‘Who won?’
‘Charlie.’
‘Of course.’ But she could tell he didn’t mean that of course Charlie won because he was a boy, he meant of course Charlie won because he’d known what he was doing all along.
She shook her head and turned the conversation to something more conventional. ‘Alberta seems lovely.’
‘She is lovely.’ His voice was lacklustre and Evelyn hoped that if ever a man called her lovely, he’d say it with more passion than Thomas had mustered.
They were both quiet a moment. The sounds of laughter and conversation waltzed demurely out of the house and away with the breeze, along with the strains of ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’, a song to whose dated schmaltz Evelyn had a particular aversion. She leaned her cheek against the tree trunk, remembering Rose and the baby among the reeds. The garden was dark. She couldn’t see Thomas’s face. All day she’d held back what she wanted to say. She was tired of holding her tongue, and there was nobody else to ask. ‘Did you hear about … what happened this morning?’ she said.
Thomas didn’t reply straight away. He probably had more pressing things to think about, like proposing to Alberta. Evelyn was about to climb down from the tree when he moved and sat on the branch beside her.
‘At the river?’ he asked.
‘Did Charlie tell you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Charles was concerned about your clothes. He said he’d helped your father with a woman in trouble.’
‘You mean he was cross with me for not fainting like Viola. And that’s a very polite way of putting it. In trouble. It’s like the woman’s a haunting or a curse, the way everybody avoids speaking about her.’
‘Perhaps they think they’re protecting you.’
‘Perhaps I’m old enough to look after myself.’
‘I didn’t say you weren’t. I said they might think they’re protecting you.’
‘Do you know what happened to the woman? And the baby?’
‘My mother went to the hospital this afternoon with a box of things for the baby. Apparently the woman died. But the baby survived. I expect it’ll go to an orphanage, because nobody will take in an illegitimate child. It’ll probably be dead too, within five years.’
Evelyn closed her eyes. She’d always thought she knew what kind of world she lived in. But this world of death and disgrace, of a woman she knew dying by the river, was not a place where one galloped on a tree-horse through sunshine and sky. She could still hear Rose’s groans, still feel the moment when her body went limp. She wondered if she should say any more; her mother would send her to a convent if she knew what they were discussing. But Thomas was listening to her, apparently without outrage; he actually seemed nice, not the stuffy older brother Charlie had always made him out to be.
She opened her eyes. ‘I held the baby. I helped it out. It was … incredible.’ And then the question she needed to say aloud even though she knew the answer. ‘Why wasn’t she at home? Or in a hospital? Why was she out there alone?’
‘I expect nobody knew she was carrying a child. Perhaps she thought if she went to the river she could make the child disappear.’
Disappear. Vanish – drown, perhaps. What would it be like to think you had to kill your own child in order to survive? ‘She could have gone to New York, or another city far away, to a hospital where nobody knew her, and had the baby and pretended she had a husband.’
‘Who would she ask for the money to travel? Would you go to an unfamiliar city and expose your predicament to a doctor who’d probably scorn you for it?’ Thomas didn’t ask the questions in an interrogating manner, the way her father spoke to her when he was doubting her judgement about something like college. Thomas asked the questions as if they deserved thought rather than anger, and at the same time he was provoking her to take her mind to places it had never been before.
‘No,’ Evelyn whispered. Now that she’d seen what childbirth looked like, it was hard to imagine doing it in front of anyone. But that was the point. Rose had literally been brought to her knees by bodily function and shame, and everybody was too polite and well bred to help her. ‘I knew her. She was a Radcliffe girl. And now she’s dead.’
‘Did you know she was …’
‘No, we weren’t close friends. She was taking science classes and I …’ Evelyn hesitated before confessing. ‘I went to a couple of anatomy classes with her. But please don’t tell anyone that. My parents would be horrified if they knew I’d been to a science class.’
‘Which do you prefer, science or literature?’
‘Science.’ Evelyn waited for the snort of disapproval but it didn’t come. ‘You’re very different to Charlie,’ she said.
