the fair. I’m sure that the advice he gives is very sound. The grounds cover 633 acres, Violet, and there are more than sixty-five thousand exhibits. It would be impossible to see it all in one day. The guidebook has rated the best attractions as ‘interesting,’ ‘very interesting,’ or ‘remarkably interesting.’ ”

  “Does he recommend that we ride Mr. Ferris’ wheel?”

  “Certainly not! The wheel is on the Midway.” Herman made Midway sound like a dirty word.

  “What’s wrong with the Midway?” My question caused his eyebrows to kiss once again.

  “Those amusements cater to the lowest sort of person. I have no interest at all in seeing bawdy attractions.”

  Herman’s sister leaned close to whisper in my ear as we walked through the entrance gates. “Some of the Midway exhibits are very vulgar. One of them features hootchy-kootchy dancers who are indecently clothed! And those women make the most obscene gyrations! Many of the primitive Africans on display are scantily clad as well.”

  “Oh, I see.” I decided not to mention that I had already visited the pagan Midway and had found it “remarkably interesting.” But then, a thief like Silas McClure was exactly the low sort of person Herman had referred to.

  We strolled around the northern section of the fairgrounds for a while, passing dozens of state pavilions and exhibits. In the center stood a magnificent building with enormous statues of women serving as support pillars. “That looks remarkably interesting,” I said. “What’s inside that building?”

  “It’s the Palace of Fine Art.” Herman said art with the same horrified tone that he’d used for the Midway.

  “What’s wrong with art?”

  Mary cupped her hand around my ear again and whispered, “They have nudes.” I stifled a sigh.

  Viewed from the outside, the state pavilions were all very different from each other and seemed very interesting to me, but the only building that Mr. Claxton’s guidebook allowed us to enter was the Illinois State Pavilion.

  “Why would we waste time here?” I asked. “We live in Illinois. We can see the real thing every day.”

  Herman stared at me, oblivious to the irony. “The pavilion offers a chance to learn something new about our state. The guidebook says it will be ‘very interesting.’ ”

  I dutifully wandered through the Illinois building, longing to see exotic displays that were truly very interesting. I didn’t find General Grant’s memorabilia interesting in the least, nor the Women’s Corn Kitchen featuring one hundred different ways to prepare Illinois’ favorite agricultural product—corn. I couldn’t imagine that the pavilion had earned even an “interesting” rating, let alone “very interesting.” I decided to start my own rating system: “boring,” “exceedingly boring,” and “I’m-falling-asleep boring.” In the “exceedingly boring” category was a huge mosaic of a prairie farmyard, complete with cattle and horses, made entirely out of seeds and grains. Herman stood before it awestruck.

  “Look, Mary! Even the frame is made from ears of corn.”

  “My word,” she murmured. I stifled a
yawn.

  We walked around the fairgrounds all morning, following the approved path as if it would lead us to buried treasure. As Herman narrated the highlights for us, I learned that he was very fond of statistics.

  “Did you know that the fair has more than sixty-one acres of lagoons and waterways, and over three miles of intertwining canals?”

  “My word …” his sister replied breathlessly. I wasn’t sure if it was from wonder or the brisk pace Herman set.

  Whenever he began a sentence with “Did you know… ?” I braced myself for another batch of statistics, invariably followed by another awestruck, “My word …” from his sister.

  “Did you know,” he asked as we viewed the enormous Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, “that you’re looking at the largest building in the world? The fair is comprised of fourteen Great Buildings and more than two hundred others—at a cost of twenty-eight million dollars.”

  “My word …”

  “Did you know,” he asked as we approached the Electricity Building, “that each of that building’s ten spires is one-hundred-seventy- feet high? The fair uses more than one hundred twenty thousand incandescent lights and seven thousand arc lights.”

  “My word …”

  “Did you know,” he asked as we viewed the Horticulture Building, “that this building houses the world’s largest collection of horticultural products? The gardens feature a half a million pansies and one hundred thousand roses.”

  “My word …”

  We spent a considerable amount of time in the glass-domed Horticultural Building, viewing an endless number of plants and flowers. It earned my highest rating for boring. I longed to see something truly exciting.

  “Does the guidebook recommend any foreign pavilions?” I finally asked.

  “A few, but I’m not sure we’ll have time for any of them.”

  I decided that I would never suffer from insomnia again if I married Herman Beckett. Nelson Kent, on the other hand, might not be faithful to me, but he would take me to Italy and Paris.

  “Do you ever feel the urge to see the world, Herman?”

  “Not really. If one can’t find contentment at home, one is unlikely to find it anywhere else.”

  Could that be true? Did the fact that I had been discontented living in Lockport mean that I was doomed to a life of discontent? If so, I may as well marry Nelson and be discontented but rich.

  Shortly before noon we at last viewed something that was “remarkably interesting.” The Fisheries Building featured ten aquariums displaying beautiful, fascinating worlds that I never knew existed beneath the seas. I got so carried away that I found myself asking Herman, “If you could choose to live on another planet or to live under the sea, which would you choose?”

  “I wouldn’t want either,” he replied. “I’m content where I am.” His sister nodded.

  “Suppose you had to choose?” My impatience and frustration must have shown; perhaps in the way I stomped my foot. Herman turned from the aquarium to gaze at me with a look of concern.

  “I don’t understand why the question is so important to you, Violet.”

  I didn’t know either. I couldn’t stop thinking of Silas and how much fun he’d had answering my questions.

