Skirting Tradition

by Kay Moser

“I don’t require a geography lesson from you, Ada. I know where Galveston is, and I also know what goes on down there. Why, the place is just full of foreigners! Oh, it will be a miracle if I don’t have a migraine over this!”

  “Perhaps you should rest,” Sarah suggested the only thing that came to mind.

  “Rest? Did you say ‘rest’?” Mrs. Bellows demanded as if Sarah had suggested murder. “There will be no rest ever again in this town! Not with that woman here. No, indeed!”

  “I could tell Mrs. Boyd that you’re not feeling well,” Sarah tried again. “And that you’re lying down.”

  Mrs. Bellows shook her head emphatically, her jowls swaying wildly. “You don’t understand, Sally. We are talking about Mrs. Christine Boyd, wife of Richard Boyd. Why, he owns half the county, including the bank! That’s why she’s such a dear friend of mine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And why I will, of course, receive her call. Besides, it is my duty to keep dear Mrs. Boyd away from that woman. Did I tell you that that woman favors the vote for women?”

  “No, ma’am.” Sarah’s mind began racing. A real suffragette in Riverford!

  “Well, now you know! Our trials are just beginning.” Mrs. Bellows sighed heavily and glanced at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Lord have mercy! It’s past one o’clock. Quick, Sally, go dust the front parlor, and Ada, prepare everything for tea. It’ll be far too early to serve tea, but we must offer Mrs. Boyd something. Oh, and Sally, give the tea service a quick polish. And run outside and cut a bouquet from the roses. Thank the Lord they’re blooming again now that the heat has broken! Set the tea table with my very best china. Ada, you must bake something right this minute!”

  “What, Miz Bellows?”

  “I don’t know! Must I decide everything?”

  “Yes’m, I guess you does, ’cause I don’t know.”

  “Lemon pound cake,” Sarah suggested. “It’s delicious with tea.”

  “Yes, that’s the thing. Not too sweet. Now get busy, both of you! I’m going upstairs to calm my nerves.” Tossing her bustle behind her, Mrs. Bellows jerked around and hurried out.

  An hour later, Sarah could hardly contain her excitement as she waited close to the front door for Mrs. Boyd’s arrival. She had seen the lady from a distance every Sunday for years when she promenaded serenely down the aisle of the First Baptist Church on the arm of her distinguished husband. Even after the lady was seated, Sarah couldn’t focus on the song lyrics at all because she was so intent on studying Mrs. Boyd’s beautiful dresses and elegant hats.

  Everyone, it seemed, loved Mrs. Boyd, even Sarah’s father. He might have a harsh word or two to say about Richard Boyd, the banker who owned the land he farmed, but his eyes shone with reverence when he talked about Mrs. Boyd. “The sweetest lady the good Lord ever made,” he would pronounce every time her name was mentioned. And indeed, Sarah could remember many special favors her family had received from Mrs. Boyd—little notes to Sarah’s mother on her birthday, a bottle of cough remedy when the family had been stricken with the flu, and most recently a soft, knitted baby blanket for the new boy.

  None of these distant encounters with Mrs. Boyd prepared Sarah for her first face-to-face meeting. When she answered the door, she was overcome by uncharacteristic shyness and dropped her gaze to the wide planks of the porch. A swish of blue silk stirred her to action, and slowly she raised her eyes from the shimmering silk skirt to the gentle smile on Mrs. Boyd’s lips.

  “Sarah Novak, I believe,” Mrs. Boyd said. “How wonderful to meet you at last.”

  Sarah’s capacity for speech had fled, but Mrs. Boyd’s poise had not. Her blue eyes beamed at Sarah as she quoted, “The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy regions stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “From Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, dear Sarah, and a very apt description of you.”

  Sarah blushed, and, mesmerized by Mrs. Boyd’s smiling eyes, she unwittingly raised her ruddy, work-worn hand to receive the lady’s extended alabaster-white one. She felt the gentle squeeze of instant friendship and looked down at the long, tapered fingers.

