At Every Turn

by Mateer, Anne

  “I know, but I thought you could at least suggest ways to raise the money. You’re so good at that. How do your clubs manage to fund charitable causes?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  She sipped her tea. “Why can’t you find something more . . . suitable for your efforts? Like those poor Belgian children orphaned by the war in Europe?”

  I speared a raspberry and popped it into my mouth. “Plenty of others are championing their cause. These children in Africa have no one else. Or rather, very few others. Can’t you help me?”

  Her delicate mouth drooped before she set aside her fork. “You ought to be concerned with finding a husband before you take on other people’s problems, Alyce. I’ve tried to explain it to your father, but he cannot be convinced that you must spend more time in proximity to eligible men if you are to marry. After you marry, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to do good.”

  A bee buzzed near my ear. I wished it would jab its stinger into my flesh so I could avoid this conversation. But it bumbled away, off to find a flower to satisfy its hunger instead.

  “I’m not missing a thing, Mother. I’m working with the Women’s Mission Auxiliary at church. And there’s a social planned for later this month. I have other friends, too.” Though none you would approve of. “I’m satisfied with my life.”

  Or would be if I had three thousand dollars for the mission in the Gold Coast.

  Mother’s mouth puckered as if she’d bit into a lemon instead of a strawberry. “You know that isn’t what I mean, Alyce. On my last trip to Chicago I met several men who asked to be introduced to you. They are expecting you to accompany me next time. And I’m sure your friends from school miss you, as well. We could go up and stay for a few weeks.”

  My heart thumped against my chest as I imagined Webster’s racing car zipping around the board track just outside the city. “Actually, Mother, I think that’s a great—”

  “Ow!” Mother sprang from her chair and slapped at her neck. “Get it off! Get it off!” Slap. Slap. Slap.

  I caught her hand, held it still. A welt the size of a nickel rose red beneath her ear.

  Then her screaming stopped. Her body went limp. I caught her just before she hit the ground.

  “Mother?” I eased her to the floor of the gazebo and settled her head in my lap as a bumblebee twitched one last time on the ground beside me. Her eyes didn’t open. They didn’t even flutter. “Help me! I need help!”

  Before my shout died away, Webster lifted Mother into his arms, his eyes locking on mine. I hoped he could read my gratitude.

  I phoned the doctor. And Father. Neither hurried to Mother’s side. Smelling salts did their job, waking her to a moaning existence. Clarissa made a quick mud plaster, which I dabbed on the sting. Betsy brought Mother a glass of wine to help dull her pain.

  Her eyes closed. Her head lolled to one side. The front door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs.

  “Alyce?” she groaned as Dr. Maven stepped into the room.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  She stretched out her arm. My shoulders slumped a bit as I stepped to her side, holding her hand as the doctor examined the sting.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Benson. Everyone has taken good care of you.” He patted her hand and smiled in my direction.

  “Thank you, darling,” Mother mumbled before turning her head, her face still white and pinched with pain.

  “I’ll see myself out,” the doctor whispered. “Call if you need anything more.”

  “I will.” After the front door shut and the faint chug of the doctor’s motorcar died away, I let go of Mother’s hand and advanced toward the door. If I knew my mother, this could confine her to bed for a week. And if I couldn’t rouse her from bed, how in the world would I induce Father to take me to Chicago for the race?

  10

  Early Sunday morning, I wrapped my robe around my nightdress and tiptoed into the hall. No stirring in Mother’s bedroom. No sound from the floor below. I hurried into the bathroom and then returned to my room to dress. Maybe I could spend some time with Grandmother before breakfast.

  Shoes in hand, I crept down the hall, my stockinged feet making no sound on the polished walnut floor. As I passed the stairs, the smell of fresh bread rumbled my stomach.

  I pushed open Grandmother’s bedroom door. “How is my favorite lady this morning?”

  Grandmother chuckled as I made my way to her bedside, kissed her cheek, and settled into my usual chair.

  “Did you—were you able—?” She whispered as if I’d taken up something sinister.