‘I’m the reserved one and Charles is the fun one. Right?’ He looked across at her and she could just see, with the help of the moonlight, that he was smiling.
She laughed. ‘I meant it as a compliment. But you’re right, Charles had led me to believe you were the pompous one.’
‘Pompous! That’s worse than reserved.’
‘It is. Charlie used to tell me stories about you and I’d tell him stories about Viola, how she was always so niminy-piminy, always doing everything Mother asked her to do and telling Mother when I invariably didn’t. Apparently you’re the model of your father,’ Evelyn teased.
‘My father taught me to study hard and to work hard and that the rewards would follow. It’s not such a bad thing to believe in.’
Evelyn remembered what she’d wanted to say to Charlie earlier that day: Don’t waste your time at university. ‘It’s not a bad thing at all,’ she agreed.
Thomas removed a cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Evelyn. She took one. He then produced a lift-arm lighter, which Evelyn was too embarrassed to admit was the first she’d ever seen. All the men she knew used matches, as did the Radcliffe girls she’d smoked with on occasion. In the flame, she looked at him properly for the first time in her life. Dark hair, dark eyes. Handsome. Alberta would be happy.
‘All we need is gin,’ she said as she leaned back against the tree again and blew smoke into the night air.
‘I came prepared,’ he said and pulled out a small silver flask. ‘It’s whiskey though.’
‘I was joking.’
‘I know, but it’s that kind of night.’ He offered her the flask.
‘Well, whiskey it is.’
In spite of the uproar she knew there’d be if anyone found her smoking and drinking whiskey, she took a sip and felt her throat blaze as she swallowed. She coughed. ‘That must be an acquired taste.’
‘I would have brought gin if I’d known I was going to be sitting in a tree having a conversation like this.’ Thomas smiled at Evelyn again and she smiled back, feeling more exhilarated by talking to Thomas than she had by anything since she’d left Radcliffe.
‘If that’s all we have I’d better start acquiring the taste.’ She took another sip, managed not to cough and found herself saying, ‘That’s not the first birth I’ve seen. When I was about ten, I remember my mother labouring over a birth that went on for more than a day. She would groan every now and again and that’s how I knew there was a problem; I’d never before heard Mother make a sound so loud. When the midwife left the room, I went in and held my mother’s hand, thinking she’d tell me to leave, but she didn’t. She clenched my hand every time the pains came. I think it was the only time in my life when I helped her rather than annoyed her. Of course the baby died, like all the others that came after me. We’ve never spoken about it though.’ She returned the flask to Thomas.
‘It was good of you to help. Both times.’
‘I didn’t even think about not helping. Or that it was an improper thing to do until Charlie tried to drag me away.’
Thomas studied her face. ‘Charles mentioned something about an engagement announcement tonight.’
‘Yes, but did he say it was because he loved me or because he didn’t want
you to be the first to get engaged?’ Evelyn bit her lip as she saw Thomas’s expression cloud over. But in the semi-darkness and with his face turned slightly from hers, it was hard to tell.
He didn’t reply immediately and Evelyn thought she’d ruined the moment – that he’d climb down from the tree and return to Alberta, that he’d tell Charlie what Evelyn had said. But instead he shifted a little so that he was sitting closer to her. ‘I’m sorry you think Charles might do that,’ he said.
I’m sorry too, Evelyn thought. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about Charlie any more. Then we can’t betray any confidences.’
‘That’s probably a good idea.’ Thomas sipped from the flask and held it out to her again. ‘What shall we talk about instead?’
Evelyn took a large swallow this time, because she wanted to loosen her tongue, to say something she’d never said to anybody. ‘I’ve heard some of the universities in New York are starting to accept women into their medical degrees.’ She said it lightly, as if she was just making conversation and the answer didn’t matter a great deal.
‘Columbia has. Unlike Harvard.’
‘If more women were doctors, perhaps they could help women like Rose.’
‘Perhaps you could help women like Rose.’
Neither spoke for a moment. Evelyn stared at Thomas. He’d read her mind. And he’d said it as though it was actually possible. ‘I helped a baby into the world today,’ Evelyn said. ‘I’ll never forget it.’
