The Test of Gold

by Renee Yancy

  Mama nodded her head at the pink gown. “That might do for the Christmas Ball. But I don’t like the sleeves. Could they be lengthened?”

  The vendeuse nodded. “Of course, madame.” She snapped her fingers at another girl who brought a thick book of illustrated pattern pieces. Together they leafed through its pages. “This one.” Mama pointed to her choice.

  “Excellent, madame.”

  More models entered the salon. A gown of yellow silk brocade with embroidered tassels design caught her mother’s eye. Lindy shuddered. The gown had gigot sleeves—huge puffed sleeves of velvet—in an apricot color, with a large silk taffeta bow at the breast.

  “That’s perfect.”

  Lindy swallowed hard. “Mama, I don’t care for it.”

  Her mother turned, eyebrows raised. “And since when do you know anything about selecting a gown, Evangeline?”

  “I hoped I might be able to choose something for myself since I’ll be the one wearing them.”

  Mama pressed her lips together. “You need a gown like this, Evangeline. It helps disguise the inadequacy of your figure.” Her gaze dropped to Lindy’s bosom. “If you know what I mean.”

  The vendeuse shot a glance at Lindy and then looked away. Lindy’s face flamed, and she took a deep breath.

  Her mother sent her a withering glare. “I do the thinking, Evangeline. Your duty is to obey.”

  She stared at Lindy until she murmured, “Yes, Mama.” Why did I think today would be any different?

  A burly figure in a paisley silk smoking jacket swept into the room. “Ah, forgive me, madame.” Charles Frederick Worth removed his black velvet beret and swept her a low bow. “Business unavoidably detained me, but I am here now and at your service.” He took the seat next to her mother and smiled at Lindy. “Now, where are we?”

  “I’ve chosen the debut gown already, monsieur. We’re looking at the ball gowns now.”

  “Exceptional.” He nodded to the live mannequins, who once again began their slow amble around the room.

  Her mother selected several more gowns. All to Lindy’s distaste. But it was no use to say anything. Lindy shifted on her bench. It would be over soon.

  Then a model went by, and Lindy sat up straighter. This gown was different. Simpler. Celadon silk ruching rippled in waves over the bodice, a pale blue-green, with delicate undertones of soft gray, like the sea outside their mansion, Seaside, in Newport. The skirt draped over a smaller bustle than was popular at the moment and flowed to the ground in a silken sweep. Silvery chrysanthemum petals embroidered at the hem reflected the light. The décolleté left the arms bare while diamanté beading on the soft shoulder straps sparkled softly.

  “May I see that one?” Lindy couldn’t believe she’d spoken up again. Next to her, her mother exhaled hard.

  Mr. Worth stood up. “Mademoiselle has a wonderful eye. Come here, Sophie.”

  The gown was even lovelier up close. The silk had a translucent, ethereal quality. Mr. Worth lifted a fold of the skirt and held it against Lindy’s cheek.

  “It matches your eyes perfectly, mademoiselle.”

  Lindy fingered the silk. “The color is amazing.”

  “It’s called ‘Eau de Mer.’”

  She didn’t dare look at her mother. “I will take this one, monsieur.”

  “I congratulate you on your choice.”

  Mama’s upper lip quivered, but she held her tongue until they left the salon. Then she clamped her hand on Lindy’s arm. “Whatever possessed you in there, Evangeline? I have never been so insulted. And by my own daughter!” She squeezed Lindy’s arm hard. “You will not do that again, Miss, I assure you.”

  Lindy wrenched away from her mother’s grasp and glared at her. “I don’t understand why you won’t allow me to make some choices for myself. It’s only a gown, Mama.”

  Her mother flushed dark red. “Are you contradicting me, Evangeline?”

  Lindy exhaled forcefully. “No. I’m not. But Mama, I won’t always have you at my side to—” To tell me what to do. She took a step back. “I have to learn sometime. Why not now?”

