by Renee Yancy
Gillian scrutinized him and smiled slightly, acknowledging his deft handling of the conversation. “Not much to tell. Our stories are somewhat similar. My parents died when I was a child, and my uncle raised me. I’ve spent every summer in Chautauqua since the age of seven.”
“It’s a magnificent place.”
“And world-famous. People from all over the world visit each summer. You never know who you’ll meet.”
“And it all started as a sort of ‘summer’ school for Sunday school teachers?”
“That was the initial vision. And then the response to the quest for learning soon broadened into science, music, and the arts.”
“It’s refreshing such an idea took root here.”
“Here? You mean in such a rustic place? I assure you, Mr. Winthrop, we may be informal here, but we are certainly not backward!”
Jack coughed. “Forgive me. I never meant to imply such a thing.”
“Didn’t you?” She lowered her menu and scorched him with her glare. “Don’t let my uncle hear you voice such sentiments. He’d send you packing.”
“My dear Miss Vincent, might we start over?” He held out his hand across the table. “Hello. I’m Jack Winthrop.”
The scowl dropped off Gillian’s brow, and she laughed—a pleasant sound. “Of course.” She shook his hand firmly. “Gillian Vincent. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
***
Jack ran into Gillian regularly after that evening, and they would stop and exchange a few words of conversation. They began to meet for tea once or twice a week until his responsibilities increased as the opening day of the camp approached, and several days passed when he didn’t see her at all.
“There you are!”
Jack looked up from his book as Gillian strode along the library aisle, followed by an older blond woman dressed in black silk. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Jack stumbled to his feet. “Is something wrong?”
“Did you forget our tea?”
Jack clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry! It went completely out of my head. With the camp opening soon I’ve been working on the lecture for the—”
“Fiddlesticks, I don’t care. Although if you can forget a girl that easily, I don’t know what that bodes for me.” She arched an eyebrow at him, then laughed. “I’m only joking, John, don’t look so puzzled. Mightn’t a girl have a sense of humor as well as a man?” She drew the older woman forward. “This is my Aunt Pearl. She’d like to have tea with us.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” Jack bowed.
“Likewise, Mr. Winthrop.” She smiled at him.
Gillian stood opposite him, shaking her head with a bemused smile, a vision in pink silk and lace. “We can still go if you’d like.”
When he hesitated, her lower lip curled into a pout. “I’m not used to being told no, young man.”
“Of course.” He gathered his books and papers and held his arm out to Gillian. They made their way through the camp to the hotel and took a table in front of one of the wide windows framing a view of the lake, glittering in the early June sunshine. Once seated, Aunt Pearl pulled a slim book out of her reticule and engrossed herself in it.
“What are you lecturing on, John?” Gillian insisted on calling him by his given name, though he preferred Jack. She certainly has a stubborn streak.
“The principles of divine eminence. Your uncle’s request.”
She poured him another cup of tea and added cream and one lump of sugar, as he liked it. When did she begin to do that?
“Sounds perfectly boring.”
“It’s not. But what about your reading list?” A week ago, Gillian had asked him to suggest some reading material, and he had obliged.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray isn’t too bad.” She took a sip of tea and shook her head. “But honestly, John, The Time Machine?” She frowned. “Don’t you think we should be spending our time on books that will improve our minds? Help us live a better Christian life?” She sniffed and then pressed her pretty lips together as if to stop herself from saying more.
Jack chuckled. “Of course. But I also read to improve my mind, widen my world, and stretch my imagination. Have you no sense of adventure?”
Gillian shrugged. “I’m a trifle surprised to find you read such things.”
Jack stifled a sigh. “Well then, what about Pascal’s Pensées?" He leaned forward, eager to hear her thoughts on it.
“Oh, that.” She waved a languid hand in the air. “I had to give that up almost immediately, John. All those big words! I needed a dictionary just for the first paragraph.”
