“I saw the two of them dressed in them cycling getups whizzing down Old Orchard Street.” Frank shook his head. “I’d be careful about getting any more involved with a girl like that if I were you. Have you seen them in that nonsense? A woman should look like one, as far as I’m concerned.”
Yancey had seen them in their matching cycling outfits. After all, the two of them had taken turns standing on a wooden stool in his family’s parlor, his mother crouched before them, her mouth filled with pins, fitting them in the tight-waisted jackets and matching knickerbockers. He distinctly remembered enjoying the unobstructed view of Miss Proulx’s well-turned calves in her dark stockings when his mother tacked up the hem on the cuff of Miss Proulx’s pair. Just thinking of it tightened his throat.
“What Miss Proulx does or doesn’t wear is no concern of mine.”
“You keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll be able to convince someone that it’s true.” Frank elbowed Yancey in the ribs. “Every time that girl is anywhere in range you look like you’re having some sort of a fit.”
“I certainly do not.” Yancey had suspected Frank wasn’t particularly observant for a policeman and here was the proof. There was no way on God’s green Earth Miss Proulx could reduce him to fits. No matter how shapely her calves or how expertly she fended off attackers armed with nothing more than determination and an unorthodox wielding of a lady’s accessory.
“You do, too. Whenever Miss Proulx shoves into view you start blinking like you’re cutting onions and your posture straightens like your trouser seat’s been showered with sparks from a passing train.”
Yancey stepped away and pulled some messages from the nail on his desk. He thumbed through them in an effort to discourage Frank from venturing more unwanted opinions. But the content of the messages simply didn’t register. The words swam before his eyes and were replaced by first the memory of Miss Proulx’s delicate ankle bones and then the thought of her, ankles and all, being trampled in a crush as scores of terrified women fled down Grand Avenue barely ahead of an armed mob.
Chapter Sixteen
A little bird told me you’ve been invited to make a display of yourself before the suffrage rally by our celebrated guest.” Mrs. Doyle, the Belden’s formidable cook and housekeeper and Honoria’s trusted advisor, rocked a large knife over a pile of onion slices, cutting them aggressively into fine pieces. I didn’t like to imagine what Mrs. Doyle thought about while she was chopping things. I often caught myself wondering if it was me she was imagining under her glinting blade.
Mrs. Doyle and I had gotten off to a rocky start when I had first arrived at the hotel. She had informed me that she was keeping a sharp eye on me to be sure I was not as lacking in morals as my father. Then she fixed me with a soul-singeing scowl. It wasn’t until sometime later that she revealed her sharp looks were not meant to convey dislike. Rather, she was evaluating my aura.
Mrs. Doyle’s psychic talent lay in the reading of auras. She claimed she could see lies. Nothing about her suggested to me she was making such a thing up. In fact, she had known from the color of my aura about the voice without my saying a thing about it. It was from her that I first learned that others had heard voices and had not been sent to the lunatic asylum. Clairaudient she had called that ability and she told me my mother had experienced it, too.
While we had come a long way because of our shared allegiance to the hotel and Honoria and even a surprising degree of affection, I was wary of losing her hard-won good opinion of me. I wasn’t sure if she approved or disapproved of the idea of suffrage.
“Was your little bird a person here at the Belden or an article in the newspaper?”
“Your aunt may have been a bit distracted since her dream but she wouldn’t neglect to tell me something as important as that. Why don’t you seem more pleased to be offered such an opportunity?”
Mrs. Doyle squinted at me as she always did when assessing my aura. She checked my aura the way some women check children’s faces for milk mustaches. Even though I understood what her piercing look meant it still made me cringe. I couldn’t help but feel far too exposed whenever she turned her attention fully on me. I knew better than to lie so I stuck to the truth no matter how little of it I divulged.
“I’m flattered that Sophronia has taken an interest in me and wants to provide more publicity for the hotel. It feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and one that could help to keep the Belden profitable by being associated with someone as well-known as Sophronia,” I said. “But, I do feel uncomfortable standing in front of a crowd and having them all looking at me. The idea of public scrutiny disquiets me. I wanted to leave all such displays behind me when I left the medicine show.”
“I can see that you’re bothered by this,” she said. Mrs. Doyle laid the knife aside and reached onto the counter behind her. She flicked a dampened tea towel off a plate and offered me a jam tart. “As well you should be. I told Honoria so myself when she came in all aflutter with the idea of you parading about in front of the masses.” I bit down on the small tart.
The flavor of tiny wild blueberries bound together with a sugary thickened juice burst upon my tongue with a brightness that should have made me forget my troubles, if only for a moment. But instead, the scowling look on Mrs. Doyle’s face made me worry all the more.
“Do you have reservations about suffrage for women?” I asked. I knew a little of Mrs. Doyle’s history and would have expected her to be all for a cause that allowed women better control of their destinies.
When Honoria and my mother were small girls Mrs. Doyle had bundled up her own daughter and slipped out in the night to escape from a husband who was quick to turn to the bottle and even quicker at turning his fists on his wife. She sought shelter with my grandparents at the Belden and had been there ever since. It had been a lucky thing for her that Mr. Doyle had been claimed by the sea the very night she left him.
