by Mercy Levy
“If it’s coming from you, I expect nothing less.” Alma clutched her cousin’s arm.
“Let’s join Mother for tea, before she sends Liza after us. Oh, Meg, we have so much to show you! When we are through, you will want to stay with us forever!” The intense chill that had seeped into Meg’s bones was all but forgotten in the wave of Alma’s enthusiasm. Hartford was a winter wonderland, and Margaret couldn’t wait to see everything the north had to offer.
2.
The next few days were a whirlwind for Margaret and Alma as the older girl showed Meg the sites of Hartford, introduced her to all her society friends, and planned a dinner at their home to help announce the young southern belle to the cream of the east coast elite. While the dressmakers made her several day dresses and a few more for parties, Margaret dressed in Alma’s clothes of the last season. They were new to Meg, so she had no complaint in wearing the hand-me-downs, and Liza stayed up for two evenings tailoring the dresses and changing them enough that no one would be mistaken and believe Meg to be a poor relative.
Meg assured the kind woman that she was not concerned at all of the opinions of others, but her modesty and good nature only made Liza more intent on making her stay that much more comfortable.
“They are simply a good bunch, the lot of them,” Liza confided in the kitchen girls while she helped them dress Cornish hens for supper. “I have had employers who I was better off without, but if you girls know what’s best for you, you’ll do right by the missus, and she will do right by you.” The young women rolled their eyes behind Liza’s back, but they too, had friends whose appointments left much to be desired, and they redoubled their efforts to create a meal that was a masterpiece.
Christmas morning was the most luxurious that Meg had ever witnessed, and as excited as she was with the gifts she’d brought with her from Louisiana, and the additional purchases she had made her last week in Hartford, she was still astonished at the sheer quantity of trinkets, dresses, and accoutrements she received from her family.
“I did not expect such an outpouring of generosity, above what you have already shown me!” She exclaimed as she opened one last box from Alma, a long, lariat necklace of silver and fresh water pearls, after the fashion of the flappers.
“You came all this way, by yourself, just to see us.” Alma replied. The gifts your family sent are lovely, and I cannot say how much I adore my gift from you. You certainly don’t have to feel that your gifts are not appreciated. We are just so happy you are here with us!” Gruff uncle Daschle coughed discreetly into his handkerchief and nodded, and Aunt Bea wiped at a stray tear that had tried to escape her lashes.
“With your uncle Daschle ill these last few days, it has brightened the mood for all of us to have you here.” She confirmed. “We are happy to have you in Hartford with us, and we cannot wait to show you the best part.” Meg looked around the room, eyebrows raised. It got better than this? She was certain her aunt couldn’t procure and novelty, or entrance to any show, which would surpass the warmth of the hearth, the fragrant tea that Liza had brewed for them, and the crisp, cold whiteness of the untouched, new-fallen snow that gathered on the window panes.
After they had opened presents and Liza had tidied up the ribbons and paper that lay in piles almost as tall as the snow drifts outside, the family sat to a feast of sweet pastries and fruit, with hot cider in addition to tea, and coffee, and thick smoked cuts of meat and fresh baked bread. Uncle Daschle gave the entire staff the remainder of the day off, and warned the girls that they must fend for themselves, for he was going back to bed, with the hope of ridding himself of the persistent cough that had plagued him since just after Meg had arrived. Aunt Bea waited until her husband had dragged his tired body back upstairs to their suite, and reminded Charles that it would be helpful to make sure that fire was good and hot before taking the day off. Charles assured her that he and Liza were staying close and would be able to tend to the sick man’s every need.
Gratefully, Aunt Bea patted her Butler’s hand and nodded. Alma confided in Meg as they dressed upstairs, that her mother and father had already asked her to sneak a thick envelope in to their living quarters. She’d done the same thing every Christmas, long as she could remember. She admitted to Meg that she had no idea how much money was in the packet, but she had never stopped being curious about it.