Jack blinked. Well, what did you expect? That Gillian Vincent would have the thoughtful intelligence and beauty of Lindy? Gillian did have beauty, with her flaxen hair, porcelain complexion, and tiny waist. He’d noticed the attention she attracted as she entered the inn. And the envious looks on the faces of the young men when they glanced at him. But in all honesty, she seemed no different from the young women in his uncle’s church, who tittered behind their gloved fingers and made cow eyes at the young men.
“John!”
He started. “Pardon me—what?”
A tiny frown creased the perfection of her smooth forehead. “The waiter is here. He asked what you’d like with your tea?”
“Oh.”
The young man in the white apron held his pencil poised over his pad. “Sir?”
“Let’s see. Actually... I—don’t care for anything, thank you.”
The waiter bowed and left.
Gillian snapped her fingers in front of his face. “John, is something wrong? You’re a thousand miles away this afternoon.”
He certainly couldn’t tell her what he’d been thinking. “Nothing is wrong.”
She slumped in her chair. “I suppose I shouldn’t have asked you to go to tea with me. It’s obvious you’d rather be shut up in the stuffy library.” She gathered her parasol and rose to her feet. “I’m not accustomed to being treated in this way, John, and I don’t appreciate it.” Her voice rose a full octave. “As if I’m some vapid female you must put up with.”
Jack stood. “Forgive me, Gillian.” Staff at nearby tables turned in their direction. “Please sit down. Can we begin again?”
Gillian stood for a moment, pouting.
“Please,” he said, wondering if she had the ability to read minds.
She sat and smoothed her skirt. “It’s not as if I go around throwing myself at men.”
“Of course not.”
“When we’re together, you always seem to be thinking about something else.”
Jack picked up his cup and sipped his scalding tea. She was correct, but he couldn’t admit to that.
“And you never wish to discuss anything of your life before you came to Chautauqua.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not used to having these sorts of discussions with young ladies, Gillian.”
“Ha!” she scoffed. “I don’t believe you. Surely you have had your share of girlish admirers?”
Jack shook his head. “Indeed, no. I haven’t.” He grinned at her. “But you have, I dare say.”
Gillian tossed her head and preened like an exotic bird. “So, you have noticed some things, John.” She smiled at him. “Perhaps you’re not as obtuse as I’d previously thought.”
After they finished their tea, they left the hotel, followed at a discreet distance by Aunt Pearl.
“I know my uncle has already given you a tour of the grounds, but I wonder, did he show you Palestine Park?”
“No, actually. It was raining that day, and your uncle didn’t care to brave the mud puddles without his galoshes.”
“Come then. I’d like to show you.”
A pleasant stroll brought them to the lakeside, with Aunt Pearl walking ten or so steps behind them.
Jack leaned closer to Gillian. “Is Aunt Pearl your chaperone?” he whispered.
Gillian laughed. “We d
on’t use that word out here in the country. She’s playing chaperone for me. A young lady mustn’t be seen alone with a young man, Surely you realize that, John? Aunt Pearl is giving a courting couple the respectability they require. Here we are now. See that hill?”
Wh-what? Is that what we’re doing?
Numbly, Jack tried to focus on the piece of ground Gillian pointed to, but his head spun like a merry-go-round.
Courting?
Chapter 43
That night Jack barely slept after Gillian’s courting comment. Normally, he dropped off to sleep as soon as he lay his head on the pillow, but instead, he tossed and turned until the birds started singing in the morning glory vine outside his window. It seemed only a moment later when the full-throated drone of a steam whistle reverberated through the bedroom, and he jerked upright in bed, narrowly missing the sloping gable above his head. What the deuce? Before his hammering heart recovered, clanging bells pierced the air, and another low-pitched whistle filled the morning. Jack jumped out of bed and peered out of the window. Today was the official opening day for Chautauqua, but campers arriving this early?