  Mama shrugged and pulled her sable stole around her shoulders. “There’s too much at stake here to indulge your childish whims. Once we make a suitable match and you’re married, you may choose to wear whatever you like.” Her mother reached out and tucked a curl behind Lindy’s ear. “Even then, dear, I’m sure you’ll still need me. I imagine I will be making quite a few trips abroad to oversee things.”

  She held her hand out to the footman, who assisted her into the landau.

  Lindy clenched her jaw. Her mother had to control everything. If the day ever came that Lindy refused to do her mother’s bidding, the resulting explosion would be bigger than the fireworks over the Brooklyn Bridge on Independence Day.

  Chapter 8

  New York City

  Jack had immersed himself so completely in his study of Ephesians he didn’t hear the knock at the door.

  “Are ye in there, sir?” A more rigorous knock sounded. “Sir?”

  “Come in, Jenny.”

  “A letter’s come for ye.”

  “From who?”

  Jenny drew herself up to her full height of five feet and glowered at him. “I dinna ken, sir.” She sniffed. “I’m not in the habit of readin’ other people’s mail—I can tell ye that.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist now, Jenny. You know I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’ll thank ye, sir, to leave me knickers out of it.” She waved the letter at him. “But since ye’re askin’, I believe your mam wrote it. I smell roses.” She dropped the envelope on the desk in front of him and left the room.

  Jack breathed in the summery scent of his mother’s eau de toilette and opened the letter.

  May 12, 1897, Saranac Lake

  Dearest Jack,

  We arrived safely last evening. I am staying in a little house called a “cure cottage” on the grounds of the sanitarium. A nurse stays with me. Her name is Betty, and she is most pleasant. The cottage has two porches, one open and one glassed-in, so I might ‘take the air.’ Your uncle is staying at an inn in the village, although he is here most of the day with me, and quite attentive. All the staff is cheerful, with not a sour face among them.

  I am writing this after lunch, and I must stop soon and take a rest. Even if it were not a scheduled rest time, I fear the noonday dinner would compel me to somnolence, for never such a heavy dinner have I seen! We had roast beef, and mutton, and some type of wild game, which I declined, much to the consternation of the server, who seemed to take it as a personal affront. Then there was creamed spinach, peas, lettuce with lemon juice, and baked potatoes. And then, for a sweet, a huge baked rice pudding. I am bursting at the seams, my dear. I shudder to think what breakfast items await me tomorrow.

  Always your loving,

  Mother

  Jack dropped the letter onto his desk. Did she know his uncle loved her as more than a sister-in-law? She sounded cheerful. But his mother always put a gracious air on everything.

  He closed his eyes. Dear Lord, bless her. Heal her. Fill her with joy in Your presence. Remove this sentence of death from her.

  Then he laid his head on the desk and wept.

  ***

  His church history textbook held Jack’s attention, but even so, when the library door opened, he looked up at once.

  “Good morning, Mr. Winthrop.”

  Is it my imagination, or does she look even lovelier than ever?

  Instead of her usual appearance, her curls and waves were swept up into a thick chignon. It emphasized her exquisite cheekbones and the long slender line of her neck.

  He stumbled to his feet. “Good morning, Miss Lindenmayer.” The calmness of his own voice surprised him. As if he hadn’t been eagerly waiting for the last fortnight to see her again. “How was your trip to Paris?”

  “Productive." She wrinkled her nose. “As far as my mother is concerned, anyway.”

  “Did y
ou enjoy yourself?”

  She sat down. “I did. It’s a wonderful city, especially in the spring. And what about you? Are you well?”

  “Yes. Quite well.”

  She eyed him and then tipped her head to one side, scrutinizing him. “Are you sure?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She blushed then, a delicate pink suffusing her face and neck. “It’s just—” She shrugged. “You look sad.”

  And he’d thought he’d done a good job of hiding his feelings. “You’re perceptive.” He sighed. “It’s my mother. My uncle has taken her to a clinic in Saranac Lake. She isn’t doing well.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Has she written?”

  “Yes, I’ve had a note this morning.” He patted the pocket of his coat.