  On the way out we passed a statue that reminded me of Cupid, and I found myself asking, “Do you believe in love?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know—falling in love, love at first sight, true love, everlasting love. Or do you think it’s only found in fairy tales?”

  Herman’s face turned the color of beet juice. “Honestly, Violet. Does it matter what I think?”

  “I would like to know.”

  “Well, then, I would have to say I believe love exists—although I would be highly suspicious of love at first sight. I believe love is something that grows over time as two people get to know each other.”

  He whipped open his guidebook and gave it all of his attention, cutting off all further discussion of love. “Let’s see, now… .What’s next?”

  “How about a gondola ride on the lagoon?” We were standing alongside one of the many canals, and the boats looked as graceful as swans as they glided over the water. The gondoliers in their colorful costumes added to the illusion of adventure and romance.

  “The lines are too long. The guidebook says we would waste too much time waiting. Besides, the admission fee is rather expensive.”

  But Herman did consent to eat our picnic lunch on the grass alongside the lagoon so we could watch the gondoliers poling more fortunate fairgoers across the water. Mary unpacked her picnic basket and passed around the ham sandwiches she had made.

  “What do you want in life, Herman?” I asked. It must have been the Grecian-style buildings with their multitude of pillars that had made me so philosophical.

  “I would prefer a simple life with a peaceful home in a quiet town like Lockport,” he replied. “I couldn’t stand to live in a big city like Chicago with all of this noise and dirt and rushing around.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to travel and see new places?”

  “As I said, I believe that we are happiest when we learn to be content at home. We should want nothing more than the life God has given us. Why try to be something we’re not?”

  Contentment. I didn’t have it. In truth, it sounded boring—like the last stage one reaches before falling asleep. House cats were content, and they slept all day.

  “I would like to have a happy home,” Herman continued. “A refuge I could return to after a day’s work.”

  “What about fun?”

  “Well, I enjoy boating in Dellwood Park in the summertime … skating in the winter … attending church on Sunday. I would like to have children and a family… .”

  “A family,” I repeated. I was suddenly reminded of my father and Murderous Maude. “Speaking of families, have you heard that my father plans to marry Maude O’Neill?”

  “Yes. They seem very content.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “I understand you know Maude O’Neill quite well. Tell me, was she content with her first husband?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He didn’t have to; his face said it all. He not only was blushing, his wooly-caterpillar-eyebrows were kissing as voraciously as Nelson and Katya had. Mary rummaged through the picnic basket as if searching for her ticket out of this conversation.

  I suddenly recalled something that I’d learned from Ruth’s detective novels: Sometimes it’s not what people say that’s important, it’s what they don’t say. If Maude and her husband had been happy, why not say so? “Mr. O’Neill was a wonderful man. They were so happy. She was devastated when he died.” Herman’s silence spoke volumes.

  “Why won’t you tell me, Herman?”

  “It isn’t right to gossip.” He started to rise, but I gripped his arm, stopping him.

  “It isn’t gossip. She’s going to marry my father. She will be my … my stepmother.” I winced as I said the word. How I hated it. “Listen, I know that my father’s first marriage ended unhappily, so I’d like to know if he’ll find happiness the second time around.”

  “I’m not in a position to say.” He broke free and stood, then offered me a hand up as well.

  This detective business was very hard work. I had read about reluctant witnesses in Ruth’s True Crime Stories, and now I had encountered one. I decided to try a different approach, hoping that my feminine charm would do the trick. I linked my arm through his as we started walking and mustered all of my feminine weapons: my coy, flirtatious voice; my enigmatic smile; my fluttering eyelashes. I gazed up at him adoringly.

  “Listen, Herman, just tell me one thing: do you think Maude loves my father or is she still pining for her first husband?”

  “I hardly think she is pining for him! He—” Herman stopped, horrified that he had said so much. “I never meant to gossip.”

  “I know. I don’t think telling someone the truth is in the same category as go
ssip.”

  “Maude O’Neill is a wonderful woman,” he said, showing more passion than I had ever seen from him. “She deserves a happy life with a good man like your father.”

  “How did she and my father meet? As you know, I’ve been away at school for the past three years.”

  “They’ve known each other for several years. Mr. O’Neill worked for your father at one time.”

  His words horrified me. What if Maude and my father had fallen in love before Mr. O’Neill’s death? What if I continued to probe and discovered that Father was Maude’s accomplice in the murder?

  “You’ll be home for their wedding, I assume?” Herman asked.

  “Huh?”

  “When are you coming back to Lockport?”

  I wanted to shout, “Never!”

  “I-I’m not sure,” I said instead. Perhaps I should stop my investigation. But how else could I prevent Father’s marriage?

  I pondered my dilemma for the next hour or so as we journeyed through the fairgrounds. None of the exhibits fascinated me as much as the aquariums had. And many of them, like the display of every type of paper money the government had ever issued, were astoundingly boring. But when we came upon a replica of the Liberty Bell made entirely out of oranges, it was such a ludicrous sight that I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I glanced at Herman to see his reaction and caught him staring at the bell with a look of wonder on his face.

  “Isn’t that a marvel?” he asked. “It even has the famous crack!”

  “My word …” Mary breathed.

  A giggle that I could no longer suppress sputtered out. Once unleashed, my hilarity bubbled forth until I was laughing out loud.

  “Violet? What’s so funny?” Herman asked.

  “That bell! I think it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Aren’t there better things to do with a couple of crates of oranges? I mean, why not pass them out to the poor children instead of gluing them into the shape of a bell?” Now I sounded like Louis Decker. Herman gazed at me as if I’d spoken blasphemy.