He shaved and dressed quickly, then went downstairs and through the front doors of the hotel. Horse-drawn wagons clopped past, fellows carrying large valises and suitcases, families with children clutched to their side. More steam whistles, more bells ringing, and a dull roar of conversations, greetings, and excited shouts rose above the moving crowd. Dogs barked, children cried, and was that a rooster crowing?
Jack descended into the bustling maelstrom and fought his way upstream through the throng to the wharf. The City of Cincinnati had moored dockside. Right behind it, the City of Mayville had tied up, and passengers streamed off its gangplank onto the dock.
Two more steamboats approached the wharf, the steam whistles and bells announcing their impending arrival echoing across the lake. Piles of trunks and grocery boxes loaded the wooden dock. Peeking out from a pile of suitcases stood an iron cookstove, a feather bed, and various chairs, desks, and other furniture. Kegs of nails and bundles of campfire wood littered the dock. People swarmed over the unloaded paraphernalia, claiming their property, calling for children, raising hands to summon a steamboat employee’s help to move their belongings onto a wagon, all amidst the continued pealing of the ship’s bells.
He spied Gillian in the mix, with a clipboard and pencil, directing campers to various places. “Isn’t it grand?” she called out to Jack. “Just wait until tonight!”
Seemingly overnight, the quiet pine woods of Chautauqua transformed into a bustling city of campers, students, teachers, and seekers. The Chautauqua Press published its first edition of the season that afternoon, The Chautauqua Assembly Herald, and Jack soon found “The Drift of the Day” became his favorite part of the Herald, written by an anonymous wag who made droll and witty observations of the campers.
Opening ceremonies took place in the amphitheater that evening. Jack sat at the rear of the five thousand-seat theater, enjoying the excellent acoustics of the concave-roofed wooden structures which conducted the speaker’s voice most admirably to the farthest top seats.
Bishop John Heyl Vincent, one of Chautauqua’s founders, welcomed everyone to the twenty-fifth Chautauqua assembly. “We are anxious in striking the keynote of this summer assembly to remember that we depend utterly upon the Divine Spirit for all the work we attempt to do in the study of the Divine Word, and for all our investigations into the Divine Works. In nature, in literature, in art, in science, our hope is in the Spirit of the Living God. If our theory is true, God, whose we are and by whom we live, is present, nearer to us than the air we breathe. That our spirits may be in harmony with His Spirit, that His spirit may enter, possess, and dominate our spirits, this is the high end of all worship.”
Then he gave a short and snappy teaching on The Cause and the Cure of Superficiality in Religious Teaching.
A Venetian fête on the lake would cap off the evening. Gillian had refused to explain it to him and would only say he must experience it for himself.
Now, far above the lake, heat lightening flickered through the clouds. Campers streamed along the path to the beach, lit by fairy candles in sparkling glass jars. Rumbles of thunder heightened the anticipation as the lake filled with yachts, steamers, and rowboats, fitted out with Chinese lanterns blazing in rainbow hues. Gold, scarlet, emerald, and sapphire-colored fire burned on their decks, and strings of lights outlined their hulls.
Some of the larger ships had their names emblazoned on their masts. The lights cast a gorgeous, golden light across the water, mirrored in the surface of the lake. At ten o’clock, the boats discharged Roman candles and rockets from their decks and circled about the lake as fireworks were set off from the beach at the same time, adding their pyrotechnic splendor to the scene. The Chautauqua searchlight flashed across the sky, and the colored fountain added its sparkle to the view as lighted candles floated on the water.
Seated next to Jack on the bench, Gillian squeezed his arm. “Didn’t I tell you it would be spectacular?”
“You did. It’s dazzling. And most likely, the closest thing to a real Venetian fête I’ll ever get to.”
She nestled closer. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Venice would be a wonderful place to honeymoon.”
Jack’s jaw fell open. “Gill—”
“Don’t say anything,” she said. “I only want you to know that all this”—she waved toward the fireworks and shooting stars—“is how you make me feel inside.”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he said hoarsely, finding his voice with difficulty.
“I’m content to wait.” She lay her head against his arm and turned to the fireworks.