Dressed in their winter’s warmest, Bea, Alma, and Margaret set out to visit a friend that Bea and Alma had been dying to introduce their young relative to. The cab took them into the heart of town and stopped in front of a restaurant, which was surprisingly busy for both the weather, and the holiday.
“Are there many businesses open?” Meg asked. “In Baton Rouge, we never go into town on Christmas. We wouldn’t even have time, with all the friends there are to be visited, and then the feast to be prepared…” Meg trailed off as Alma stepped to one side and she came face to face with the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
The stranger smiled at her, and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners made her knees melt like butter in the pan. She turned her gaze toward the ground and blushed demurely, which made his smile even broader. She would have fairly swooned had she seen the brilliant flash of white teeth that made his skin look even darker by comparison, and the way his hazel eyes sparkled at the freckles that stood out over her pretty cold-rouged cheeks. He took her hand and held it to his lips, gently brushing the back of it with the whisper of a kiss.
Shocked, her eyes flew up to meet his, and his frank perusal of her caused the color to rush back to her face again. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips and he chuckled, still holding her hand. She coughed politely and stared pointedly at the captive appendage, but the handsome man pretended ignorance until Alma took pity on her poor bemused cousin.
“Don’t you take Mr. Larabie seriously, Margaret. He has no shame when it comes to pretty girls.” The man chuckled and finally released Meg from his warm, callused grip.
“She’s mostly telling the truth. I do appreciate a well-turned lady. But, there is a special place in my heart for a redhead with pale skin and spray of freckles.” Meg put a hand over her nose.
“Those, are the result of not being a proper lady, and letting the sun touch my skin. My mama would just die if she heard you mention them.” Mr. Larabie nodded.
“She thinks that those adorable freckles are proof you aren’t perfect, and they’re going to stop you from getting a proper husband.”
“So, I’ve been told,” Meg chuckled.
“Well, I couldn’t agree more. A fine, beautiful, imperfect young lady such as yourself should not be with anyone so boring as to be ‘proper’. As for myself, I am hardly, if ever proper. I would be happy to escort you around this fine establishment, so that no one gets the wrong idea, and thinks that you’re available for courting.” His eyelid drooped in a slow wink and Meg stammered. She was entirely unaccustomed to such brazen flirtation.
“William Larabie, you leave my poor innocent niece alone. She is in no state to be fending a rogue like you off.” Aunt Bea clutched Meg by the shoulders and drew her further into the restaurant.
“Will owns the place, and abuses his position whenever he can get away with it.” William scoffed and gestured to a table near the back of the dining room. The ladies sat and perused menus, while William pulled up a chair and sat on it backward, facing the three women and folding his arms on the high wooden back.
“I wondered what I had done wrong, to have lost my favorite regulars.” Will sighed. “Where is Mr. Chilton? He isn’t travelling in this cold weather, is he?” Will frowned, and Alma shook her head.
“No, I almost wish he was. He has a cough that just won’t leave him. The doctor says he needs to stay indoors, and in bed, as much as possible.” William gestured to a young man in a white shirt and a long black apron, which was tied about his waist.
“While the Chilton ladies are finished their meal, please packaged up some fresh pumpernickel and a tureen of our creole chi
cken soup to be delivered to Mr. Chilton. Thank you, Carmine.” He turned back to the ladies and addressed Meg directly. “You’re accent reminds me of home. Are you from New Orleans? Thibodaux?” Meg smiled shyly.
“Baton Rouge, sir, though my mother is from Thibodaux.”
“Ah, it shows in the way you speak. You must spend a great deal of time with your mama.”
“I do. She was never one for nannies, despite my father’s concerns that she spoiled me.” Meg grinned. “Which she does to this day, of course.” Aunt Bea and Alma both chimed in with chuckles of agreement.
“Antionette is a most diligent mother.” Beatrice declared. “She is also one of the loveliest renditions of ‘southern belle’ I’ve had the fortune to meet.” Alma nodded.
“Margaret looks just like her, but for the freckles.” Will gasped.
