by Kay Moser
Mrs. Boyd rose from her chair and held out her hand to Pa as she murmured, “Wonderful. Thank you.” She turned to Sarah’s mother. “We must leave you to the leisure of your Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Novak. Thank you for the lovely visit. Such a pleasant hour in front of the fire.”
“Come back any time,” Sarah’s mother insisted. “Just any time at all.”
“I will.” Mrs. Boyd turned to Sarah. “And I’ll see you this week in town, dear.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah was beaming, and as soon as the guests left the house, she raced upstairs to stand by the window of her attic room to watch them drive away. “Thank you, dear God!” she breathed. “Oh, thank you!”
CHAPTER 8
“Are you nervous about Mrs. Boyd’s tea?” Miss Victoria asked as she stood at the library table, putting the last touches on an elaborate tussie-mussie she was taking as a thank-you gift to her hostess.
“Yes, ma’am, I am—real nervous,” Sarah admitted.
“Really nervous,” Miss Victoria automatically corrected. “Adverb needed to modify adjective.”
“Really nervous.” Sarah repeated the phrase to etch it in her memory. “Of course, I know nobody’s going to pay any attention to me, so I don’t really need to worry about—”
“Wait a minute! What do you mean, no one will pay attention to you? Of course they will. You’re just as new to these ladies as I am. They may have seen you at church, but not in a social setting, I’m sure.”
“But I’ll just be running in and out of the kitchen—”
“No, you won’t. You most definitely won’t!”
Confused by Miss Victoria’s sharp tone, Sarah examined her employer’s face and discovered that her milky-white skin had turned rosy and that her eyes were sharp, bristling blue.
“My secretary does not run in and out of anyone’s kitchen. Mrs. Boyd and I have already discussed this. You will be at the punch table, serving the guests. Normally, such an honor would be extended to one of Mrs. Boyd’s close friends, but she wants to honor you by entrusting this responsibility to you.”
“Me?” Sarah’s mouth flew open in amazement. “But why?”
Miss Victoria placed the tussie-mussie into a bowl of water, and, taking Sarah by the hand, she pulled her over to the window seat and pushed her down onto the cushions. “You and I need to have a talk. I can see that you need some re-indoctrination.”
“Re-indoctrination?”
“A new understanding. Sarah, surely you know by now that I intend to help you gain the education you want and deserve. You do know that, don’t you?”
“No, ma’am, not exactly. I just thought you were going to allow me to pick up information along the way as I work for you.”
Miss Victoria leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m far more devious than that. I have a plan.”
“A plan?”
Miss Victoria laughed. “You should see your face, Sarah! Don’t worry, I think you’re going to love my plan.”
“But what is it?”
“To prepare you to go to teachers college, of course. That’s what you dream of, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Pa will never—”
“We’ll bring your father along slowly, Sarah. In time, he’ll see the benefit to your whole family, and if he doesn’t, we’ll send General Gibbes to talk to him again.”
“It was you! You sent the general out to talk to Pa!”
“No, not exactly. I didn’t think of it, but Mrs. Boyd knew immediately what to do. As it turns out, she has a natural gift for manipulating men.” Miss Victoria laughed as she took Sarah’s hand in hers and patted it. “You have a true patron in Mrs. Boyd, Sarah.”
“But why? Why is she helping me? Why are you?”
Miss Victoria’s chiseled features settled into thoughtful solemnity, as a flicker of pain flashed through her eyes. “We know,” she whispered. “We have lived through the pain.”
Sarah’s eyes stung with surprise tears. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I’m crying. I really don’t.” She swiped at the rivulets making their way down her cheeks.
“I do.” Miss Victoria’s voice turned cold as she pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and thrust it at Sarah. “Wipe your face, and let’s take a hard look at the truth.”
Mystified by her employer’s stern tone, Sarah choked back her tears and watched as the tall, elegant woman rose from the window seat and wandered around the room, stroking finely wrought book covers and caressing beloved objets d’art. Finally, she paused at the scrolls of the plans for the new fountain. “Do you remember the first day we met, and you listened while I told you about the new fountain?”
“Of course I do.”
“You were excited, really quite enthusiastic.” Miss Victoria turned and smiled warmly at her.
Sarah nodded.
