“Very well then. As it should be.”
Etta let out her breath.
“But perhaps you should spend more time around people your own age.”
Her words hit Etta like a spear to the heart. Bernadette was already tiring of her company. She stammered, “G-Grace is gone all day. She’s down at the . . .”
“That’s true, but you’ve met so many others. Aren’t there any young men to your liking?”
Apparently all her aunt wanted was to see her mingling with the opposite sex. “There are many that I like. But I haven’t felt anything”—she paused—“overwhelming.”
The flash of a smile. “You want to be overwhelmed, do you?”
“Well,” said Etta, “I prefer it over boredom.”
Bernadette laughed. “Etta, you are so precocious.”
“Thank you.”
Etta watched as her aunt slowly stopped turning the pages, as her face took on a dreamy, distant quality. “That’s how it was for me and Grace’s father. I was mad about him. He read poetry to me.” She stopped and smiled, her eyes wistful. “He filled entire rooms with flowers. And he could dance . . .” She blinked her eyes, then made soft, fluttering movements with her hands. “He was quite the waltzer. I’d feel as if I were being carried away.” Then a smile and she looked askance, and Etta had the feeling the memory was almost too much for her aunt to bear.
Etta would’ve loved to learn more, but she didn’t like speaking of the dead. And besides, she had no words of consolation or agreement. But she liked hearing her aunt talk on any subject, and for her to share such intimate details—why, Etta felt honored.
And then came a wave of guilt. Perhaps she should drop this preoccupation with her aunt’s secret train trips. But she considered it for only a moment.
Bernadette said in a soft voice, “He hummed while he read books. Not when he read the newspaper. Only books.” Her face held an expression of concentration, of complete immersion in the memory.
A moment later, she seemed to shake herself out of a daze. She touched both sides of her face with her palms. “It’s funny what one remembers.”
Etta was speechless. She wanted to love someone in that way, in that exact same way, with every bone and breath. The way she had once felt with Philo.
One morning over breakfast a few days later, her aunt complained about another day she would need to conduct “business,” and Etta tried not to let her excitement show.
She raised the napkin to her lips and kept her eyes averted. “More business?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So soon?”
“Yes,” said Bernadette, a tone of resignation in her voice. “I shall miss your company again today.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss yours, Aunt,” said Etta, and she began picking at her food again. “How long will this business go on?”
A feigned smile. “As long as it’s necessary.”
Her aunt made the comment glibly, but a look of sadness clouded her usually piercing eyes, as if she needed to be saved. How Etta wished her aunt would confide in her. Tell her everything.
But Bernadette changed the subject, and Etta determined she would have no choice but to follow her again. The servant who had driven her to the station before must have kept his mouth shut.
Etta arranged to have a carriage meet her at the side of the house, and again she followed her aunt to the station, and then on the train to Houston, and then back to that same large plantation home dropped down away from all else. Again Etta told her driver to pass slowly by. She peered down the driveway and watched her aunt disappear inside the grand house. And again she asked the driver to stop.
What she saw next surprised her. Wiping her neck with a handkerchief, and frowning at the dirt that had collected there, she watched a woman dressed in nurse’s clothing emerge from behind a hedge of bushes along the side of the house. The nurse was pushing a small hunched-over woman about the grounds in a wheeled chair.
So this place was some sort of infirmary, most likely a tuberculosis sanitarium, or was her imagination getting away from her? It was possible that the old woman simply lived in the house, a member of the family who had taken ill, requiring a private nurse. But later there were others in wheelchairs. They appeared to be patients in this place, and it looked as though they were being brought outdoors for a breath of fresh air. How confusing. What business would her aunt have here? As far as Etta knew, everyone in the family was healthy, and if they weren’t, why would her aunt maintain such secrecy about it?
Etta sat in her carriage and tried to imagine a sensible scenario. The horses were awaiting the driver’s directions and whinnying a bit as a little breeze picked up. Finally there was some wind out here in the still, flat, featureless plain, though it didn’t stir up any ideas in Etta, only some clacking of branches in the trees, like the ticking of a clock. Time was running out.
Crows were calling out from the nearby fields in their ugly tones. The sky threatened rain as silent bolts of lightning touched stiffly on the ground with long, white-hot legs. Etta watched a moment longer and then experienced a small prickling in the small of her back, a tiny sense of disquiet that told her perhaps she should leave well enough alone. Perhaps she should drop this desire to know everything about her aunt’s life. It was rather odd that she had wasted two perfectly good days to pursue Bernadette in this clandestine way.
But Etta didn’t drop it. She simply couldn’t stand being shut out. It hurt too much. So she sat in the carriage until she watched the patients being returned to the house, and then, before risking discovery by her aunt, she returned to Houston under that huge gaping sky, filled with all her questions.
Three nights later, she was attending another gala, this one on board a visiting British naval ship in port, hosted by her aunt’s friends from the Daughters of the Republic of Texas. Her aunt was in attendance, as were Larke and Wallace McKay, but Grace and Jonathan had declined. Grace, apparently, was too tired after her day of doling out charity.
