The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Much to the family’s shock, and more severely, disappointment, the spinster sisters bequeathed their brownstone mansion and a good deal of money to three different societies.

  The Society of Arts & Crafts ~ “Owed to our admiration of the crafts movement and particularly Mr. William Morris’s colorful, yet subtly elegant designs of wall coverings, draperies, and upholstery, which we have a great deal of in our home, due to our parents mutual fondness for one and the same. We are privileged to contribute to the furtherment of such extraordinary and altogether pleasing design.”

  The Boston Historical Society ~ “We must preserve the past in order to establish firm foundations for the future. Society learns, be it alarming or disarming, inspiring or convicting, educational or dumbfounding, from previous wisdom as well as former foolishness.”

  The Society for The Prevention of Cruelty to Animals ~ “Living in the city all our lives we’ve come across any number of unfortunate four-legged creatures scrounging for food and shelter. Godspeed to the S.P.C.A. and the resources we impart to their most worthy cause.”

  Believing Cordelia financially secure, they deemed to give their favorite niece and “best relative” not property or cash but select pieces of family furniture, art, china, and crystal; all the personal jewelry they had between them, a modest maidenly collection; their father’s solid gold pocket watch and his Abstinence From Alcohol pin, given to him at age fourteen after taking the pledge in Sunday school; their mother’s cameo broach, dainty locket watch, and wedding rings, as well as her mother-of-pearl lorgnette; and family photos in well-kept albums or encased in fine frames.

  A smaller number of family items went to the other Parker relatives. Martha very much wanted to leave them a note beginning, “Had you taken the time to visit us more than once or twice a year …”

  But Agatha wouldn’t have it. “That’s not the way we want to be remembered, sister. You make us sound like two bitter old woman looking out the window. Let’s leave them with Godspeed, and a few more things as well.” And they did.

  Last was Cordelia’s most beloved bestowal from “the dearest Aunties ever,” a partially moss-encrusted garden sculpture of two graceful Greek maidens in flowing gowns, one poised holding a shallow, open, water-filled vessel, the other carrying an armload of grain. The sisters had commissioned it in a rare moment absent of their customary frugality, prompted by introduction to a sculptor turned soldier who’d tragically lost one eye to a Nazi grenade attack in North Africa.

  “Damn those Germans,” Martha said upon learning of his permanent plight, the very reason he wore a black patch, and she decided there and then that she and her sister would become his first post-war patrons.

  Cordelia had often admired the work, and now it stood in her own garden, Peace & Prosperity carved in the stone banner beneath the two maiden’s feet. The graceful sculpture’s subjects bore a striking resemblance to the aged Brahmin sisters in their younger days, but any reference to the likeness was forever met with a change of subject. When the statue was being prepared for the move to Mount Vernon and tipped on its side, what should Cordelia spy but the names of each of her aunties chiseled on the bottom surface.

  Agatha Camellia Parker ~ Peace

  Martha Hepatica Parker ~ Prosperity

  Papadakis

  MCMXLII

  “Yoo hoo, Cordelia. Do you have a minute?” Eleanor Brewster called from in front of her home a short way down Mount Vernon from where Cordelia was walking.

  Cordelia waved and mouthed, yes—she abhorred calling out like a fish wife—to her neighbor who was only five years older than her, which seemed like twenty when she was in college—Eleanor, wife and mother, Cappy, carefree coed.

  The two women had, out of their mutual loss of Caroline Parker as mentor and mother, become close friends. Eleanor was, as Cordelia confided to her recently over coffee, “the only person on earth, save Pip, who knows my true financial situation.”

  “I feel certain Abby thinks of my helping out at Chandler’s as a temporary lark for a woman who otherwise has too much time on her hands. If she only knew how every penny I earn is accounted for, and to tell you the truth, Eleanor, it’s still not enough. Something’s definitely got to give.” A rush of emotion and the lump in her throat limited Cordelia’s explanation to ten words. “If I’m to keep the only home I’ve ever known.”

  Presently, Cordelia’s hands were full. Her walk home from the linen shop at that golden time of day, just before twilight, involved a couple of stops for groceries and dry cleaning. “Eleanor, how are you?”