“And there was a hunger in you, Sarah. More than a simple desire, it was a true need for knowledge. It was every bit as visible as that large magnolia in the front garden. It loomed in you; it shone from your soul. It was blinding!”
Once again, tears flooded Sarah’s eyes, and Miss Victoria came, knelt on one knee in front of her, and said, “I decided right then and there that I would not allow your need to be denied the way mine was.”
Sarah gave up and, burying her face in the handkerchief, cried freely. “But you got away,” she choked out.
Miss Victoria grasped Sarah’s shoulders and forced the young woman to look into her eyes. “I ripped myself out of my culture and fled to a more supportive world. That is true. But it was excruciatingly painful, and I don’t want it to be that way for you. It’s time to stop this madness. Young women should have control of their own destinies. I can’t recapture my own youth, but I can work to give your generation different choices.”
“You were so brave! I can’t imagine finding the courage to leave everything familiar behind.”
“Desperation, Sarah, desperation. The War had destroyed my world. The young man I loved, the man who loved me as the artist I am, was in the grave. All other matches would have been deadening for me. My soul would have shriveled without my art. I was afraid to go abroad, but I was more afraid to stay.”
“I could never do that! I wish I were brave enough—”
“You don’t have to be! That’s the point. Your generation should have different—better—choices than mine. And it will, if we few women who have defied the status quo give you the chance you deserve.”
Sarah leaned toward Miss Victoria. “Mother is trying to help me. There’s not much she can do, but when it comes to Pa—”
Miss Victoria nodded. “She handles him. I understand.”
“She tries.”
“At all costs, we must keep your pa comfortable. I know that.”
“He means well, really he does. He just thinks that I’ll be an outcast if I don’t marry and become a farm wife. And he doesn’t understand about the books at all.”
“He never will. Your pa is the product of his generation and his life experiences. We don’t have to condemn him or dishonor him; we just have to help him become more flexible than he ever thought possible. And we will, Sarah. Mrs. Boyd and I are determined.”
“I don’t understand about Mrs. Boyd. Why is she helping me? She didn’t escape like you did. She married and is raising a family.”
“Marriage is not the enemy, Sarah. Neither are children. The enemy is denial of a woman’s artistic and intellectual gifts. God gave us those gifts; therefore, the world must need them. Women must be allowed to flower completely and to have control over their destinies. As for Mrs. Boyd, I suspect she has found her own way of escaping; time will tell.” Miss Victoria rose and sat next to Sarah. “And don’t forget—she has General Gibbes. One supportive man can create miracles.”
“Like Mr. Hayden?”
“Exactly!” Miss Victoria laughed. “Exactly like Hayden. Now, let’s change the subject.” She jumped up and pulled Sarah to her feet. “We have some practical
matters to consider. First of all, you will henceforth be known as my private secretary. That will seem strange to the ladies of Riverford, but they will adjust. Second, in your new position, you must wear an appropriate costume, one I dictate.” She dragged Sarah out of the library and into the center hall. “Here it is!” She handed Sarah a large box from Hodges Department Store. “Go upstairs and put this on and see if it fits.”
“But I couldn’t accept—”
“Uniforms are part of the job, Sarah. You must don this as soon as you arrive in the morning and leave it here when you leave at night. You may use the seamstress’ room as your dressing room. Now go, try it on! When you come back down, Frances and I are going to instruct you in the proper way to pour punch. It’s not as easy as it looks.”
Visions of sticky punch soaking into an embroidered tablecloth rolled through Sarah’s mind. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed.
“Shoo!” Miss Victoria pushed her toward the staircase. “Go change! We have a busy day ahead of us.”
***
Externally poised, but quivering internally, Sarah stood tall at one end of the sparkling dining room table in the Boyd mansion. Never in her wildest imaginations had she dreamed she would be spending the afternoon surrounded by such a collage of silver, crystal, and laced-bedecked linens. So far, she had managed to contain every drop of the strawberry punch as she ladled it into delicately etched crystal cups. The linen cloth was safe, and so was her new white lawn shirtwaist. She smiled at the memory of first seeing herself decked out in the new uniform. Miss Victoria had chosen a shirtwaist with a wide band collar punctuated by a lace inset and a plethora of tucks that descended from the shoulder and shaped the fine cloth to Sarah’s young figure. The box had also contained a navy skirt with nine gores that started at Sarah’s tiny waist and gracefully flowed over her hips and down to the floor. Nine gores of navy twill! Sarah was so thrilled by her new outfit, she intentionally extended her arm, pretending to rearrange the punch cups just so she could admire the tiny tucks cascading down her arm and the discreet single band of lace inset in her sleeve cuff.
