by Elise Hooper
Frivolities. May reminded herself not to rise to her hostess’s bait. “Well, there were few options for me to study art in Concord, whereas here I can take drawing classes with Dr. Rimmer over in the Studio Building in Park Square.”
“He’s a doctor. And an artist? How peculiar.”
“Dr. Rimmer is a trained medical doctor and an artist. His classes focus on anatomy.”
“Anatomy.” Mrs. Bishop repeated the word with a grimace as if something rotten sat in her mouth.
“We study musculature and bone structure from his sketches and plaster casts.”
Mrs. Bishop placed her fork down carefully and glared across the table at her husband. Mr. Bishop studied a spot on the wallpaper above his wife’s head. May looked to Joshua for support, but he buttered a roll with such grave concentration, it seemed he was removing a bullet from a gunshot wound. Only Nellie dared to look at May. When their gaze met, the girl smiled slightly as a sign of commiseration.
“And do you want to be a professional?” Mrs. Bishop’s tone indicated being a professional implied only one thing for a woman.
“A professional artist, yes.”
The drumming of Mr. Bishop’s fingers on the table was the only sound in the room for a moment.
“And Nellie mentioned you’re interested in Paris? It seems terribly narrow-minded to think only Europe has culture.”
“If I’m serious about becoming a painter—”
Mr. Bishop shook his head. “Show me a Frenchman who wouldn’t cheat his own mother out of her pension or marry his sister if it suited him; there’s not a single plain dealer in the entire country. No American in his right mind would go there. It’s much better to stay here in Boston. Why, the area is thriving.”
His wife nodded her head in approval, and May blinked in surprise at how precisely she was cut down.
Joshua pivoted the discussion to describing the commercial development of the Back Bay, but May could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart in her ears. Mrs. Bishop’s narrow-minded accusation rankled. Anger roiled inside her, but the table conversation sailed along without her. On her plate, a viscous film of fat had arisen where the beef remains lay. Her food congealed.
“The whole area has been modeled on Parisian avenues,” Joshua said, finally looking over at May. “See? You can enjoy France’s finer points without even leaving home.” He nodded with delight at his own idea and swirled dark red wine in his glass—a wine from Burgundy, no less.
May stared at him and wondered if she really knew anything about him. Did he really think a Boston neighborhood affecting French architecture could solve everything?
AFTER DINNER, THEY retired to the drawing room for coffee, and Mrs. Bishop complained about the houses springing up by Marlborough Street. Too newfangled, she called them. May’s temples throbbed, and she looked around the drawing room, searching for a distraction. One of the serving girls hovered next to a bookshelf watching Joshua intensely. The girl’s cheeks were marred with a smattering of pockmarks, a remnant perhaps from a bout of scarlet fever. Joshua signaled to her for coffee. With the steaming sterling silver coffeepot trained over his cup, her shaking hand caused her to spill it on his right forearm. He jumped from his seat and let out a yelp of surprise.
“Ach, sorry, I’m so sorry,” the girl called out, spraying more coffee along the Aubusson carpet in terror. Another maid swooped in with a white towel to clean it. As Mrs. Bishop let loose a tirade against her, the girl’s eyes filled with tears, and red splotches rose up her neck and across her cheeks, before she fled the room, trailing a stream of coffee splatters behind her.
During the entire mishap, May held her breath. Unfazed, Joshua resumed sitting and continued to stir his coffee. None of the Bishops seemed to care about the incident, whereas May’s hands trembled as if she were the one to suffer the rebuke.
“WELL, WASN’T THAT a pleasant evening?” Joshua plucked a dark purple pansy from a neighbor’s flower box and tucked it into his lapel, as he and May walked back to the Bellevue Hotel after dinner. “Now Nellie will probably want to be an artist.”
“A pleasant evening? Were we at the same dinner?” All of the pressure building in May’s head exploded. “I can’t believe you didn’t defend me back there.”
“Excuse me?” Joshua stopped walking to stare at her.