“Sullied by those damnable freckles. Whatever can a beautiful woman with hair that shines like liquid fire do, when she is cursed with those delectable freckles.” He teased drily.
“I don’t know about anyone else, but I am famished.” Meg stated, ignoring both Will’s words, and the predatory look in his eyes. She was quite unused to such attention from a man. In Baton Rouge, the men and boys who came to court her were polite to a fault, gentlemanly and courteous. Not flirtatious and bold. She thought she should be infuriated. Instead, she was confused. Her pulse was racing, her color deepened to the crimson matching the velvet sash on her white dress, and low in her belly, she felt hot and achy. The last time she had felt such a way, was when she was only fourteen and had developed a terrible crush on Mr. Mason, a handsome business associate of her father.
She glanced at Alma, worried that her intense feeling of attraction was too noticeable, thanks to her pale skin and easy blush, and her cousin jumped in to rescue her.
“I’m starving, Mr. Larabie. Are you going to let us poor women eat, or are you going to torment my poor cousin out of her appetite?” Will laughed, and put up his hands in surrender. He took a long moment to scrutinize young Margaret from top to bottom, and finally stood up to leave when she let out an uncomfortable squeak.
“Miss Chilton. I cannot express how glad I am to have made your acquaintance. I will harass you no longer. It would not do to have such a lovely creature faint from hunger, minutes away from the best Creole food north of the Mississippi.” He bowed his head at the shoulders and winked at Meg before dipping his head again toward Aunt Bea. “I will have something nourishing and healthful delivered to your home before you leave. Mr. Chilton will be feeling better in no time, I assure you.”
Aunt Bea thanked him and he walked away, leaving the ladies to choose their lunches. While they perused their menus, a server, dressed identically to the first, served them hot, bread in a covered basket. Meg inhaled the thick molasses fragrance and her mouth watered. A small serving dish of fresh whipped butter accompanied the bread, and before Meg had snuck a slice from the basket, another server came to their table and set glasses filled with garnet-colored liquid in front of each of them.
Alma sipped from her glass, and her eyes closed as she savored the currant cordial slipping down her throat. She opened them slowly and cautioned her mother and cousin to be careful not to drink too much at once, and Meg looked at her beverage curiously. Whatever could be the harm in drinking the berry juice quickly? She watched her aunt take a sip from her glass and wince slightly, then smack her lips in satisfaction. She smiled at Meg, who felt obligated to try her own drink. It was, all at once, crisp, sweet, tangy, and warming, as the underlying alcohol bled through the flavors of currants, honey, and cinnamon.
She glanced up at her aunt in surprise, but said nothing, as it seemed that nothing was exactly what was expected of her. The rich molasses flavor of the pumpernickel bread paired nicely with the drink, and Meg emptied her glass in short order, only to have it replaced with a full one as soon as she set it down.
By the bottom of the second glass, Meg was relaxed and a little tipsy. She suddenly felt more confident and openly curious, and decided to ask her aunt how they could drink alcohol in a restaurant with the prohibition absolutely set on making sure this very thing could not happen. Before she got a word out, Will appeared at her elbow, as if she had conjured him with her thoughts.
“Ladies, we have a better table for you, where your meals will be served, if you wish.” He stated very formally, gesturing to the back of the dining room. He helped Meg to her feet, which was easier than she feared, after drinking the doctored cordial. With their hands on each of his elbows he escorted her and her cousin to a doorway, wide enough for them to pass through three-abreast, without difficulty. As she passed through, Meg felt a thrill down her spine, as she stared at the books, on shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, on every wall. There were novels and encyclopedias, books whose titles were in languages she’d never seen.
Will released the ladies and walked over to a bookshelf near the center of the wall. He removed a thick old tome and released a switch that was hidden behind it, pivoting the whole six-foot vertical section of shelf inward to reveal another doorway with a staircase circling down. Meg’s palms dampened when Will motioned for her to lead the way down, but with a glance at Alma, she took one step, then another.