‘Thomas!’ It was a woman’s voice, probably Alberta, calling from the top of the terrace.
‘I think dinner is about to be served.’ Thomas’s words, bringing them back to the world they’d briefly forgotten, made Evelyn laugh, a gush of released tension.
Thomas jumped down from the tree. ‘I won’t offer you a hand,’ he said from the ground, ‘because I know you’re more than capable of making your own way down.’
And then he was gone, leaving her to think about what he’d said: You could help women like Rose. Which would mean becoming a doctor who delivered babies, feeling the same surge of wonder she’d felt when she held Rose’s baby. But if she decided to pursue that path, her parents and Viola would never speak to her again. Would Charlie? After this morning, she doubted it. And even if she could do it, did she have the strength to go against everyone’s wishes, to create a life for herself that was so different to what everybody expected of her?
By the time Evelyn appeared, Thomas and Alberta were sitting in pride of place at the head of the long table, with Thomas’s parents on either side. Charlie sat alongside his mother, with an empty space on his right for Evelyn. Viola had been placed beside their father, and the expression on her face showed her disappointment at her lack of prospects.
Even though the oysters on the half-shell and the soft-shell crabs on toast had already been served on delicate Delft porcelain plates and Evelyn knew she should sit down, she stood behind her sister and whispered, ‘Why don’t you take my place?’
Viola stared at her. ‘Why?’
‘Would you like to sit there?’
‘Yes. But don’t you?’
‘Not tonight.’
Viola stood up, clearly excited by the prospect.
‘Viola, where are you going?’ Mrs Lockhart had seen them. ‘That is Evelyn’s place.’
Evelyn saw her sister’s face crumple. She sat in her allotted place and shook her head. Why was today so determined to show her that nothing and nobody was the way she had thought? Viola was never scolded. She was their mother’s preferred child. It had always suited Evelyn to think so. But perhaps Mrs Lockhart could be just as hard on Viola as she was on Evelyn, caring more for social advantage than her daughters’ feelings.
‘Evelyn, my dear, I wondered where you were. I haven’t even said hello to you.’ Mabel Whitman leaned across her younger son to give Evelyn a kiss on the cheek, and Evelyn smiled back warmly. Mrs Whitman had always been one of her favourite people, turning a blind eye to tree climbing and Mrs Lockhart’s calls from next door.
‘I was outside. It’s a beautiful evening.’
‘Fresh air seems to be in demand tonight,’ Mrs Whitman said. ‘I almost had to send out the hounds to find Thomas.’
Thomas caught Evelyn’s eye and they shared the briefest of smiles, which reassured her that he wouldn’t mention their rendezvous in the apple tree, and certainly neither would she.
‘I thought you’d taught him better than to leave a lady to look after herself, Mother,’ Charlie said.
‘I think Alberta managed perfectly well on her own.’
‘How does your mother like Alberta?’ Evelyn whispered to Charlie once Mrs Whitman’s attention was elsewhere.
‘Honestly?’ Charlie sipped his wine. ‘She thinks Alberta is more interested in Tommy’s money than in him. Mother is ever the romantic; she’s the only person in the world who thinks money shouldn’t matter. Surely you’ve heard the story about how she and my father met?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Their eyes locked across a crowded ballroom and she knew, from that moment, that she loved him and would marry him. Without first finding out about his income, his prospects, his family or his profession. Luckily he more than passed on each of those measures.’
‘Charles.’ Mrs Whitman overheard the last part of the conversation. ‘You’re teasing me. And being cynical. I hope both my sons marry for love. That’s not such an awful thing to wish for.’
‘But love and money would be a better thing to wish for,’ Charlie said, smiling.
‘Your father has worked hard for everything we have,’ Mrs Whitman said. ‘Did I ever tell you,’ she turned to Evelyn, ‘that we did quite the scandalous thing when we were married?’
‘No,’ Evelyn said. ‘What did you do?’
Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Here comes her other favourite story.’