“Why, isn’t that the little Novak farm girl, Mrs. Callan? You know, the Czech one.”
Sarah whirled around to discover that two ladies she recognized from church were approaching her.
“I’m Mrs. Miller.” A short, severe-faced woman introduced herself to Sarah. “No doubt you’ve seen me at the Baptist Church. And Mrs. Callan sings in the choir. You’ll be familiar with her face, I’m sure.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah did indeed recognize Mrs. Callan’s well-padded figure and sagging jowls.
“Well, Sally, you’re moving up in the world, aren’t you?” Mrs. Callan’s insinuating tone belied her broad smile. Sarah’s stomach sickened as the woman picked at the lace on her new blouse. “What a pretty shirtwaist! A bit expensive for your family, isn’t it?”
“I’m working for Mrs. Hodges now.” Sarah battled a wave of repugnance as she fought her instinct to draw back from Mrs. Callan’s fingers.
“That must be a nice change from the farm,” Mrs. Miller observed. “I never could understand how a woman could bear the isolation of a farm. Your poor mother! Still, I suppose you people are born to it.”
Mrs. Callan sidled closer to Sarah and lowered her voice. “You can tell us, Sally. What’s she really like? Mrs. Bellows says she’s positively bohemian.”
“I don’t think ...”
“Runs around in bloomers all the time, I hear,” Mrs. Miller added.
“No, not really,” Sarah objected.
Mrs. Callan rolled her eyes. “Heaven only knows who she associated with in England all those years.”
Mrs. Miller leaned closer to her friend. “Whoever it was certainly taught her how to hook a man. Poor Hayden Hodges. What would his mother say?”
“Turning over in her grave, no doubt,” sighed Mrs. Callan, “wondering why on earth her son would fall for such an obvious fortune hunter.”
“She’s not like that!” Sarah protested.
The two women smirked at each other, and Mrs. Miller said, “I understand she fancies she’s a painter!” Both women laughed.
“She is a great painter!” Sarah retorted.
“Oh, and you would know all about great painting, wouldn’t you, Sally?” Mrs. Miller demanded as she thrust an empty cup at her.
Sarah resisted the urge to respond. Instead, she concentrated on filling the small cup without spilling a drop.
Her mouth full of a petit four, Mrs. Callan demanded, “What is Christine Boyd thinking, welcoming a woman like that into Riverford society?”
“Since you so kindly asked,” Mrs. Boyd’s melodic voice rang from the doorway, “I was thinking that the women of Riverford are blessed to have such a talented lady of wide cultural experience join us.”
Startled by Mrs. Boyd’s sudden appearance, Mrs. Callan choked on the petit four and Mrs. Miller spilled her punch on the tablecloth.
“Oh, Mrs. Boyd, I am sorry.” Mrs. Miller’s voice was dry as a summer weed. “I seem to have soiled your beautiful cloth. I hope it’s not one of your beloved heirlooms from Charleston.”
“It is, but better that it should be soiled than that you should soil another’s reputation.”
Mrs. Miller drew herself up to her full height and scowled. “I said I was sorry about the cloth, Mrs. Boyd. I would think a lady of your reputed manners would accept my apology.”
“I accept sincere apologies.”
Mrs. Callan plopped her plate down on the table. “Do you seriously think the Riverford ladies want to share in the experiences of Mrs. Hodges? After all, Europe is a decadent place, and ... and ... well, just look at her dress. Most unsuitable! Why, she’s not even wearing a bustle!”
“Sadly, Mrs. Callan, we Americans are always behind in fashion, but that’s of little consequence,” Mrs. Boyd observed. “If Mrs. Hodges can endure our provincialism, we shall certainly benefit from her wide knowledge of literature and art, not to mention music.”