  “For pity’s sake, Sally, let Mrs. Boyd in the front door,” Mrs. Bellows called out as she bumped down the stairs. “I apologize for Sally, Mrs. Boyd. She’s just a farm girl, but I’ve taken her under my wing.”

  “What a blessing for you, Mrs. Bellows.” Mrs. Boyd reached out and gently touched Sarah’s cheek.

  “Well, I’m certainly hopeful it will be the other way around. Come in, Christine.” Mrs. Bellows ushered her guest into the parlor. “Sally will bring us some tea.”

  “Oh no, we mustn’t tarry for tea. Didn’t I make it clear in my note that we are going to call on Mrs. Hodges? We mustn’t let another day pass before—”

  “Well now, Christine, I think we need to talk about that.”

  Mrs. Boyd tilted her head. “It seems quite straightforward to me, Edith. We have a new neighbor, and it is our custom—”

  “To welcome new neighbors. Yes, I know. But the question is, do we want to welcome this particular woman into our society?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “But, Christine, she is quite different—”

  “All God’s children are unique, Edith. It’s true that Mrs. Hodges has had the privilege of vast experiences—”

  “Indeed she has, and that’s what worries me! Do we want these ‘vast experiences’ introduced into our society? You have young children to think about, you know. Your boys are safely away at school, of course, but you simply must not allow precious little Cecilia and Julia to fall under the influence of such a woman!”

  “On the contrary, Edith. For the sake of my children, I am pleased to have a new neighbor with extensive education and fascinating foreign experiences. She will, no doubt, be a source of learning and enjoyment for all my family and for the town. Now that Mrs. Hodges is dwelling among us, I’ve no doubt that our cultural activities will be greatly enhanced.”

  “But, Christine, a woman who chooses to live abroad ... really, how can a decent woman make such a choice?”

  Mrs. Boyd laughed quietly. “Dear, dear Edith. You do worry, don’t you? I’m sure Mrs. Hodges has been properly chaperoned in all her travels.”

  “But you don’t know that for a fact, do you?”

  “I don’t know the lady because I haven’t met her, but I am going next door right now and welcome her to Riverford. I’m going to trust Mr. Hodges’ good sense in choosing a wife and assume only the most positive things about Mrs. Hodges.”

  Mrs. Bellows shook her head sadly. “Christine, I had hoped that I would not have to be severe with you, but I see that it is my duty to save you from an egregious error. You are still so very young, and as a close friend of your dear, departed mother-in-law, I am going to exercise my authority and assure you that you are most definitely not going to call on Mrs. Hodges. She should be beneath our notice. Certainly she should be beneath yours. You are a Boyd now.”

  Sarah watched in amazement as Mrs. Boyd smiled sweetly at Mrs. Bellows’ tart words and quietly responded, “Before I moved to East Texas, before I was a Boyd, I was a Gibbes from Charleston. But really, what does any of that matter? Kind behavior is the same everywhere. Mrs. Hodges has been our neighbor for three days, and no one has called on her. I am going to change that. Are you going with me?”

  Mrs. Bellows threw herself onto a settee, jerked up a copy of Mrs. Godey’s Magazine, and fanned herself with it.

  “I see that you are still perturbed, Edith, so I will not press you. However, I do want to invite you to a tea in Mrs. Hodges’ honor next Thursday—assuming those arrangements are acceptable to her. Perhaps you will be more comfortable meeting her in my home rather than in her own, even though it is next door to yours.”

  “Don’t remind me,” moaned Mrs. Bellows. “I’ve been watching that woman
strutting about in her bloomers, ordering men around and waving her arms in the most unseemly fashion, for three days now.” She jumped back up and shook her finger at Mrs. Boyd. “I tell you, that woman is going to destroy our nice, quiet, orderly life. You will come to regret the day she ever set foot in this town. Why, the next thing you know, she’ll be riding one of those bicycles down the street!”

  “I certainly hope so. Perhaps she can teach me.”

  “Oh, Christine!”

  “Oh, Edith!” Laughing quietly, Mrs. Boyd turned toward the door. “Trust me, this will all turn out well. Now I must go. Please reconsider your stance on this matter and come to my tea next week. You’ll receive a written invitation tomorrow. Good day.”