Instead of a poorly lit dungeon, she walked into a room lit nearly to daylight with lanterns and small windows up high on the walls. The room was full of tables, some surrounded by men and women playing cards, others drinking amber liquid from tumblers as they chatted in padded booths.
Meg perked up as a pianist began playing a lively tune, something that brought a smile to her face, even before the trumpet and the saxophone joined in. She was drawn to the small stage like a moth to lamplight watching the pianist’s fingers fly over the keys effortlessly. Her damnable blush crept up her neck and cheeks as she thought about the hours she spent miserable and bored, forced by her mother to practice until her fingers were stiff and too sore to use.
The man paused, tipped his hat, and winked, then picked up his tempo, changing the tune again, without missing a beat. Meg started at a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Will, grinning down at her.
“Tell me that you dance, darlin’ and you will make me a happy man.” He teased, holding out a hand for hers. She glanced back at the musicians and nodded. He swung her around and into his arms and she relaxed and let him lead. Her feet barely seemed to touch the wood plank floor as they spun and rocked in time to the jazz music that swung around them. When Will finally released her at the third or fourth song, Meg had only enough time to take her seat, before Alma had her on her feet again, teaching her all the popular dance steps, laughing and giggling when she couldn’t get it quite right.
No one stared, no one frowned at her for her missteps, and when she was too tired to dance one more step, and her feet felt like they might fall off if she stood for one more second, she was invited to sit at a table with a group not much older than her. She listened as they talked about the revolution in Eastern Europe, and the prohibition, and philosophy. Her brain was as sore and numb as her feet by the time her aunt tapped her on the shoulder and warned her that the cab to take them home was waiting upstairs. Will escorted her up the stairs, smiling as she excitedly chattered on about how wonderful his place was.
“So, you really like it?” He asked, half teasing, as they stood on the curb, waiting for Alma and Bea to settle themselves in the carriage of the cab.
“It was the most amazing, wondrous thing I’ve ever seen. I would’ve died happy just getting to stay in that library, but downstairs? My parents would never let me listen to jazz music back home, and your customers? Well, I mean there was that one man who tried to grab my waist and asked if I’d like to accompany him home, but everyone else was lovely, and intelligent and, and, I just hope I get to come back again!” She took a deep breath and he laughed and raised her hand to his lips.
“You most certainly are welcome every day, any day, for long as I can keep you coming back. And d
on’t worry. That one particular fella won’t be.” He kissed her hand, his lips warm and soft against the quickly cooling skin on her hand, and helped her into the warm interior of the cab.
“Is he like that with everyone?” Meg asked as soon as the carriage was moving.
“Of course, at least all the new girls,” Alma replied. “Though, I’m sure your accent and southern sensibilities didn’t hurt.” Meg frowned.
“I certainly have no need to be just another skirt to chase. But, he is a very good dancer, and all those books!” She sighed and closed her eyes. “He can never look at me that way again, he can ignore me completely, if he leaves me alone in that library.” Aunt Bea laughed and leaned forward in the cab to pat her niece on the leg.
“I’m sure that if you tell him that, he’ll be only too happy to get you all the books you desire.” Alma drawled. “After all, there’s no faster way to a man’s heart than to tell him you only like him for his collection of literature.
Meg rolled her eyes and pulled the curtain aside to look out the window. It was strange to think that right now, at home, her family would be walking about after dinner and enjoying the grounds and gardens, while she was fighting to stay warm in freezing temperatures so far away. Yet, the buildings and statues and frozen parks that had been so foreign to her upon her arrival, were as much home to her after two short weeks, as Louisiana had been all her life.
She didn’t even mind the cold that nipped at her face and turned her nose red. At least in the cold, it was harder to see her freckles against pink, winter blushed cheeks. The cab ride was short, and peering out the window gave her an excuse to ignore Alma, who seemed unhappy with her after their time at William Larabie’s speakeasy. Her cousin took a little of the glow from the magic of the place. Margaret would have imagined a basement gambling den to be dark, dismal, and frightening in ambiance. Instead, it had been warm and inviting and full of laughter, and welcome.