  May 12, 1897, Saranac Lake

  My dearest son,

  The days are passing agreeably enough. I rest quite a bit, and sometimes if the evening is fair, your uncle pushes me about in a wheelchair. My days are full with rest periods, doctor appointments, and something they call therapy, which is simply another name for spending your time making things no one could possibly use or want. I made an embroidered coat hanger today, and I think I will give it to you when I come home. I do so long to see your handsome face. I think my coughing spells are not as bad as they were.

  Always your loving,

  Mother

  “She says her cough is better. But I know she wouldn’t tell me if it wasn’t.”

  “Not wanting to worry you.”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Lindenmayer sat and smoothed her skirt. “You and your mother are close.”

  “We are. I wish you could meet her,” he blurted out. “I know she’d like you.”

  Miss Lindenmayer's eyes widened. “That would be an honor. But...”

  “I know. We don’t inhabit the same society circles.”

  “That’s not it, Mr. Winthrop.” She leaned forward. “As an unmarried woman, I am chaperoned and watched every moment I leave my home. It wouldn’t be possible.” She smiled. “But if it were up to me, I’d love to meet her.”

  Jack smiled at her. “Then, I suppose I’m fortunate you are not chaperoned here in the library.”

  A glint sparkled in her eye. “That you are, sir!”

  “What are you reading now?” He glanced at the exotic cover of the book in her lap.

  “A Thousand Miles Up the Nile. Have you heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have.” He sat down across from her. “Interesting?”

  “Oh my, yes. It’s about Amelia Edwards’s account of her trip up the Nile in a houseboat.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Wait a moment. I do know that name. As a boy, I read one of her ghost stories. The Phantom Coach. Scared the heck out of me.”

  “Oh? I will have to look into that. I love a good ghost story.” She plucked a pencil from the side table and jotted the title down in a notebook. “Her writing is amazing. I’ve just started it, but already I’m entranced. Listen to this from the first chapter.”

  But what had memory to do with rains on land, or storms at sea, or the impatient hour of quarantine, or anything dismal or disagreeable, when one awoke at sunrise to see those gray-green palms outside the window solemnly bowing their plumed heads towards each other, against a rose-coloured dawn? It was dark last night, and I had no idea that my room overlooked an enchanted garden, far-reaching and solitary, peopled with stately giants beneath whose tufted crowns hung rich clusters of maroon and amber dates. Yonder, between the pillared stems, rose the minaret of a distant mosque; and here where the garden was bounded by a high wall and windowless house, I saw a veiled lady walking on the terraced roof in the midst of a cloud of pigeons.

  “Can’t you just see it? I feel that I’m there.”

  “It sounds fascinating.” Mr. Winthrop smiled and held out his hand. “May I?”

  She handed him the book, which he perused for the next several minutes, examining the many drawings and reading some of the prose.

  Then he closed the book and handed it back to her. “May I borrow it when you’ve finished it?”

  “Of course.”

  A glint came into his eyes, and he smiled mischievously. “You certainly have a great interest in Egypt. Perhaps you’d like to see a mummy unwrapped?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Goodness, no, I don’t think so. They were mummified as part of their death ritual. It seems wrong to disturb that.” She smoothed a fold in her skirt. “But it is a dream of mine to see Egypt someday. The Sphinx. The Great Pyramid. The Valley of the Kings.”

  “Then, I hope you are able to.”

  “It isn’t likely.” Mama’s plans for me don’t include a trip to Egypt.

  “But I can just see you riding a camel in the Egyptian desert, in a khaki skirt and a pith helmet on your head, notebook in hand.”

  She smiled. “I’ve never admitted that secret hope to anyone, Mr. Winthrop.”

  “Then, I’m honored that you shared it with me.” His brown eyes deepened as he gazed at her. “Hold on to your dreams, Miss Lindenmayer.”

  Her heart turned over in her chest.

  Mr. Winthrop, you almost make me believe it’s possible.

  Chapter 9

  Jack drove his uncle’s carriage down Madison Avenue toward the Grand Central train depot on Forty-Second Street. Thousands of glass panes composed the iron and glass roof of the train yard and cast a soft, coppery glow of lamplight into the night.