  Eleanor relieved her of the dry cleaning, and Cordelia reluctantly let go. Oh my, this has all the look of a long winter’s nap, conversation. I just want to get in my house, take a hot bath, and heat up some of this vegetable beef soup from the deli.

  “First of all, good evening, Cordelia. I simply adore Indian summer, don’t you?”

  Eleanor briefly took in the spectacular yellow-green, russet, and crimson leafed trees as if to be sure they were still there.

  Cordelia smiled. “It’s my favorite time of year, and I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner with your family. Oh, that it wasn’t still weeks away. I pine for that scrumptious pumpkin pie of yours.”

  “Well, speaking of food, Cordelia, we’d love to have you to join us for dinner tonight. There’s a pot roast in the oven and apple crisp for dessert. Are you game?” The “we” was in reference to her husband, Sinclair, son, Jonathan, and daughter, Blythe.

  Before Cordelia could answer, a male voice interrupted.

  “Good evening, ladies.” The young policeman tipped his hat and asked, “Do you need help carrying those packages, Miss?”

  “No, thank you, Officer.” Cordelia said, deeming that was the end of it. Her unadorned ring finger didn’t escape the officer’s overall observation of the situation at hand.

  Eleanor coolly inquired, “Where’s Officer Tierney? Why, I haven’t seen him for days.”

  “Oh, he’s moved on to police headquarters. We call him Detective Tierney now. I’ll be covering this beat, and if there’s any way I can be of assistance, please don’t hesitate to contact me at Station 3 on Joy Street.” He reached in his dark navy, double-breasted, brass-buttoned uniform jacket pocket, pulled out a pen and pad of paper, wrote his name and the police station’s telephone number down twice, folded each one and handed them to the two ladies. “Patrolman Bob Donnelly at your service.” He courteously tipped his hat for the second time.

  Cordelia tossed the paper into one of her shopping bags now resting on the first step of the brick walk to Eleanor’s home.

  The policeman’s arresting blue eyes followed it and caught hers on the way up. “I hope you’ll say yes. I can smell that delicious meal all the way out here.” Thank God I can hold my own with these snobs. Although I had my doubts when the single one threw the station’s number in that bag, but her eyes told me otherwise.

  Cordelia couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about the way the dashing policeman said, “I hope you’ll say yes” that felt fairly and unsettlingly flirtatious. She bid him a slightly less than civil adieu. “I’m sure we’ve taken too much of your time already, Officer. Have a good evening.”

  Bob Donnelly was from Southie, where people gave it to you straight, and he found her style of ending their conversation interesting. Jesus, this must be high-class dame talk for “Get lost, Bud.”

  His grin, firm “Good night, ladies,” and subsequent swagger as he walked away whistling the happy tune of, “Blue Skies,” all told Cordelia her reserve hadn’t phased him in the least.

  As for Bob Donnelly, he enjoyed a great sense of accomplishment after all the hard work of two jobs, moving Rita, himself, and the baby back to Southie, and getting into the police academy and out again as a top graduate. He’d made it—badge, gun, billy club, and uniform. Bob was proud to be a member of the Boston Police Department, and as a rookie, amazed to be assigned to Station 3, Joy Street. Th
e best. “God Almighty,” he’d said to his mother. “Imagine a fella from Southie spending so much time on Beacon Hill. It’s terrific, Mum.”

  The two women promptly resumed their conversation. “Cordelia, I’ve an idea regarding what you said last week about something’s got to give. Come for dinner, and I’ll disclose my fiscal brilliance as soon as Sinclair leaves for his evening constitutional around the Common.”

  Beacon Street

  BEACON HILL, BOSTON, MASS.

  That early Indian summer’s eve, as the straight-backed, WASP women stood within the privileged confines of Beacon Hill’s rich dewy palette of red brick, dapple-gray cobblestones, and green trees yielding to autumn glory, Cordelia accepted her neighbor’s invitation. She was glad she had on the one hand, because Cordelia enjoyed the company, and grateful on the other, because of Eleanor’s unappealing, yet simple solution to her dire financial situation.