“Well, of course that would appeal to you, Mrs. Boyd, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Miller interjected. “Some of us, however, spend our time and attention on our families. How many hours a day do you practice the piano anyway, Mrs. Boyd?”
“Not as many as I need to, I assure you.”
“What a patient man Mr. Boyd is!” Mrs. Callan taunted. “For the life of me, I never could understand why he felt he had to go to Charleston to marry.”
“I can!” a bold voice called out from the dining room doorway. “He had seen a lady there the likes of which he couldn’t find in all of Texas.” A gray-haired woman strode across the room. “From what I’ve heard from your mouths, ladies, I would say we Texans are sorely lacking in the social skills necessary to produce a Christine Gibbes.”
“Well!” Mrs. Callan exclaimed. “I never.”
“Who are you to call the kettle black?” Mrs. Miller demanded.
“Ladies, please!” Mrs. Boyd flushed as she turned toward the newcomer. “Thank you, Mrs. Logan, you are most kind to come to my rescue. Now let us move the conversation to higher ground.”
“We can try, of course, my dear Christine.” Mrs. Logan stared long and hard at Mrs. Callan and then at Mrs. Miller. “However, I fear that some of us like to be mired in mud.”
“Surely not,” Mrs. Boyd murmured. She turned to Sarah. “Have you met Miss Sarah Novak, Mrs. Logan? She will be acting as Mrs. Hodges’ personal secretary.”
The moment Sarah had heard the name “Logan,” her mind flew to the memory of strong arms picking her up from the sidewalk, and she flushed.
“How splendid!” Mrs. Logan exclaimed as she extended her hand to Sarah. “The more new blood, the better.”
Mrs. Callan laughed derisively. “Sally’s not exactly new, Mrs. Logan.”
“Hardly!” Mrs. Miller joined her friend’s laughter. “She’s just a local farm girl, one of those Czech immigrants. The new Mrs. Hodges has just dressed her up. Secretary indeed!”
> “Utter pretension!” Mrs. Callan added.
Humiliated, Sarah dropped her chin in a desperate attempt to hide the tears springing to her eyes.
“Miss Novak is a particular friend of mine.” Mrs. Boyd punctuated each word she spoke. “She is a brilliant young woman with great potential.”
Mrs. Logan lunged into the conversation. “I understand, Miss Novak, you have a great love for books. You must meet my daughter, Lavinia; she is a voracious reader and not too much older than you.”
“But old enough to be married,” Mrs. Callan muttered.
“If she could interest a man, poor dear,” Mrs. Miller added.
Mrs. Boyd straightened her spine as she gracefully folded her right hand into her left. “Shall I walk you ladies to the door?” She glided toward Mrs. Callan. “I am grieved to think you must leave us so early, but we wouldn’t dream of detaining you from your other pressing engagements.”
Mrs. Callan’s mouth flew open, then closed in an angry, hard line. “I’m not aware of any other—”
“How kind you were to drop by to welcome Mrs. Hodges.” Mrs. Boyd deftly linked her hand through Mrs. Callan’s elbow as she placed her other hand on Mrs. Miller’s back and pressed her toward the dining room door. “What a joy it has been to visit with you, however briefly. I look forward to your return … someday.”
As Mrs. Boyd moved the startled ladies out the dining room door and into the entry, Sarah turned shocked eyes to Mrs. Logan. The lady was laughing quietly. “That’s pure Christine,” she said. “I declare she invented the velvet glove—or more likely her mother did. I, of course, never met the utterly entrancing Julia Gibbes, Christine’s mother, but I’ve heard the stories. What a terrible time she gave the Yankees who occupied Charleston after the War!”
“I’ve never met anyone like Mrs. Boyd,” Sarah said.
“And you never will, my dear. She’s a thoroughbred, the likes of which the world will not see again, and it is the loss of such ladies that is the true tragedy of the War.” Mrs. Logan paused and looked Sarah up and down. “But look at you!” she declared. “All bright and shiny and starting fresh—indeed, giving us all a fresh start.” She looped her arm through Sarah’s. “You and I are going to be great friends, starting right now. I’m declaring you off duty from this post and kidnapping you. Let’s go into the drawing room and urge the divine Christine to play the piano for us. You will be stunned, I promise.”