“I have no disagreement with women speaking up and asking for what should have always been our due.”
“What is it, then?” I asked. “You don’t seem pleased about my involvement with the cause.”
“My reservations concern that Foster Eldridge woman, not suffrage itself.” Mrs. Doyle swept the onions into a large pot then seasoned them with a generous amount of salt. “Her aura is too muddy for my liking.”
Mrs. Doyle had explained to me how she saw the lies once before. According to her, the aura should be made up of clear bright color. When a person lies to spare someone’s feelings or to make life better for another their aura gets lighter and harder to see. Which she claims is where the term white lies comes from. But the other sort of lies, those that people tell for gain or to wriggle out of responsibility for their actions, those are blacker, grayer, or even brown. All are muddy auras and raise a red flag with Mrs. Doyle.
“She lives a controversial life. And she seems to spend her time steeped in animosity. Could her aura be caused by that rather than by lies she tells?” I asked. Mrs. Doyle peeled butcher’s paper from a beef tongue. She lowered it onto the onions and reached for a bundle of herbs hanging from a hook above her head.
“I suppose there could be many reasons for what I see with my own two eyes. Lying is the most common cause of an aura like hers but in rare cases other unpleasantnesses can account for it, too.” She hoisted the pot and lugged it to the deep sink, where she filled it with water. “Still, none of the reasons she might have for a muddy aura will be good for you.”
“I don’t suppose they are good for Sophronia, either.”
“Sophronia’s troubles are none of my concern. But yours are yoked together with the Belden’s and that makes them mine.”
“Did you tell Honoria what you thought of the idea of me conducting platform readings?” I asked. I felt a small surge of hope. Mrs. Doyle’s opinion meant a great deal to Honoria. It was a rare thing for my aunt to discount it. The last time she di
d so was when Mrs. Doyle suggested Honoria leave me to find my own way in the world when it looked as though the Belden might be forced to close.
“Indeed I did. I told her I didn’t like to think of the sort of influence Sophronia might gain over you. You are at an important stage in developing your gift. I don’t want to see it tainted by such a person.” Mrs. Doyle turned her back to me. I could still hear her as she banged the pot down on the stove and added a lid to the pot. “Honoria said our notorious guest has brought a great deal of prestige to the Belden by choosing to stay with us. She said we still need all the help we can get to overcome the difficulties we endured last month.” Honoria was right about that. In June the hotel’s reputation had been thoroughly besmirched by criminality and if it had not been for the generosity of the Velmont sisters, Honoria would have lost the hotel. I felt the last flicker of hopefulness die out. If Mrs. Doyle couldn’t change Honoria’s mind there would be no changing of it at all.
“It looks like I will be giving platform readings whether I am afraid to do so or not,” I said. Mrs. Doyle waved her red hand in front of her face as if to physically brush away my words.
“I wouldn’t be sure about that. A great deal can happen between now and the time you are expected to take the stage.”
“But Honoria has committed me for the march tomorrow. What could possibly happen to intercede between now and then?”
“A great deal, if I have my way. But, I think it best that you not go asking too many questions.” Mrs. Doyle turned her back to me. “I think we’ll start by keeping you too busy to spend much time with Miss Foster Eldridge.”
I felt my heart sink. I had no desire for Mrs. Doyle to be thinking of extra things for me to do. I already had a full schedule between tarot card readings, séances, and the ways Honoria required my help entertaining the guests. Still, it was never good to rile Mrs. Doyle and if there was a chance I could get out of the platform reading without alienating Sophronia I was willing to do most anything.
“What did you have in mind for me to do?”
“That man with all the hay fever notions is not satisfied with the way his room is being dusted. Since I understand you are the one who sent him to me with his concerns, you may go into town to fetch a new feather duster just for him.” Mrs. Doyle gave me a final scowl and then shooed me off. “Millie needs it as soon as possible so you’d best get going straightaway.”
Chapter Seventeen
Old Orchard Street was busier than I’d ever seen it. Bicycles, carriages, and automobiles clotted the length of the street with activity and people of all ages did likewise along the sidewalks. I thought I had grown accustomed to the cheerful merrymakers and the air of excitement the coming of the pier created but as I moved along with the tide of people my heart lightened and I struggled not to begin whistling.
The words of a cook from one of the medicine shows I’d worked with Father came back to me at times like these. “Whistling girls and cackling hens all come to very bad ends.” I stopped dead in my tracks and felt jostling from people behind me who hadn’t expected an obstruction in their path.
This was exactly the sort of thing Sophronia was working for. It wasn’t just the vote. It wasn’t just big things suffrage was trying to address. It was the small, everyday slights and inequalities. Why should boys and men be allowed to express happiness by whistling but girls and women were told to keep their happiness to themselves? And at the same time we were relentlessly told to smile should our faces take on a serious expression.
