A Proper Pursuit

by Lynn Austin

  “Fine. That one is for Silas McClure,” I said.

  I pulled up another chair and we sat watching for several long minutes. I fully expected Nelson Kent’s walnut to crack and jump, proving that he would be unfaithful. Louis Decker’s and Herman Beckett’s might blaze and burn, revealing that they loved me, but I kept a close eye on my own, hoping it wouldn’t burn along with one of theirs and indicate that we would marry. The suspense mounted as the fire roared and the flames grew hotter. I fidgeted nervously. Suddenly Aunt Birdie jumped up, moved behind my chair, and covered my eyes with her hands.

  “Wait! What are you doing? I can’t see.”

  “I know you can’t,” she said sweetly. “So now the question is, which beau are you hoping for?”

  I saw the logic in her method.

  “Is … is that how you discover the answer?”

  “It isn’t magic. Your heart knows which man is the right one for you. Tell me what your heart sees.”

  I was still in the dark with my eyes covered, but I thought I was beginning to see. “I would have a meaningful life doing good deeds if I married Louis, and he would consider me his partner in every way. But I don’t think I could stand being poor or working with poor people. I know that makes me seem shallow, but I can’t help it. I can’t do what he does for the rest of my life. He works in such terrible places. Besides, Louis’ passion is for God, not me.”

  “So he isn’t the one.”

  “No, I don’t think so. And Nelson would give me a wonderful life with servants and gowns and fine food. I know he would let me donate money to help the poor and everything. But is that enough for a lifetime together? He doesn’t love me, Aunt Birdie. Nelson and I are good friends, but I think he’s in love with someone else. He looks at her with love in his eyes, and I saw them kissing.” I suddenly felt warm, remembering their impassioned kiss—but the heat might have been coming from the stove. “Do you think love could grow after we were married?”

  “Every fire needs a spark in order to kindle a flame,” she said. I had to admit that the spark between Nelson and me just wasn’t there.

  “Herman Beckett would be a compromise, neither rich nor poor. He seems to care for me, and he wants a home and a family. He could offer me a life that is safe and stable—but he’s so boring! My mother was discontented living in Lockport. What if I’ll be too?”

  “Is he that young fellow who works for the undertaker?”

  “Um … yes.” It was late at night, and I didn’t have the patience to explain Herman Beckett to her.

  “Well, he’s out! You can’t spend the rest of your life with an undertaker, Violet. They’re such dreary people. I despise undertakers.” “Then I guess you can take your hands away now.” She didn’t uncover my eyes.

  “Aren’t you forgetting the other fellow?”

  “No, Silas McClure is a thief. He’s out of the question.” I imagined his walnut rolling into the flames, proving that he would spend eternity in hell with all of the other thieves and criminals.

  “I think you know which husband you want—don’t you, dear?”

  “None of them.”

  “Well, then. That says it all, doesn’t it?”

  She finally uncovered my eyes. The walnuts all sat on the stove, exactly where I had placed them. The newspaper and kindling wood had nearly burned up, and the fire was going out. I opened the stove lid and pushed all of the nuts into the dying flames.

  “Let’s go to bed,” I said with a sigh.

  As I walked up the stairs, I wondered which would be the worst fate: to live with a husband who didn’t love you, like Aunt Agnes did; to marry a man whose passion was directed toward God, like my grandmother had; or to be like Aunt Matt and never marry at all. But when Aunt Birdie hugged me good-night at the top of the stairs, I suddenly knew the answer: The worst fate of all was to lose the man you truly loved the way Aunt Birdie had.

  I blew out the candle and climbed into bed, burying my face in my pillow. I couldn’t hold back the flood of tears any longer. That’s when I admitted the truth to myself for the first time: before Aunt Birdie had covered my eyes, I had been hoping that Silas McClure’s walnut would burst into flames at the same moment as mine. I could have fallen in love with him if he hadn’t turned out to be a thief. But now Silas was dead to me, just as Gilbert was dead to Aunt Birdie.