Mrs Whitman ignored him and continued. ‘I lent George my entire dowry so he could set up the bank. It wasn’t at all the done thing, a man borrowing money off his wife, but he was the sort of man who put securing a future ahead of his pride.’
‘That’s a wonderful story,’ Evelyn said. And it explained something of her revised view of Thomas. If he really did take after his father, then he had probably never been pompous to begin with.’
‘Mother likes to do the unexpected and not fall into line with others,’ Charlie said indulgently. ‘We let her because she says it keeps her young.’
Evelyn didn’t hear Mrs Whitman’s response; her attention had been caught by her mother.
‘Did you hear that Nancy Totten went to see Alice Paul speak?’ Mrs Lockhart was saying to the woman beside her. ‘The suffragette.’
Please stop, Evelyn urged her mother silently. Please don’t say anything more. After what had happened that morning, after seeing her family’s lack of charity, after watching a woman die before her because she knew nothing other than how to read quatrains, Evelyn didn’t know if she would be able to sit in silence and listen to her mother’s closed-mind opinions.
‘I don’t think I’ll be hurrying along to use the voting machine any time soon,’ Mrs Lockhart continued. ‘I’d much rather use one of those new washing machines I’ve been hearing so much about.’ Several of the ladies nearby tittered in agreement.
It was the fault of the whiskey, most likely. But it was also because Evelyn needed to know: did Charlie’s behaviour at the river mean that he felt the same way as her mother did about everything? She spoke up distinctly. ‘At school, Miss Forbes said that the opportunities the suffragettes had won for women would only be understood by history, as we’re all too satisfied with our comfortable lives to understand the benefits of their work.’
‘Evelyn.’ Her mother gave the smallest shake of her head and flicked her eyes towards Charlie, who certainly wasn’t stepping in to defend Evelyn’s views. ‘Miss Forbes is clearly something of a revolutionary who won’t retain her position at the Academy if she continues to express views like that.
’
‘Surely you’re not going to complain about a woman championing the intelligence of other women?’ Evelyn said.
‘Alberta and I were talking earlier,’ Mrs Lockhart said quietly, and Evelyn knew that the subtext was that she should take note of Alberta’s opinions and reshape her own to match. ‘She agrees with me that it’s only middle-class girls who harbour aspirations for intellectual accomplishment. It’s unfortunate really; some middle-class girls have enough money to give them aspirations, but not enough money to become ladies. Luckily, we are not in that position. Henry,’ she turned to her husband, ‘didn’t you say that Harvard had allowed some Radcliffe girls to come over for science classes? And that they were … fast? Henry is occasionally invited down to lecture as a distinguished alumni.’ This last was directed to the wider group around the table, presumably lest anyone think Mr Lockhart made his living from being a middle-class professor.
Evelyn realised that following her outburst, Alberta and some of the other ladies within earshot were looking at her with amusement, as if she was a whimsical attraction at Coney Island. She wanted to change the subject, but Mrs Lockhart was determined to drive her point home. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘what do you think of the girls who come across to Harvard for the sciences?’
‘They’re not the sort one thinks about,’ Charlie replied.
Evelyn felt a sting of pain.
Mrs Lockhart smiled triumphantly. ‘Suffragettes and sciences. One wonders what some women will dream up next. Besides, the word “suffragettes” speaks for itself. Now we all have to suffer the boredom of politics. If they really knew what they were about, they’d have chosen a more pleasing name.’
More titters. Evelyn stared at her plate to hide the flush on her cheeks and to stop the tears from falling. She perfectly understood what her mother meant. Talk of university would not be tolerated. By her mother. Or by Charlie. She should be more like Viola and Alberta. Docile. Unambitious. Happy to marry. She nodded gratefully at the waiter who was offering to refill her champagne glass.
‘I’m looking forward to casting my vote. Women have to live under the laws passed by Congress. We might as well have a say in who passes those laws,’ Mrs Whitman said, and Evelyn felt a small spark of hope. But then she heard Charlie snort derisively and the feeling passed. Mrs Whitman’s views might be less conservative than those of most women in her position, but her son’s obviously weren’t.
A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald Page 3