“Your mother made it abundantly clear that my interest in becoming an artist is beyond my purview.”
“Why do you insist on stirring up a hornet’s nest? If you simply eased off your talk about anatomy and Paris, it would all be fine. Mother can be a little slow to embrace new ideas. But she’ll come around. It’s not as if she disapproves of your sister and her writing.”
May walked away from him, saying over her shoulder, “Well then, maybe you should court my sister.”
Joshua laughed and caught up to her, taking her elbow gently. “Don’t be such a pepper pot. By the next time she sees you, Mother will have forgotten all about this.”
“But I won’t.” May lowered her voice as they reached the brisk comings and goings of the Bellevue Hotel’s front entrance.
“Well, you should. Honestly, what am I going to do with you? Stop worrying. I’ll see you soon.”
He smiled, and May couldn’t help letting her frown weaken as she said good-bye—somehow with his handsomeness, he exercised the calming powers of a snake charmer. She chewed her lip as she watched him stroll down the block, tossing his pocket watch around in circles, completely immune to the wreckage of the evening still smoldering in her head.
Disappointment’s jagged edges caught in her throat. It was as if they all had ignored the script for the evening. When they bungled their lines, no director stepped in and asked them to start over. And the night’s script was supposed to include a happy ending—May always favored happy endings—but somehow it all ended in a most unsatisfactory manner. The Bishops were supposed to have been eager to welcome her into their family—instead, it seemed she was all but banished. But the feeling was mutual—her own disenchantment was the biggest disappointment of all. She did not approve of the insularity of their sphere and the casual disregard with which they treated each other one bit. There was no chance she wanted be a part of that family, no matter how charismatic and promising Joshua could appear. The realization of what she needed to do struck her with the force of a kick to the shins.
She hurried to the front desk inside the hotel lobby and scribbled a quick note. She slid it, along with some coins, across the counter to the manager and said good night.
Chapter 9
The Public Garden emptied of people eager to get inside before the storm began, but May stood rooted to her spot on the bridge over the lagoon, watching Joshua clench and unclench his hands on the railing. He looked at her in disbelief. “You want to go to Paris to study art regardless of what I think?”
She nodded.
“You’re relentless. Those reviews from your sister’s book would have been enough to sink most people. But not you.” Joshua looked away, and his gaze swept the lagoon in front of them, his jaw shifting back and forth to assume an expression of control. “Remember the day we met playing badminton? I liked your spirit of adventure. I’m just sorry the very qualities that drew me to you now work against me.”
“I was so hopeful—” May’s voice broke. She clutched the railing on the bridge to steady her shaking hands.
They both looked out over the water. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “We should go,” he said in a low tone. Although people surrounded them, it felt as though they were the only two people left on earth. “Is this because of last night? Because I didn’t say something to the servant? To my mother?”
Last night put their relationship into perspective for her, but she knew he would never understand her dissatisfaction. The time to solve anything that needed fixing had passed. “No, I need to pursue my art. I need to leave Boston for a while. Now I have the courage to go.”
“It’s about to rain.
I should walk you home.”
“I’ll be fine on my own, but thank you.”
He hunched up his shoulders in his jacket, looking chagrined. “Of course, you will.”
“Joshua, I’m so—”
“No, you’re right to end this, it’s for the best.” He gave a quick nod of his head, turned, and walked briskly toward Charles Street.
She tugged at a button from the wrist of her glove and it pulled off, slipped through her fingers to the ground, and danced around the hem of her skirt. A limp nub of thread marked the spot where the button had been attached; she pulled at the loose thread, and it came out easily, leaving no mark that it had ever been there. She bent over to pick up the button and stared at it, thinking of the night of the Christmas ball. That evening felt like a lifetime ago. She wound up her right arm and threw the button far into the lagoon.
“WHAT A SURPRISE—DO you need a place to ride out the storm?” Alice took May by the arm and led her to the drawing room.