  Then I had another thought. Like Aunt Birdie, my father also had lost the love of his life when my mother left him. Maybe that was why he didn’t want me to marry for love. Maybe he wanted to spare me the same heartache he’d experienced.

  I wanted to live happily ever after, but I was beginning to believe that true love existed only in romance novels.

  Chapter

  23

  Monday, July 3, 1893

  I was desperate. My father had granted me only two more weeks in Chicago, and I couldn’t waste another day. I rose early Monday morning determined to take action, any action—yet I hadn’t decided what it would be. I found my grandmother in the kitchen flipping pancakes.

  “You’re up early, Violet Rose. Are you going to the settlement house with me?” She set a plate in front of me and turned back to the stove, humming a hymn.

  “Sorry. Maybe another day.”

  “We could use some help down at the Suffrage Association,” Aunt Matt said. She lowered her newspaper long enough to slice into her morning grapefruit. The pungent aroma filled the kitchen.

  “Next time,” I told her. “I promise.”

  “Are you going out with Agnes, dear?”

  “No,” I told my grandmother, “not today.”

  As soon as Aunt Birdie and I were alone, I yanked the drawer full of photographs out of the secretary and sat down on the sofa to look through them. Most of them were of Aunt Birdie and her sisters and their families. But I stopped when I found one that looked like a younger version of my father. Alongside him posed another young man who looked remarkably like him.

  “Is this my father?” I asked Aunt Birdie, who was hovering nearby.

  “Yes, that’s Johnny. Wasn’t he a handsome devil when he was young?” She sank onto the sofa beside me.

  “Who is this man with him? A cousin?”

  “No—you know. That’s his brother, Philip, of course.”

  “Wait a minute. My father doesn’t have a brother.”

  “Well, he certainly does. Philip and Johnny are two years apart and as loyal as twins.”

  I held the photo closer, studying it. “No one ever told me he had a brother. I never knew he even existed. Why doesn’t anyone talk about him? Where is he?”

  Aunt Birdie’s wistful smile faded. “He’s away at war, just like Gilbert,” she said sadly.

  Oh no. What Pandora’s box had I opened now?

  “I believe Florence got a letter from him not too long ago. I’ll go look for it.” She started to rise from the sofa.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll read the letter later. Let’s finish looking at these photos.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was remind Aunt Birdie of the truth about her beloved Gilbert. But why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned Philip? Here was one more secret that my family had kept from me. I tossed the photo of my mysterious uncle onto the pile and went on to the next one. And the next, and the next.When I reached the bottom of the drawer, I exhaled in frustration.

  “Why aren’t there any photos of my mother?”

  “I don’t know … Do you think someone could have stolen them?”

  “Or else destroyed them.” I decided to try a different approach. “You said the other day that I was a lot like her. Can you tell me what you meant by that?”

  “She was a pretty little thing, just like you. And very imaginative. A free spirit.”

  I stuffed all the photos back into the drawer, upset that the search had proven fruitless. Trying to pry information from my family was a waste of time. Why not just get on the streetcar and ride down to LaSalle Street and find my mother myself? As Silas had pointed out, w
e were entering the twentieth century. Women should have more freedom to go places alone. I could find her address on my own, couldn’t I?

  Yet as I remained seated on the sofa, I realized that it wasn’t the fear of the journey or the lack of a chaperone that made me hesitate. I finally came face-to-face with the truth that I had been avoiding for the past month: I was afraid to find my mother. Afraid of what I would discover about her. Afraid to learn that she didn’t love me. Afraid that she would reject me all over again.

  I now had to weigh those fears against the reality of my father’s ultimatum. If something didn’t change in the next two weeks, he was going to arrange for me to marry Herman Beckett or Nelson Kent. And my father would marry Murderous Maude O’Neill. Homely and Horrid would become my siblings. The time had come to lay aside my fears and summon some courage.

  “Aunt Birdie, how would you like to go for a ride downtown with me?” I didn’t quite have the courage to make the journey alone.