  “Why not open a couple of the bedrooms in your home to medical students? Goodness knows they have no time for tomfoolery, and you’ll get a certain quality of boarder that way.”

  CHAPTER 27

  I had three chairs in my house:

  one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.

  HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  “HELLO, MY NAME IS DAVID Miller. I’m a medical student at Tufts, and I understand you have a room to let.”

  It had been less than a week since Cordelia submitted her ad to the Tufts University School of Medicine and the Tufts School of Dental Medicine as well.

  Two furnished bedrooms, each with fireplace and private bath

  Limited kitchen privileges, solarium, and garden. Reasonable rate.

  91 Mount Vernon, Beacon Hill.

  Applicants must be full-time students and

  provide two local references.

  Shown by appointment only – Commonwealth 6-2407

  “Yes, I do. Another interested party is coming by late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have to leave work early, and it would be more convenient if you came at the same time.”

  “Tell me when, and I’ll be there, Mrs….”

  “Miss Parker. Four o’clock sharp, please. Oh, and Mr. Miller, before we waste your time or mine, this is a quiet house, and I fully expect it to remain so. No parties or gatherings, the kitchen, solarium, and garden available for your use, but everything else would be off limits. Do you think you’d be content with such an arrangement, Mr. Miller?”

  “Yes, Miss Parker, perfectly content.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Cordelia slowly put the receiver back on the hook. He sounded nice enough—that my livelihood has come to this. I suppose I should be grateful for the interest. Oh, for goodness sake, so I’m letting out rooms. If that’s what needs to happen to keep this house, then so be it. A slight smile slipped across her lips. Taking care of business. She made a beeline for the kitchen. I think I’ll have a cold plate of leftover chicken and pickled beets for dinner, enjoy my privacy while I still have it, and a slice of bread with butter. And perhaps a glass of port by the fire later, or perhaps not. I don’t want to get in the habit of spending my evenings with spirits. Hot chocolate will do for now. I’ll save the port for company.

  Chandler’s Linen Shoppe in a very short time established itself as the place in Boston to purchase exceptionally lovely merchandise of a certain superior quality. This happened in no small part due to Cordelia’s innate sense of style and creativity, let alone hard work. She was, after all, a descendant of Puritans. Due diligence was in her blood.

  On any given afternoon, countless numbers of women—socialites, matrons, working girls, homemakers, even students who primarily purchased hankies and petite perfumed soaps—could be seen admiring Chandler’s window displays, with many sooner or later sashaying up the stairs and into the store for that item or items they simply could not live without. Cordelia was frequently, precariously poised while plucking a requested “last one” from the window, or a member of her staff could also be seen doing the same.

  There were two additional staff members now. Mr. Percival Clark was a middle-aged gentleman of independent means, who’d never married and lived with his elderly, “sharp as a tack” mother. She was a good friend of Abby’s family and one day pleaded of the new store proprietress, “Abigail, Percy drives me mad with his well-intentioned but too frequent inquiries after my health, incessant reading aloud newspaper articles of interest to him alone, and over-attentiveness to every aspect of anything to do with the house and larder. Do you suppose, Abby dear, that you could use an extra pair of hands in your lovely new establishment? I do believe he’d be quite flattered and leap at the chance. Oh, to get Percy out of the house for even a short period of time.”

  Then there was Miss Alice Lochrie, a young lady new to Boston from “the wilds of Maine,” and she lived at the Franklin Square House.

  Coincidently, and many years ago, Cordelia’s maternal grandparents helped establish the direly needed haven for young women. Thanks to the dream of their dear friend Reverend George L. Perin, who’d envisioned “not an alms house but affordable, respectable, out-of-harm’s-way housing.” The Reverend had seen firsthand, in the course of his city ministry, many an innocent girl suffer untoward tragedy at the hands of unscrupulous lodging-house keepers and residents. Subsequently, he petitioned wealthy, socially conscious Bostonians and dubbed his generous sponsors “my team of dreamers.”

  It was actually Hilda who suggested Cordelia give Franklin Square House a call and ask if there was a nice, refined girl who’s in need of employment.