  For once, I thanked the Lord that she couldn’t see my face. “Not much more money. But some.”

  I’d gone into town for a while the previous day, exhausted my entire list of people to contact, and arrived home with less than two hundred dollars toward my goal.

  “You need somewhere to keep what you’ve been given. Open my armoire.”

  I did as she bid me.

  “Look in the bottom left drawer.”

  I slid it open.

  “The red box. Dig for it.”

  Pushing aside white undergarments, I spied a bit of scarlet wedged into the back corner. I pulled it out. A square box decorated with tiny beads.

  “I purchased it at the Columbian Exposition. I can’t remember which exhibit booth. But I thought it charming. And a reminder that the blood of Jesus covered my sins. Take it. For your Africa money. Then I’ll feel I have a part in it, too.”

  I turned the box over in my hands. “It will take time, but God will fill it. I feel sure.”

  “I hope so.” Grandmother’s voice shook just a bit. “Yet I fear for you, child.”

  My chin lifted. “I don’t understand why Father’s being so stubborn about this.”

  Grandmother shook her head, tears standing in her sightless eyes.

  “What turned him against God, Grandmother? Was it Mother?”

  Grandmother turned toward me. “It was my fault, I fear.”

  “Your fault?” I stroked her hand. “You’ve never been anything but gracious, even during his tirades and Mother’s tantrums.”

  Her brown-spotted hand reached for the glass of water always on her bedside table. She lifted it to her lips. Once. Twice. The glass shook in her hand. I guided it back into place without mishap.

  “I wasn’t always as you’ve known me, Ally. I didn’t come to know the Lord until the year before you were born.”

  “Yes, I know. At the Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Reverend Moody was preaching under a big tent and for the first time you realized you needed a Savior.”

  Grandmother nodded. “What you don’t know is that those first few years I wanted so badly for your mother and father to come to the same realization. All I could talk about was the peace I’d found in Jesus, the joy I’d never experienced before. And every day—maybe every hour—I asked if they could see that they needed the same thing.”

  “But surely they understood you just loved them so much you had to share your new faith.”

  “That was my reasoning at the time. But a wise older woman spied me weeping bitter tears one Sunday after church. I explained your parents’ unwillingness to accept Christ and told her I was sure my unlearned words were the cause. She assured me they weren’t and counseled me to live out my faith for them rather than preaching to them. She explained that no matter how much I talked or what words I used, Jesus had to woo them to Himself. I couldn’t persuade them merely by saying it over and over again.”

  Grandmother played with the lace edge of the sheet covering her thin frame. “She was right, Ally. It took time for me to admit that. But then you arrived, a tiny bundle of joy with your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t know me any other way, so I decided to pour myself into you instead of them.”

  “But all these years, Grandmother. All these years we’ve prayed. And nothing changes them.” I choked out a laugh. “Well, maybe they do change. The
y seem to get further from the Lord.”

  Grandmother nodded. “Every day that passes they get closer to the end of themselves. That’s what I’m believing to be the case.”

  “Alyce?” Mother’s voice drifted into the room.

  “Go on now. Serve your parents well, as you always do. And trust God for the rest. Even for Africa.”

  “I love you, Grandmother.” I kissed her forehead. “Pray for me,” I whispered as I slipped my shoes onto my feet.

  “Always” came the answer.

  Behind the wheel of the Runabout, I chugged down the road to church, singing every hymn that popped into my head. By the time I parked, my heart had lightened, my faith had strengthened.

  I cut the engine and laid my goggles on the seat before pinning my saucer-brimmed straw sailor hat atop my head.

  “Miss Benson?”

  I jumped, pressing my hand against my chest.

  “May I be of assistance?” Mr. Trotter held out his hand. It seemed a bit ridiculous. I climbed in and out of my automobile by myself every day. Even when Webster stood nearby. But then, Webster wasn’t Lawrence Trotter, with his fashionable suit and a tie knotted beneath his chin.