  “Okay,” she said, rising from the sofa. “Where shall we go?”

  “To LaSalle Street. To find my mother.”

  “Oh, how nice.”

  Unlike her two sisters, Aunt Birdie did not walk briskly and purposefully. A stroll to the streetcar stop with her resembled a leisurely waltz in the moonlight. But Birdie was a cheerful companion and didn’t lecture at the top of her voice on the ride downtown. I linked arms with her after we disembarked onto crowded LaSalle Street, feeling as though I was holding on to a balloon that might float away on the breeze if I loosened my grasp.

  I located a house number on the nearest building, then turned in circles for a few moments like a blindfolded three-year-old until I got my bearings.When I’d figured out which direction to walk, we finally set off to the south. I noticed that odd and even house numbers were on opposite sides of the street, so we crossed at the first intersection to the west side of LaSalle.

  We were getting very close. My feet longed to run as quickly as my racing heart, but Aunt Birdie drifted slowly beside me like a sailboat on a calm day. She smiled at perfect strangers and greeted any man in a uniform—policeman, bellhop, doorman, streetcar driver. She probably would have hugged them all if I had relaxed my grip on her arm.

  And there it was—my mother’s building. Except that it wasn’t an apartment building at all, but a squat three-story office building wedged between two much larger ones. A sign dangling above the door advertised a dancing school.

  “This can’t be it!”

  “Why not, dear?”

  “I don’t see any apartments.”

  Nevertheless, I towed Aunt Birdie into the miniature lobby and read the directory. The first-floor offices belonged to an engineering firm, the second floor to the dancing school, and the third to a law firm.

  “Oh no,” I groaned. “This must be the lawyer’s office that my mother used for her divorce.”

  “Well, then. That says it all, doesn’t it?”

  I refused to give up. We trudged up the stairs to the third floor and met an unsmiling clerk guarding the portal to the shabby office suite behind him.

  “May I help you?”

  I struck a dignified yet flirtatious pose, hoping to penetrate his officiousness with my dignity and his male instincts with my feminine charms.

  “Oh, I surely hope so, Mister …” I spotted the nameplate on his desk. “Mister Morgan. You see, my name is Violet Rose Hayes, and I’m trying to locate one of your clients, Mrs. John Hayes—who happens to be my mother. Her first name is Angeline. This address was listed on my parents’ divorce papers. Would you happen to have the address of her residence?”

  “We can’t divulge our clients’ personal information.” His cold voice and lack of interest felt like a slap. It didn’t require much for me to summon tears.

  “Oh, please … you must help me! She’s my mother. She left home when I was nine, and I haven’t seen her in eleven years.”

  Mr. Morgan might have been carved from stone. “That’s unimportant.”

  “Unimportant! I’ve traveled all the way from Lockport by train, and it’s vitally important that I get in touch with her immediately!”

  “Our clients’ confidentiality is also vitally important.”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. My feminine charms obviously weren’t working. Grumpy Mr. Morgan showed more interest in the papers he was shuffling around on his desk than in me.

  “Suppose … suppose I wrote her a message? Could you forward it to her?”

  “We are not a courier service.”

  “I realize that, but what if … What if I paid to become one of your clients, and then you could give—”

  “Our firm only consults on legal matters.”

  I grabbed Aunt Birdie’s arm and stormed away. As soon as we were out of his sight on the stairwell landing, I started to cry. Aunt Birdie offered me her handkerchief and a hug.

  “There, there …”

  “I need to find my mother, Aunt Birdie!”

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to keep looking, won’t we?”

  We went outside and started to walk again. I was too upset to care which street we were on or which direction we were going. We had stopped at an intersection and were waiting for the traffic to clear, when Aunt Birdie suddenly pointed to a group of men standing in front of the Municipal Court Building across the street.

  “Oh, look. Isn’t that the young man with the lovely blue eyes who came to call on you? What was his name?”