  The three of them, Cordelia, Percy, and Alice, were well matched.

  Percy’s attention to detail began with his dapper appearance, from the tip of his highly polished shoes to his interesting array of bowties and only bowties, to the top of his well-clipped partially bald head. He kept everything in the store pristine, pretty and presentable.

  Alice’s gentle ways led patrons to purchase more than they’d anticipated as she serenely placed one enticing item after another before them. “I know you could live a long life without this, but then again, would you want to? Why it seems ideal for your needs, don’t you think so? I’m not sure we’ll be able to acquire this again. That’s just the way it is with imports. You understand, I’m sure.”

  Alice, golden-haired, lithe, and poised, moved through the store like a prima ballerina and was brilliant at creating a felt need out of any customer’s passing fancy. “What excellent taste you have.”

  It wasn’t long before Chandler’s needed to add a fourth member to their staff.

  The Franklin Square House – A

  Home-Hotel for Self-Supporting

  Girls, Student Girls and Other

  Girls of Moderate Incomes

  11 East Newton Street

  Boston, Mass.

  “The idea of the Franklin Square House was and is to meet a conspicuous need. We undertake to furnish for girls living away from home a dwelling place, which is morally safe as well as comfortable and sanitary, and to give them food that is both palatable and wholesome. We undertake to care for them in sickness and to do it all at a cost which the young women can pay. During the last year, we have accommodated about 600 girls on a permanent basis.”

  Reverend George L. Perin, Founder,

  New York Times, June 1913

  Miss Florence Morton came by way of R. H. Stearns, one of Boston’s best regarded retailers. She’d been a long-time employee but pined for something new in her very predictable working life, and fate met desire when she walked into Chandler’s looking for a house-warming gift. She immediately recognized Cordelia Parker as a valued customer of Stearn’s, and it occurred to Miss Morton she hadn’t seen the Beacon Hill socialite for quite some time. And now, could it be, Miss Parker was a clerk like herself?

  Florence Morton perused every fascinating inch of Chandler’s and found just the type of gift she was looking for, a French oil and vinegar cruet set housed in a
pewter ring-topped holder. “Perfect,” she exclaimed to Cordelia, and placed her find on the highly lacquered counter with a finely gloved hand.

  Florence, a thin, prim, lady wearing a perky, hunter-green, Robin Hood-styled hat with a golden feather on one side, looked vaguely familiar to Cordelia, but she couldn’t quite place her, and to be on the safe side, was more than friendly. “Good afternoon.” Cordelia paused hoping for a response that would give her a hint, but there was none. “I’m delighted you found something suitable and must say your hat is so smart.” She picked up the cruet set. “Would you like me to gift wrap this for you?”

  Florence was stunned by Cordelia’s warmth; she didn’t remember her this way.

  “Oh, yes, please, gift wrap.”

  “Won’t you take a seat, and I’ll have Alice bring you a cup of tea, or would you prefer coffee, water?”

  “Coffee, thank you.”

  Cordelia still didn’t know who this well-dressed woman was, and then Florence Morton said, “You’re so fortunate, Miss Parker, to have found work in such a unique and elegant place. Why, I’d give my eye teeth to work in a store like this.”

  For goodness sake, this is the saleslady from Stearn’s special occasion department. Oh my, what’s her name? Well, Miss, whatever your name is, you’re about to be offered a job. How well I remember your efficiency and courteous manner. “Actually, I’m temporarily managing the store for a close friend.” And then it came to her. Morton, that’s it! Yes, I remember because of Judge Morton, my father’s friend, and when I asked if there was any connection, she said, “I’m afraid my Mortons were the ones being judged,” along with that wonderful smile of hers. “As it happens, Miss Morton, we have a full-time opening for a woman of excellence such as yourself.”

  Abigail Adams Dubois Chandler was beyond pleased with the store’s success and urged Cordelia to consider staying on permanently.

  “With the baby coming any day now, and all that Edwin requires of me, I don’t have enough time to do Chandler’s justice, Cappy, and I’m not too proud to say that you are Chandler’s Linens. Without your panache, we’d simply be another specialty store on Newbury.”