For such a special event, her aunt had ordered Seamus to drive the carriage with the horses checkered, with steeds of matching color arrayed diagonally, as she had seen done in New York City for going to operas and plays. After touring the ship, the guests watched the sunset over the harbor. They shared their opera glasses to view Galveston from the deck, and when that activity grew old, the guests were seated for dinner and served both tender veal steaks and slices from an enormous stuffed turkey.
Etta had grown accustomed to watchful eyes upon her at every moment. She’d borne the scrutiny well, in her opinion. Her manners were genteel; now she knew the difference between an oyster fork, a fish fork, a luncheon fork, a dinner fork, a serving fork, and forks to skewer pickles, and if she didn’t know what to do with a certain piece of silverware, she simply waited until someone else began to use it and followed suit. But perhaps Etta had begun to blend in too much, becoming too much like them, making her less interesting. Lately she was not being sought out as often; maybe her allure was waning. Her newness and individuality could be wearing off.
Everyone was talking of ballet and opera and art, along with glorifying the seawall as usual, then bemoaning the grade-raising project to come. Nothing new, nothing of interest except the money and lifestyle it took to care about such things as ballet and opera and art. Then, as the vegetables were being served, Etta overheard talk of Miss Girl, the one so much had been written about in the newspaper.
“That’s something I believe Miss Etta Rahn would do,” said Wallace proudly. She only then cared that he was sitting at her side. “We all know she loves to run around without shoes.”
At first, there was silence. Then Etta heard, “I’ll wager it is her. Miss Girl wears no shoes.”
“She’s new here, and it makes sense, now, doesn’t it? This other young lady simply appeared out of nowhere.”
“She fits the description, does she not?” said another man.
“But she keeps her face hidde
n under a bonnet,” said another woman.
One of the men said, “Miss Etta has the fortitude for it. She would love to create such a mystery.”
“But will she confess?” said another woman, who sat to Etta’s right two seats down.
Etta caught their stares, a pleasant sensation. This could change everything back. The anonymous Miss Girl had fascinated Galveston, so why not let these people think it was her? There was no need to react to an incorrect assumption. Let them think as they may.
The young man sitting opposite Etta said, “So do tell us, Miss Etta Rahn. Is it you who ran the seawall incognito?”
Etta cocked her head to one side, playing coy. “How did you guess?”
Larke McKay, who sat almost at the end of the table, asked her aunt, “Is it your niece?”
Bernadette laughed. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know of her whereabouts at all times. Besides, Etta can speak for herself.”
All eyes landed on her again.
“Seriously,” the man across from her said, “we want to know. Is it you?”
“Do tell us, Etta,” said another.
“Let your secret be known. Don’t keep us guessing.”
Let them think it; let them think anything they wanted. “Now, Henry, don’t you see? Don’t you know me by now?” She paused for the perfect amount of time. “I always keep people guessing.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE GIRL
The woman named Grace found her again in only two weeks’ time. It was late July by then and the hottest day of the year so far.
After having slept on the back porch, the girl awakened one morning, dew on her face and sunlight slanting into her eyes, and soon felt someone’s presence. She rubbed her eyes and looked up. The young woman was standing just outside Reena’s gate, peering over the fence into the yard.
The girl quickly stood, folded up her quilt, then set it down on the planks, as if to say, I live here now. I’m no longer in the shed. You can leave me be. I’m doing just fine.
No one was stirring inside Reena’s house yet. It was a Sunday, and the house servants were allowed to sleep in a bit later than usual. Reena didn’t have to serve breakfast until nine o’clock.
The girl looked at Grace, standing there in the alleys on a Sunday morning, and thought she had never appeared so out of place. Why wasn’t she singing in the ornately carved pews of a wealthy church, gazing through tall stained-glass windows, and listening to an organ? Grace was wearing what could have passed for church clothing, but the long gathered skirt with matching tailored jacket and plain white blouse underneath were probably just her everyday wear.
The girl tried to flatten down the sides of her hair. She straightened the shirt and knickers that had twisted around her body in sleep, and as she sat on the bottom porch step, she folded her legs underneath her to hide her dirty feet.
“May I join you?” asked Grace and then pointed at the gate.
The girl hesitated, but Reena, her husband, and sons were just beyond the door, assuring her of safety, so the girl reluctantly nodded at Grace, who opened the gate silently and came forward, carrying a small traveling satchel in her right hand. She sat down next to the girl and then placed the bag on the step between them. “I’ve brought you some more things I thought you might like.”
Grace opened the bag and pulled out another dress, this time one that was a pretty pale blue like the ocean in early morning with the first silvery sunlight glazing over it. She waited as Grace unfolded the garment on her lap, then handed it over and laid it gently into her own.
Even though she’d saved the yellow dress for only the best days, she’d been so hard on it that there were tiny tears along the hemline, a pink watermelon juice stain on the collar, and dirt smudges on the cuffs.
The blue dress was an even finer piece of clothing, a dress meant for parties or dances. The girl thought it much too fine for her; she’d have no place to wear such a thing.