  Sarah hastily opened the door for Mrs. Boyd, who paused to pat her on the shoulder. “I’m so fond of your family, dear. Please give my best to your mother.”

  “Oh, yes ma’am, I will. Mother loves the blanket you sent.”

  “I’m so glad. Good-bye now.”

  “What blanket?” Mrs. Bellows demanded as soon as Sarah had shut the door.

  “The crocheted blanket Mrs. Boyd sent after the baby was born.”

  “Oh no! Christine will never learn. She’s far too kind to the lower classes.”

  Sarah flushed hot with anger.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, Sally!” Mrs. Bellows snapped, “Go upstairs to my room at once and close all the curtains. I feel a headache coming on. I must lie down! Then clean the tea things and leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “Yes, leave! I can’t stand any noise in the house. My nerves are completely gone!” She snatched up a piece of cake and stormed out of the room.

  Furious, Sarah raced upstairs and plumped the pillows on Mrs. Bellows’ bed with a vengeance as she hissed, “How dare she? My family is not low class! And how can she just dismiss me that way? I have feelings too!” Sarah strode to the window to jerk down the shade, but when she saw Mrs. Boyd gracefully mounting the verandah steps next door, she paused to watch and cheer the lady on. Much to her surprise, no servant came to the door; instead, Mrs. Hodges came striding out onto the verandah, holding out both her hands toward her guest.

  I want to be just like them, Sarah decided.

  ***

  Since Mrs. Bellows had dismissed her early, Sarah seized the opportunity to stop at Hodges Department Store to buy fabric for her mother’s birthday surprise. The saleslady frowned as Sarah fingered a beautiful piece of royal-blue twill. “It’s a lovely piece of goods, isn’t it?” the woman observed.

  “Oh yes! The color would be so pretty on my mother.”

  “No doubt,” the saleslady murmured as she gently removed the fabric from Sarah’s hand. “But not appropriate for—how shall I say it—for her station in life. Let me show you something that will suit her better.” She took Sarah’s arm and escorted her over to the least expensive black muslin. “What your mother needs is something entirely serviceable, and black can be worn on any occasion and will not show dirt.”

  “But I want Mama to have something special this time! She’s worked so hard.”

  “Shhh! Let’s have none of that. What we want and what we need are two entirely different things. Now, how many yards of the black shall I cut for you?”

  Angry words leapt to Sarah’s tongue, but before she could utter them, she saw the name Hodges Department Store printed in elegant black script on a white cardboard box lying on the counter. Her memory flashed back to the image of Victoria Hodges greeting Christine Boyd on her front verandah, and she remembered her own thought at the time: I want to be just like them.

  “I really can’t wait all day.” The saleslady’s tone sharpened. “I may have an important customer come in at any moment. How many yards of the black do you need?”

  Sarah stood straighter and folded her hands the way she had seen Mrs. Boyd do. “Not an inch,” she said quietly as she turned away.

  “Really, young woman, I don’t appreciate your wasting my time!”

  Sarah looked back at the saleswoman and smiled. “I understand your feelings exactly. Good day.”

  Halfway home, she realized that working for Mrs. Bellows meant she would soon earn enough money to buy the blue twill. “And no one’s going to stop me either!” she informed the setting sun.

  ***

  At four o’clock in the morning, while the town of Riverford slept, Mrs. Victoria Hodges sank down on the top step of the wide oak staircase of her new home and dragged her fingers through her tangled red hair. “What have I done?” she whispered. “Oh, what have I done! What possessed me to come back to Texas?”

  The heat of panic flooded her body. “I’m totally out of step here—incapable of being a decent wife. Didn’t I learn my lesson twenty-five years ago?” She flinched as the memory of her mother’s disapproving diatribes rushed through her mind: You are a disgrace! You have failed the family and shamed Southern womanhood. Thank God your father is in his grave!

  “I’m an artist!” Victoria defended herself against the phantom voice as she angrily fanned her hot face with her hand. “Why can’t you just let me be who I am?”

  Her burst of temper fizzled back into suffocating anxiety, and as she had done for the twenty-five years of her self-exile, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders and rocked back and forth. “It’s okay ... it’s okay,” she cooed to herself.