  Mother’s words about a suitable match flickered through my head. She probably hadn’t meant someone like Mr. Trotter. But could she be persuaded to approve?

  Sociable. Dapper. Interested in the things of the Lord.

  I laid my hand in his and stepped to the ground. A shiver skittered over my arms and down my legs as he slid the duster from my shoulders and tossed it across the seat of my car.

  “Thank you, Mr. Trotter.” My voice fell to a faint whisper as my eyes met his. Even though I’d sat with him in church for almost two months, I’d never noticed the flecks of green that swam in his hazel eyes, the fullness of his lips beneath the line of fawn-colored hair above them. I remembered visiting with him alone in his office. My heart beat in excited anticipation—but of exactly what I couldn’t tell.

  “Shall we?” He offered his arm. A smile crept over my face as my heart thumped faster. When I touched his arm, a lightning bolt of thrill shot through my middle, leaving my knees weak.

  We walked into church together, whispers trailing behind us. I ducked my head. Did he hear them, too? I glanced up again. His chest puffed out a bit now, and his gait took on a swagger. He obviously felt no shame to be linked with an old maid of twenty-two. One with bobbed hair and a car of her own, who bore the name of the most influential man in town.

  Maybe, just maybe, Lawrence Trotter was God’s answer to my prayers—in more ways than one.

  After the service ended, the congregation buzzed with excitement over Mrs. Tillman’s announcement about raising funds for the mission. A Women’s Mission Auxiliary meeting was planned for that evening. My palms grew slick with sweat beneath my gloves. I wanted to leave before anyone asked me about the money I’d promised.

  “Shall we?” were Mr. Trotter’s quiet words in my ear. He led me out the door, around the edge of the crowd. My discomfort eased. We arrived at my motorcar without having to speak to anyone, though I regretted a quick wave to Lucinda and baby Teresa instead of a conversation.

  He helped me into my duster again. I pulled my leather driving gloves over my thin white ones, wondering again if God intended more than I’d imagined concerning the man at my side.

  He whisked his hat from his head and swept it across his body in a formal bow. “I’d be delighted to take you for a drive this afternoon, Miss Benson. I could deliver you to your meeting this evening, as well.”

  My heart seemed to stop as my hands stilled. Then my pulse took up its regular beat again. “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Trotter. I think I’d enjoy that.”

  “Lawrence. Please call me Lawrence.” He set his hat on his head with a jaunty tap. “May I pick you up at four? That will give us time for a good long drive.”

  “That would be delightful. Thank you.”

  He stepped back. I hit the electric starter and my motor roared to life. Lawrence. Coming to pick me up. At my house. What would Mother and Father say? I pulled my foot from the clutch. The engine quit.

  “Lawrence?” Heads turned as my voice carried across the churchyard. I cringed as he appeared at my window. He looked so eager. I couldn’t disappoint him. I’d just have to make sure Mother stayed out of the way. And Father, too. At least until I figured out if he and I had any chance at a future together. I relaxed, let a smile frame my innocuous words. “I’ll be waiting.”

  11

  The moment I heard a motorcar in our lane, I slipped out the front door and met Lawrence at the gate where our yard met the road. Mother remained abed after her run-in with the bee. Father had shut himself in his study to read, though I’d heard his snore cutting through the air like a saw on logs.

  “For you.” Lawrence handed me a spray of pink rosebuds, peering past me as if trying to see through the front doors and into the house.

  I inhaled the flowers’ sweetness. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  “I guess we’re ready?”

  I nodded, looked up, then gasped. A roadster straddled the line between road and grass, shimmering in the waning sunlight. Red body. Coal-colored running boards and wheels. A sprinkle of brass illuminating the dark trim.

  “A Grant,” I whispered as we approached.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” Lawrence rubbed one sleeve over a dull spot on the hood of the car.

  “Indeed she is.” I noted the newness of the auto as well as its features. My father evidently paid his employees more than I had imagined. Either that or Lawrence managed his finances well. That would please Father.