“Try it on if you’d like,” said Grace with a touch of a smile. “The yellow dress fit you quite well. I’m certain this one will, too, but if not, I’ll have a seamstress make the necessary adjustments.”
The girl looked at Grace and searched her eyes. Grace smiled again. “Go on and try it. I’ll wait for you here.”
The girl stood, crept inside Reena’s door into the empty room that comprised the home’s kitchen, living, and dining space, and she slipped out of the shirt and knickers and into the pale-blue dress. The neckline was much lower than she’d expected, baring the tops of her breasts, but the waist was a perfect fit, and she loved the way the gathering below the waistline made the skirt swirl and then settle with each of her movements, as if it were dancing. The material was shiny, silky, lightweight, and smooth on her skin. It smelled of that wonderful combination of lavender and vanilla, a scent she would always associate with the woman called Grace.
When she stepped back outside onto the porch, Grace turned to meet her eyes. “Why, it’s lovely. Just lovely.” She patted her gloved hand on the step beside her, and the girl sat down again. “I knew it would suit you. Now,” she said and reached into the bag again. “I’ve some other things, too.”
She thrust into the girl’s lap a pair of pantalets, a camisole, a corset, a straw hat with blue flowers on the brim, and a new pair of stockings. The girl watched until the parade of finery ended. Then she touched each of the items with her fingertips and wished she could thank the woman with words.
“The only thing remaining is to get you a pair of good street shoes.” Grace scooted closer and placed her own polished black boot next to the girl’s foot. “I’m trying to gauge your size, if I might.” She leaned so close that the girl could catch that scent again, that wonderful, sweet, womanly smell.
Grace straightened. “We’re in luck. You look to be about my size in shoes as well. Next time we see each other, I’ll bring you a pair or two. Would you like that?”
The girl nodded.
“Now for the really good part,” Grace said. “I heard that you received the art supplies. Do you have them here?”
The girl understood that Grace wanted her art things back, got up, and retrieved the satchel from underneath the house. She returned to Grace’s side and handed it over.
“Oh no,” said Grace. “I don’t want to take them back. I just wanted to see you with them.”
This was too much, too much generosity. And yet the girl did want the art sticks and the paper pad. She opened the satchel and pulled out the art sticks, then lifted her palms as if to say, I don’t know how to use these things.
“I’ll give you lessons. We can draw together if you like. I mean, would you like that?”
The girl’s vision momentarily blurred from this kindness.
“These are called pastels.” Grace touched the art sticks. “You can create all sorts of colors of your own.”
Knowing that her seascape was not good, the girl pulled out the sketchbook and opened it to her drawing anyway. Grace smiled when she saw it. “Very nice!” she exclaimed.
The girl pointed to the place where sea met sky and frowned, then followed with a questioning look into the woman’s face.
“I see,” said Grace. “You’ve been working to create light on the page. It’s not easy, but it can be done. We’ll work on that.” The girl nodded. “Now,” said Grace, “I’ve something else. I know you can write, because I’ve seen your handwriting. I assume you’re able to read?”
The girl nodded again before she’d really thought about it.
“The poems you’ve been writing, why, I recognized them immediately. You’re a fan of Emily Brontë.” The girl didn’t move. “Were you aware that you wrote lines of hers?”
The girl nodded.
“Here. I’ve a book for you.” Out of the bag she pulled a small book bound in dark-brown leather. “It contains the works of Emily Brontë.” She handed it over. “And might I ask, where did you hear of her?”
The girl looked up, wanting
to shout, From my mother! Instead, she ran her hands over that smooth old leather and felt its warmth.
“Ah, but I’ve thought of that as well.” Grace retrieved the last item from the bag, a board of slate with a piece of chalk tied to it with string.
“Here,” Grace said, passing it over. “Now you can answer.”
After taking the slate board on her lap, the girl touched it with her right index finger. Not for three years had she tried to communicate so directly with another person. There were those who could understand her by her facial expressions and gestures, but she hadn’t tried to use words in all this time. She picked up the chalk, remembered the feel of it in her fingers from her days in school, and then set the chiseled end on the surface of the slate. What harm could come from this? She formed the letter M and then wrote the entire word, Mother.
Grace looked over. “So your mother was a reader of poetry?”
The girl nodded.
Grace breathed out deeply, smiled broadly now, opening her pretty face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. And did she teach you to read and write?”
The girl shook her head and then wrote School on the slate board.
“Just as I had suspected. I knew you had been educated. I knew it.” She waited for a moment. “But what happened?”
The girl shrugged.
Grace went on: “I must ask you,” she said, her voice softening, “I must know. Why are you here?”
The girl didn’t move.
“What happened to your family?”
Rolling the piece of chalk in her hand, the girl pondered answering the question truthfully. For years, she’d heard Reena’s pat answer. Reena would tell inquisitive people that the white girl was only visiting, that her folks were away and would come back soon to fetch her. She could write out such a lie, and it would probably save her a lot of trouble. But after waiting for a few long moments, she finally wrote Storm, because it had been so long since the truth had been expressed. Holding her history inside had been such a lengthy, lingering thing.
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