  He checked the time on the clock in the center of the largest tower. Seven twenty-seven, his uncle had telegraphed. Although his mother had been away only three weeks, it seemed much longer. Her last letter had been positive, but still, some nameless feeling of dread had surrounded him since he read it.

  May 19, 1897, Saranac Lake

  Dearest Jack,

  I don’t want you to worry needlessly, but I think the fresh air of the mountains has done its best for me. Actually, I don’t think I should be able to endure many more days of sanitarium food. Mutton chops were served for breakfast today. Did you ever? If consumption doesn’t kill me, the food here certainly will.

  I don’t mean to seem frivolous, my dear son. I miss you. I’ve been away from home long enough. It’s time to come home.

  Ever your loving,

  Mother

  Lord, what’s happening? He tried to tamp down the dread and focus on positive things. He repeated to himself 2 Timothy 2:7. “For the Lord has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and love, and of a sound mind.”

  Then his uncle emerged from the depot, wheeling the chair his mother had spoken of. She sat motionless within its wicker embrace, only the pale oval of her face showing from her cocoon of blankets.

  His uncle approached and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and somehow Jack pushed away the despair that washed over him. “Hello, Mother,” he said.

  She stirred then and gazed at him with such a sweet look of love that tears welled in his eyes. She seemed even more ethereal than she had been before. Her slender hand emerged from the blankets toward his face. “My darling son, how happy I am to see you.”

  He leaned over and took her cold hands in his. His throat smarted, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Take me home, son.”

  Wordlessly, he gathered her in his arms and lifted her from the chair, her weight negligible. A sob caught in his throat then, and he stopped, unable to go on. His uncle came behind and pressed his shoulder hard. “Let’s get her home, Jack.”

  Jack nodded. His uncle got into the carriage, and Jack handed her in to him. He swung himself up into the seat next to her. She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.

  ***

  Jack carried her upstairs to the blue bedroom. Together, they removed her coat and shoes. She had traveled in her nightclothes.

  “She was too exhausted to dress this morning,” his uncle whispered.

  They laid her in the bed, where she curled up on her side.
“Please open the windows, Joseph. I want to hear the crickets.”

  His uncle protested. “You’ll take a chill.”

  She only looked at him. His shoulders slumped, and then he raised the window sashes, letting the tender night breeze into the room.

  “I must leave you for a bit, Anna.” He turned and left the room, leaving the door ajar.

  Jack pulled a chair close to the bed, and she reached out her hand. He sat and took it into his own. She smiled at him and fell asleep.

  One glance at her in the depot had confirmed the truth. The dark smudges under her eyes. The skin stretched tight over her cheekbones. Perhaps it had been there all along, but he had chosen not to see it. Now the evidence struck him in the face like a blow.

  One solitary lamp burned on her dressing table. The crickets chirped in the grass below, and birds sang their evening song in the big chestnut tree outside the window. The lace curtains blew gently in the breeze while he held her hand. Hot tears ran down his cheeks until exhaustion overcame him, and he laid his head on the blue silk coverlet and fell asleep.

  Her fingers caressing his hair woke him. The lamp had burned out, but a silver moon had arisen in its place and shone its sweet, silver light onto her pillow. She smiled tenderly at him. “My sweet boy, it grieves me to see you taking on so.”

  Fresh tears welled in his eyes. “Mother...” He swallowed hard, unable to go on.

  “Death comes to all of us, dearest. Part of living is dying.”

  He shook his head. “You’re too young! There’s so much life left for you to live.”

  She nodded, and her fingers tightened in his hair. “It’s not for us to choose, my darling. Look at me.”

  He obeyed.

  “I know where I came from. And I know to whom I am going. I’m not afraid. I’m expectant. Can you understand that?”

  He nodded.

  “Be happy for me?”

  He smiled through his tears. “You’ll be well at last.”

  “Yes, my darling,” she said, stroking his head. “I will be healed. And I will be with Jesus. My healer and my beloved.” A smile curved her lips. “And I will see my dearest John again.”