  Lawrence made the pretense of helping me up onto the tufted leather bench seat, but in truth I’d sprung into the car quite on my own, eager to see inside. I caressed the soft leather, not much different from my Runabout, yet not the same, either. More supple. Like in Father’s Mercer.

  He placed a lap robe across the pleated skirt of my green silk dress before starting the engine. It felt strange to set my feet against the flat floorboard, to have my hands free of the steering wheel. I tried to ignore the anxious twitch in my extremities.

  “She’ll do up to forty miles per hour.” Lawrence’s voice rose above the din as we puttered down the road.

  “Will she?”

  “Yes, though I’d never presume to expose you to such peril.” He glanced at me before his attention returned to the road. “And I’d hate to think what moving at such a speed would do to your lovely hat.”

  I put my hand to the close-fitting headpiece, pansied and feathered, more ornate than I preferred but one Mother had selected to match the dress. What would Lawrence think if I told him I’d not only ridden at such speeds but also driven in excess of them? A smile tugged at my lips.

  I turned my head to watch the trail of houses leading into the center of town. Did Lawrence, with his dapper clothes and smart-looking car, put appearances above people? Like Mother did? Or could he approve of the real me, the one disguised beneath a duster and behind a pair of goggles?

  As Lawrence spoke about the features of his Grant, I decided I’d best keep that adventuresome girl hidden from all but Webster Little. At least for now.

  After a sedate drive through the countryside, we arrived at the church just before seven o’clock. Lawrence escorted me inside before departing with a tip of his hat. Mrs. Tillman called the Women’s Mission Auxiliary meeting to order. I pressed my toes against the floor to keep them from a nervous jiggle, wishing, suddenly, for skirts that hid my feet from view.

  My left knee began to bob. I pressed it still, cupping my hands around it and arching my back just a bit.

  “We are so happy to welcome Miss Alyce Benson.” Mrs. Tillman motioned toward me. The other women nodded in my direction before turning their attention back to their leader. I let out a tiny breath. Relaxed my hands in my lap as I crossed my ankles beneath the pew.

  “Miss Benson has given us quite a challenge, ladies. A
nd I intend to see that we help our church meet that lofty goal.” Her eyebrows arched. Relief loosened my shoulders. They were willing to do their part.

  Please don’t let them inquire about mine.

  “And to that end, I believe we need a very visible campaign.”

  A middle-aged woman in a plain dress got to her feet. “We could have a bake sale—or a New England supper. That would raise some money.”

  Other women nodded as she sat, a quiet buzz zipping through the room.

  “Wonderful, Mrs. Graham. We need to consider every possibility so that we will not be found wanting when Miss Benson”—again Mrs. Tillman’s eyebrows lifted while her gaze angled in my direction—“presents her offering.”

  My mouth went dry. My foot twitched. My knees bounced.

  Mrs. Tillman continued. “I’ve already discussed things with Pastor Swan. He will support all we decide to do toward reaching our goal.” She turned a stiff smile my way. “Of course, you will only have the thrill of watching, Miss Benson, with none of the anguish of making it happen.”

  “Oh, I’m happy to help.” My smile quivered. I licked my lips as Dr. Maven’s wife rose.

  “I will begin our fund with a donation tonight.” She dug into her old-fashioned reticule and pulled out some paper money. “For several years now, Mrs. White has offered to purchase my old garnet broach. The Lord convicted me that the children in the Gold Coast need the money more than I need another trinket to gather dust.” A light dusting of applause followed her to the front as she placed the money in Mrs. Tillman’s hand.

  Mrs. Tillman’s face softened. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Maven. Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated.”

  A high-pitched wail cut off her words. Every woman in attendance turned toward the sound. Lucinda’s face pinked as she stood in the back, jiggling baby Teresa on her hip. I leapt to my feet and met her at the door.

  “Let me take her.” I gathered the baby into my arms. “You go on in.”

  “Are you sure?” Lucinda’s eyes flicked from me to the rest of the ladies and then back again.