May winced at a crash of thunder overhead. She had barely made it to Alice’s front door before rain began to fall furiously. “My life is a storm, I’m afraid.” She went on to describe her encounter with Joshua in the park as a maid entered the drawing room with a steaming teapot and a tray of sandwiches. The maid placed it all down on a marble-topped table and proceeded to pour them both cups of tea.
Once she left, Alice stood and walked over to a cabinet to retrieve a bottle of sherry and two dainty crystal glasses. While Alice poured each of them a small amount, May looked around at the well-apportioned room and suppressed a pang of envy—a Sèvres vase on the mantel, exquisite Flemish china statuary on the bookshelf, three Chinese fans hanging artfully on the wall. Why did Father take transcendentalism so much further than his colleagues? Why did he have to take everything so much further than everyone? Sitting in Alice’s elegant drawing room, May could almost imagine what her life would have been like if her family hadn’t been all but exiled from Boston back when Father invited several Negro children to join his classroom. Even Bostonians filled with abolitionist fervor were not prepared to accept educating black and white children side by side.
The pungent smokiness of Lapsang souchong floated up to May’s face on the steam from her teacup, and she savored the woodsy smell as she thought about Concord. Thank goodness for dear Mr. Emerson and his sponsorship over the years. If it hadn’t been for him, how would they have made it through all of those lean years? Certainly Marmee’s small inheritance wasn’t enough. Driven from the city, her family had arrived in Concord at Mr. Emerson’s invitation with little in their possession except the stain of scandal. After the tall philosopher would stop by for a visit with Father, a few dollar notes would appear on the mantel next to a vase. Mortifying, but necessary.
Alice handed May a glass of sherry, and they both sipped from their drinks. Rain lashed at the windows. “The Bishops are quite set in their ways. I can only imagine what Mrs. Bishop made of you.”
“When she heard I sometimes visit the Athenaeum, she practically threw a conniption fit.”
“Of course. She doesn’t want Nellie to develop any ambitions beyond landing a prosperous husband. Perish the thought that Nellie could catch whatever affliction you’ve got.”
“I don’t think Joshua ever really understood who I am.”
“Or maybe you’re just starting to understand who you really are.”
May nodded slowly, but Alice gave her no time to ponder the remark and continued briskly, “Well, he’ll be a good sort for the right woman.” She gestured toward the serving plate’s stack of sandwiches. “Try the one with cucumber and pear.”
May studied the luxurious soft white bread and took a bite. The tanginess of mint filled her mouth, and she smiled.
“So, what will you do now?” Alice asked.
“That’s why I came to see you. I’ve been thinking—”
“A thinking woman? Sounds dangerous.” Alice sat upright with a broad grin and leaned in.
Part 2
April 1870–February 1873
Europe
Chapter 10
May awoke to the sound of groaning. It took her a moment to realize the sounds of misery had come from her. Lafayette’s lurching, rolling, and creaking convinced her the ship was on the verge of disintegrating, a thought that left her shivering in a cold sweat. When Marie, their stewardess, showed them the features of their stateroom the day before, she’d pointed out a bucket discreetly tucked under the sink. Now May fumbled in the dark to retrieve it with desperation. The ship’s violent rocking created a disorientation that made it impossible to locate the direction of the floor. She clambered out of her bunk and landed with a thud, hitting her elbow as she went down. She crawled along in the darkness, and her knee hit up against something.
“Ouch!”
“Louisa?”
A moan confirmed her sister lay on the floor of the cabin. A pungent sour smell indicated where the bucket stood and that her sister had beaten her to it. May huddled in beside her and used the bucket to vomit.
The voyage had begun innocently enough the day before. When May, Louisa, and Alice stood on Lafayette’s deck, both the mother-of-pearl sky overhead and the leaden water below seemed to indicate an unremarkable crossing ahead. White handkerchiefs whirled around the ship’s deck like snowflakes. Seagulls shrieked. The bristle of ship masts loomed over the low clusters of New York City’s buildings. May longed for her watercolors to capture the steel-colored day. As the steamship pulled away from the docks, her spirits surged with anticipation.