  “Silas McClure …” I breathed. He was unmistakable, even from this distance. I whirled around so quickly to walk the other way that Aunt Birdie broke free. Before I could stop her, she waved her arms like a drowning victim and called to him.

  “Yoo hoo! Mr. McClure!”

  “Hey there!” he shouted when he saw her. He waved in return, then left the other men and hurried across the street, weaving expertly between horses and wagons and carriages. “Miss Hayes! And Mrs. Casey. Hey, it’s great to see you!” Aunt Birdie greeted him with an enormous hug.

  My pulse began to race, and I didn’t want it to, but Silas’ face had lit up like the White City at night when he saw me. It was so seldom that someone looked that pleased to see me. Nelson greeted me coolly, Louis was cordial, and gloomy Herman might have been comatose. I told my heart to slow down, reminding myself that Silas was a thief and a criminal—he had just come out of the courthouse, hadn’t he? But the element of danger only made my heart beat faster.

  “What brings you ladies down here?”

  “Violet is looking for her mother,” Aunt Birdie said. “Have you seen her?”

  He blinked. Then I saw understanding dawn in his eyes.

  “Hey, that’s right! On the day we arrived in Chicago you asked me to take you to LaSalle Street, and then—” He halted. His blinding smile disappeared. “I am really, really sorry, Violet. I was supposed to bring you here after the fair, wasn’t I? I really let you down that day.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, sniffing away my tears. “The address turned out to be a lawyer’s office. They’re the ones who drew up my mother’s divorce papers, but they won’t tell me where she lives.”

  “Your mother loved the theater,” Aunt Birdie said. “That’s probably where she went. Why don’t we look there?”

  I grabbed Birdie’s arm in time to stop her from leaving. “I don’t think she went to the theater, Aunt Birdie. She’s been gone for eleven years.”

  “And there are dozens of theaters in Chicago,” Silas added.

  “Well, there was a wonderful production of Romeo and Juliet. She would enjoy that. She and Johnny were just like them—star-crossed lovers.”

  “Gosh, I can’t tell you how bad I feel for letting you down,” Silas said. “I’d like to make it up to you, Violet, and help out. If you give me your mother’s name, maybe I can help you find her.”

  “How? I don’t even have an address.”

  “I’ve … uh … I’ve got ways.”

  I ima
gined him using the seedy underworld of thieves and pickpockets, whispering her name from one den of criminals to the next. I knew Silas was a thief, yet I didn’t feel at all afraid of him. Besides, as far as finding my mother was concerned, I was at a dead end and facing my father’s deadline. How could it hurt to tell him? I needed all the help I could get.

  “If I give you her name and you do find her, will you promise not to say anything to her until I’ve had a chance to talk to her? I don’t want to frighten her off.”

  “How could he frighten her, dear?” Aunt Birdie asked. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Would you, Mr. McClure?”

  “A mosquito, maybe,” he said, winking at her, “but never a fly. Listen, Violet, don’t worry about a thing. Tell me her name and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket to pull out a wad of folded paper and a stubby pencil. But as he did, I noticed a large bulge in another inside pocket and saw something metallic poking out.

  Was that a gun?

  I had never seen a pistol up close before, but from the brief glimpse I caught before he buttoned his suit coat closed, I feared that’s what it was. My heart started thudding so loudly that Silas’ friends probably could hear it across the street. Now I was afraid of him! I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  “Her name is Angeline,” Aunt Birdie said. “Angeline Hayes.”

  “An-ge-line …” he repeated as he scribbled it down. “Anything else you can tell me that might help?”

  “She was a pretty little thing,” Aunt Birdie added. “Just like Violet. And she loved the theater.”

  “I think … I think she might be Bohemian,” I finally managed to say. Desperation had won the battle over fear. “I-I heard some Bohemian folk music the other night, and the language and the songs and everything sounded very familiar to me. I don’t remember much about my mother, but I remember that she sometimes sang in a different language.”

  He finished writing everything down and refolded the paper. I held my breath, waiting for him to open his jacket again, but he shoved the paper and pencil into an outside pocket.