I looked around me at the people going about their business, women shaded in extravagant hats walking sedately under the weight of their garments, men hurrying to and fro in seersucker trousers and straw hats. It struck me as inordinately unfair and my temper started to flare. It was as if all the things Sophronia had said to me were crystalizing in that one old rhyme learned long ago. I was overcome with the urge to throw my own hat in the air and take off running down the long stretch of beach just like a small boy would be permitted to do. The temptation was almost overwhelming.
But while I was feeling sufficiently emboldened to buck the conventions of society in general, I was not feeling brave enough to thwart Mrs. Doyle. I turned my wandering feet away from the shore and up toward Palmer’s Mercantile, where a new feather duster was sure to be in stock. As I approached the shop a familiar figure caught my eye. Sophronia, clad unseasonably all in black, was making her way determinedly up the hill. Surely she must have suffered in the heat despite the parasol she held above her head and the fan she waved in front of her face.
She stopped abruptly a few paces away from the man I was surprised to recognize as the one who had heckled her at the rally. He seemed to be waiting for her and took a few steps into a secluded alley leading away from the main thoroughfare. I watched as she closed the distance between them in a few quick strides and addressed him. Given the outburst at the rally I decided in that moment it might be in Sophronia’s best interest to keep an eye on her so long as she was in his company.
I moved up the street doing my best to keep them in sight without appearing to do so. As I drew closer, I saw the congressman’s expression. His eyes were narrowed to angry slits and a deep groove appeared between his brows. With the distance and the clamor of the passing carriages and motorcars on the street I could not hear what was said. Congressman Plaisted held out both hands in front of his chest in what looked like supplication.
Sophronia smiled, shook her head slowly, then leaned toward him and tapped him square in the center of his chest with the edge of her fan in what could have been interpreted as a playful gesture. Without hesitation the congressman used both hands to shove her away. She stumbled backward and her head struck the brick wall of the adjacent building.
He looked down at her with an expression of surprise, as though he could not quite believe what he had done. I reached for the edge of my skirt to rush up the street to her aid. But then Plaisted turned on his heel and set off back down the street quickly enough to garner attention from passersby. I started once more in her direction to ask if she was all right but the voice spoke in my ear.
“Watch instead.”
I held my ground and kept my eyes on Sophronia. She stood watching Congressman Plaisted’s retreating form until he was out of sight. Rather than the look of pain I expected to see on her face there was a look of satisfaction instead. She reached up to adjust her hat then stepped out of the alley and headed off in the direction of the Belden.
I considered hurrying down the wide avenue after her but thought better of it. Sophronia’s affairs were none of my concern. Honoria had impressed upon me how important it was to draw a line between providing guests with every comfort and meddling in things we ought not. Besides, Mrs. Doyle would be wanting the new feather duster she had requested. There would be no peace at the Belden until the persnickety Mr. Fredericks was satisfied that his room could be kept absolutely dust free.
Chapter Eighteen
If it would not have attracted unwanted notice I would have run all the way back to the Belden. Between Sophronia’s announcement that I would be expected to conduct a public reading and the emotions brought to mind by the violence I had witnessed I was desperate to hide away until I had gained mastery of myself. Arriving at last at the hotel I had the good fortune to hand the feather duster over to Millie rather than to Mrs. Doyle, lest she find more errands for me to run. Still finding myself of agitated mind and spirit I did what I found most soothing and headed for my beloved bedroom sanctuary.
Even though I do not remember her, the idea that the space belonged to my mother long before I arrived to enjoy it, comforts me. Ever since arriving at the Belden the pleasure of having a room of my own has been amongst my favorite experiences of my life. I adored the furnishings, the draperies, the view of the beachgoers in all their finery, and the sparkling sea. But most of all, I cherished the lock.
Life on a medic
ine show is grueling. The days are long and the conditions are harsh. Grime and hunger and discomfort are constant companions. Privacy is as scarce as lasting results from the bottles of cure-all my snake oil salesman father had hawked day after day. Tents and the backs of wagons afforded no privacy. There were no doors to close and so there were no locks to secure them.
I wish I could report that there had been no need for such security but in truth, that was just not so. Thieves and swindlers, drunkards and men with thoughts of violence pricking at the corners of their minds provided a steady supply of worry. But no matter how much a young woman might wish she could secure a door against all such dangers, she simply could not do so. Instead, one had always to be vigilant, to be on guard against those seeking to take advantage of her inattention. At any moment one could lose the contents of her purse. Or far worse.
Every time I turned the lock I held my breath to better hear the click as it secured the heavy walnut door. As I did so, I sent up a word of thanks to whatever power might be responsible for my change of fortune. While I did not believe in any particular deity, I did believe in being grateful. I had not missed my father for a moment since we parted ways. In fact, I had come to realize I was thoroughly relieved to be rid of his constant presence. Seeing Sophronia on the receiving end of a violent outburst brought unwanted memories flooding into my mind.
I crossed to the bed and climbed up onto its firm mattress. I lay on my side and curled into a ball, suddenly overcome with a chill despite the warmth of the day. I slipped my hand beneath my pillow and reached for the familiar feel of the timeworn envelope I always kept there. I told myself I needn’t pull it out and look over the letter contained within. I knew it by heart just as surely as I could picture the photograph it also held.
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