“Next stop: France,” she said, pulling Louisa and Alice close to her. The three women beamed at each other with the giddiness of embarking on a new adventure. It had taken almost a year, but they were on their way to Europe at last.
Sitting aboard the train from Boston to New York City earlier that morning, a sales boy had waved a copy of An Old-Fashioned Girl in front of Louisa, saying, “Bully book, ma’am! It just came out this morning. Better get one. I’ve been selling tons all morning!”
John Pratt, who had been escorting his sisters-in-law to their ship, had stifled a chuckle. “Believe it or not, but you’re addressing the author of that very book.”
The freckled young shaver had looked back and forth from Louisa to the book in his hand. “Really?”
“Yes, it’s my latest, but you’re not to go telling everyone on this train that I’m here, do you understand?” Louisa had handed him a few coins to ensure his loyalty.
“Thank you, ma’am. I won’t breathe a word.” The boy had left them looking suitably impressed.
The encounter with the newsboy put the travel party in high spirits. Those same high spirits seemed like a lifetime ago to May now as she hunched over the bucket.
The door opened to reveal Marie surrounded by a dingy morning light. Somehow she carried a tray tinkling with clattering china. The smell of butter and fragrant black tea made the sisters bump their heads together over the bucket and retch.
Marie peered in at Louisa and May, shaking her head. “Hmm, I’m afraid we’re experiencing some dirty weather today.”
“How in the world did you manage to carry the tray while this infernal ship is bucking about?” Louisa lay on her back next to the bucket on the floor. May looked at her sister’s wan face surrounded by stringy hair and assumed she looked no better.
A steep roll of the ship sent a hairbrush sliding down the length of the enameled sink to hit May on the back of the head as she kneeled over the bucket again. “Can you die of seasickness?” Her voice echoed off the edges of the bucket.
“Mademoiselles, je suis désolé. Being seasick is miserable, but I’m sure it will pass in a day or so. As we reach deeper waters off the coast of Newfoundland, conditions settle down.” She handed Louisa a small teacup of weak tea, only half-full in consideration of the ship’s violent movements. “We need to get you shipshape. Your fans have been waiting outside this door since yesterday, hoping to get an audience
with you.”
“No visitors,” Louisa groaned. “Just please get this god-awful ship to stop rolling.”
The next few days were spent in a state of constant nausea for both May and Louisa, although somehow Alice remained unaffected by the high seas and would pop her head in occasionally to check on them. I just need to make it to Paris, May chanted in her head as she lay in her berth swallowing back nausea. Paris. Paris. Paris. Days slid into nights that slid back into days. By day five at sea, May awoke and found herself hollow and light-headed from hunger. When she ran her fingers along her ribs under her nightgown, her stomach felt concave and stripped of any extra flesh.
Louisa remained incapacitated and wrapped in sheets like a mummy in a tomb. “I hurt all over,” she moaned from underneath a swaddle of blankets. “The sooner I get off this boat, the better. They have named boats Malta, Africa, and Oceania. This one should be rechristened Nausea.”
May tucked into a bowl of porridge before dropping out of her berth on weak, shaky legs. Her reflection in the small mirror above the washing bowl appalled her. She wanted to burn the filthy nightgown she had been wearing for close to a week. Marie helped to dress her in a navy blue skirt and gray jacket of boiled wool.
“I need to get outside—isn’t sea air supposed to be restorative?” May asked. Marie nodded and led her out the door to the empty hallway. “Where are all the girls? They’ve given up their vigil?”
Marie’s face puckered with concern, and she followed May out of the stateroom, shutting the door behind her. “I don’t want to alarm your sister.”
“About what?”
Marie’s gaze traveled up and down the corridor before landing on May. “There’s a smallpox outbreak aboard the ship.”
“Smallpox? Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. The captain recommends passengers remain in their staterooms as much as possible. Go to the deck for some air, but then come back here straightaway. Talk to no one.”