  The floorboards of the hall creaked, and Victoria fell silent. Her husband Hayden’s strong hand ran down her spine as he settled next to her, then he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to his side.

  “We can make this work,” he whispered into her hair.

  “But I don’t belong here! That why I left. That’s why I abandoned my hopes for love and substituted my art for husband and children.”

  “That was long ago.”

  Entangled in her fear, Victoria raced on. “What was I thinking? Why did I choose art over family?”

  “Those were difficult times for everyone, right after the War.”

  “They were unendurable ...” Victoria fell silent as her memory revisited her past. “Art hurt so much less and ... and it never dies.”

  “That makes perfectly good sense.”

  A nervous quiver ran through Victoria. “Oh, Hayden, I love you. I do. But I don’t think I can do this. Now that I’m back, I remember so graphically why I left. Horrific images float through my mind. All those beloved men we lost in the war ... burial after burial ... everything draped in black. Weeping ... always weeping. James’ broken body—no matter what I did, I couldn’t save him.” Victoria clutched at the lapels of Hayden’s robe. “I tried so hard. There was nothing I didn’t try. You must believe me!”

  “Dearest, I do believe you.” Hayden leaned down until she felt his breath on her cheek. “Now listen to me, Victoria. I know you. I know you would lay down your life for someone you love, and I know you loved James Lindsay.”

  “And you can live with that?”

  “Yes, I can. I know you still love him, but time has lessened the intensity of that love as well as the nightmare of losing him.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way to me right now.”

  “Of course not. Three days ago, you got off a train that brought you back to Texas, to the place where you loved and lost. Flashbacks are inevitable under these circumstances.”

  “Are you thinking of the wife you loved and lost? Are you thinking of Melinda?”

  “No. But it’s different for me, darling. I have lived in this house for many years since her death and the death of our son. Your return to Texas is brutally abrupt; a bit of trauma is natural, something to be expected.”

  “I do love you! I can’t bear for you to doubt that.”

  “I don’t. I know I’m the man you love now, just as you’re the woman I now love. We humans can love more than once, dearest.”

  “That was so easy to believe when we met in England.”

  “It will be easy again. Give it some time. The trip from Eng
land was long, and you haven’t slept well for days.”

  Victoria buried her face in his chest and with a strangled voice confessed, “Hayden, I don’t think I can stay. I’m so sorry ... so very sorry, but I just don’t see how I can return to the past.”

  He tightened his grip around her shoulders. “I won’t lose you, Victoria. I’ve waited too long—” His voice broke. “Please, I know you’re frightened. You’re not thinking straight. Just for a little while ... please ... trust me to think for you. I love you, and you love me. It’s 1895 and a totally different situation—if we make it so. We can shape our own future. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

  Silence blanketed the staircase as Victoria lay in his arms, considering his question. Her anxiety ebbed as her breathing slowed.

  “Yes,” she finally answered. “You’re right. We must—we can build our future. I was alone so long, I forgot what joy love can bring.” She pulled away and looked directly into his eyes. “Oh, Hayden, loving you has made me able to see the world in color again, and somehow ... somehow I’m going to make it past these fears.”

  “Quite a compliment from an artist.”

  “An artist in Europe. Just a woman in Texas, I’m afraid. The two aren’t allowed to be one here.”

  Much to her surprise, Hayden laughed softly. “Since when do you need anyone to allow you to do or be anything? You’re the same woman here as you were in Europe. In the light of day, you’ll see that you haven’t lost the strength you’ve gained since you’ve been away.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “I am right, and I say, ‘Batten the hatches, Texas! Hurricane Victoria has made landfall.’”

  “Right now, I’ll settle for breathing normally.”

  “First, you sleep—long and well. Then you paint.”

  “Paint?”

  “You are an artist, Victoria, and returning to your work will help you sort things out.”

  “Well, maybe ... but I do have to unpack to find my brushes. And there are crates everywhere—”

  “I promise you, darling, when you next wake up, I will have found your art supplies. They will be waiting for you in the back parlor.”