Another hour passed before Jack could say good night and retire to his room at the hotel. How had it come to this? He’d been friendly, nothing more.
He had to speak to her tomorrow and set the matter straight.
Chapter 44
June 1898
Two days later, Jack sat in a comfortable leather chair in the hotel, his feet on a stool and the Chautauqua Herald Assembly and The Buffalo Evening News in his lap. Rain poured in sheets outside the inn, hammering off the roof into the mud below, while he basked in cozy warmth near the massive stone fireplace. Rain hadn’t diminished the fervor of Chautauqua’s campers but only sent them inside for the afternoon. The flames occasionally hissed when an errant raindrop found its way inside. Gillian sat nearby, curled up in an overstuffed lounge chair, engrossed in the latest issue of Godey’s Lady Book.
He hadn’t found the courage or the words yet to confront Gillian. Distractedly, he picked up the Herald while thinking about the matter and went to “The Drift of the Day.”
My dear! What were you thinking of? To walk across the top of' the choir while Mr. Plagles was giving a lecture in the Amphitheater! Can't you see how rude it was? And your footsteps, sforzando staccato! How sweet of you it would have been if you had crossed the rustic bridge instead of intruding on the lecture. To be sure the audience would never have known how thoughtful you were—but what of that? You would have known.
He chuckled and picked up the Buffalo paper. The second Boston Marathon had been run yesterday in Massachusetts. He turned the page, and a headline jumped out at him.
“It’s a Sad World When Children Disobey their Parents and Scorn their Judgment!”
Hmm. That sounded interesting. Jack folded the paper in half and continued reading.
What is this world coming to? Has it anything to do with the turn of the new century fast upon us? In quieter days, children respected their elders and undertook to please them in every respect. However, this spring in New York City has seen an unprecedented number of grooms jilted at the altar by reluctant brides.
It started in March of this year, when Evangeline Lindenmayer, daughter of business baron and socialites Otto and Vera Lindenmayer, repudiated her fiancé, the Duke of Hampshire, in an unparalleled act of rebellion at the altar. Miss Lindenmayer
refused to say “I do” in front of the highest of New York society, the mayor of New York, and members of the British aristocracy who had traveled across the pond for the ceremony. The whole scene caused her poor mother to faint in anguish.
Furor has raged in society circles all over the city, and Miss Lindenmayer has disappeared from sight, and well she might! A second and then a third wave of reluctant brides have followed her lead, leaving heartbroken parents in the lurch and city elders shaking their heads, to say nothing of the jilted grooms.
“No!” Jack dropped the newspaper and jumped to his feet.
Gillian started. “What is it?”
Jack gulped. “Nothing—I was—surprised about something.”
“My goodness, you have the reflexes of a boxer, John.” She rose and retrieved the newspaper, still open to the society page. She held it out to him, then stopped, frowning. “John, are you quite well? You’ve turned as white as a sheet.”
Jack shook his head, trying to clear the spinning sensation in his brain. She hadn’t married him! Lindy, oh, Lindy, my darling! He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I’m fine.” He held out his hand for the paper.
Gillian’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped back, scrutinizing him. “Whatever upset you, it’s in here, isn’t it?” She scanned the page. “I didn’t know you read the society pages, John. How funny.” Then the smile dropped off her face. She collapsed into her chair, still reading.
Jack righted the footstool and sat down. Couldn’t run away now.
A moment later, she looked up from the page. “Why did this story upset you so?”
He shrugged.
“Did you know this girl?”
He nodded.
“John, talk to me. Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather not.”
Gillian smiled at him. “It might help.”
What had Lindy said after his mother’s death, quoting one of the poets? Shared joy is double joy; sorrow shared is half sorrow.
But he had no desire to share his thoughts with Gillian. Even though she emanated sympathy—all smiles and graciousness. She’d made it clear in these last few weeks she had set her cap for him. And he’d been glad of the companionship until her courting comment the other night.