“And what about the hat? I was thinking the straw with the wide blue ribbon is too plain.” Allie picked up her spoon and cracked the top of a soft boiled egg nestled in a hand painted egg cup. She had never liked them, but eating one now was not the worst of her worries.
“Oh, yes, I think we might have to visit the milliner’s today and have Mrs. Moore make a several more for you. A girl can never have too many fine bonnets.” Mrs. Leeds beamed with pleasure at Allie’s unexpected desire to discuss her wardrobe. “I am pleased that you see how important it is to be appropriately dressed for every occasion. I know that you have spent a considerable amount of time in painting smocks and stained gloves, but here we must present ourselves in a way that upholds our station in society.”
Allie froze, spoon suspended in midair a bit of gelatinous yolk dangling from the tip. “I only wore the smock inside the studio. When I went to town or to church, I made sure that both Janey and myself were well dressed.” She wanted to say how much money she could have spent on gowns and finery, how her paintings garnered the very highest prices. But there was nothing to show for it now.
“I’m sure you were acceptably dressed, dear, but what I meant was that you have different priorities here. Before, you could get by on so much less because the community had much lower standards. Here, presentation is everything.” Her mother lifted her chin and fixed Allie with a stern look.
Struggling to bite back angry words, Allie forced the bit of egg yolk between her lips and chewed. How she hated eggs. She hadn’t eaten one since she had moved to San Francisco and now she seemed to have them every day. “Our community was very proper. The men wore waistcoats in the finest fabrics from Italy, the women were elegantly attired in the newest gowns from Paris. Perhaps appearance was even more important because there were actors and singers around us, and they always took much more care than others would.”
“Actors and singers! Heavenly days!” Mrs. Gibson sucked in a breath and dropped her tea cup onto the saucer with a clatter. “Don’t tell me that Janey was exposed to those types of people.”
“My favorite singer was Eliza May,” blurted Janey, toast crumbs sprinkling the top of her pinafore. “She always took off her clothes at the same part in the song, every time.” This pronouncement was met with horrified expressions on every face.
“Janey! Her wrap, she took off her fur wrap,” Allie hastily explained. “There was a song she sang about the sunlight and the butterflies and when she got to the third line, she would slip off her―”
“That is quite enough.” Mrs. Leeds looked as if the devil himself had sat down to breakfast. “Alberta, we will not speak of these things again.” She turned to Janey, fixing her with a glare. “Jane Leeds, you must forget those people. They were not good Christian people and you are not to repeat what you saw in that place.”
Janey glanced at Allie, confused. Little bits of jam smeared her upper lip and Allie leaned over to wipe it off with a napkin.
“It’s all right, Janey. We’ll discuss this later.” Allie murmured as she removed the sticky jam.
“No, Alberta, there will be no other discussions. This topic is settled. You may not raise this child as if you are wandering Gypsies. As long as you live under my roof, she will be raised as a Christian.” Her mother’s voice rang out, tone strident with anger. Her lips were a thin, pale line.
Allie nodded, trying to find the right words to diffuse the situation. If her mother believed she was leading Janey astray, she might fight to have her removed completely from Allie’s influence.
“Yes, mother,” she whispered, her throat closing around the words. The unfairness of the idea that Janey had not been raised as a Christian made her want to scream. But she reminded herself how much was at stake. Their very future together hung in the balance. Arguing over breakfast wouldn’t do an ounce of good.
Janey looked from her aunt to her grandmother, blue eyes misting over with tears, her small lower lip trembled slightly. Allie recognized the signs of an impending meltdown, and rushed to reassure her. “It’s all right, Janey. Everything is fine.” She wanted to glare at her mother, to stare her down and make her admit that her mothering skills were not lacking. But she knew this was not the time, or the place.
“Now, now,” said Mrs. Gibson, her soft hand patted Allie’s. “You did the best you could and look at that beautiful face. She’s a testament to your tender heart. So sweet, so gentle.”
Allie took a deep breath and nodded, thankful for Mrs. Gibson’s kind words. “Thank you. It was so hard after Matthew and Eleanor passed away. Two older women from our church came to help me, in the beginning. They were patient, and gave me guidance.”
“You could have come home, you knew that,” Mrs. Leeds interjected, her eyes rock hard once more.
“I know, it was just...” Allie glanced at Janey, who had returned to her toast and was eyeing the jam bowl. “We were already settled, and I hated to disrupt her any more than I had to at the time.” She paused, reflecting. “To be honest, I did not want to come home because I was learning from a very great painter, a master. I would not have had another chance.” She said this last very softly, almost speaking to herself.
“Then you should have sent her alone.” Mrs. Leeds ignored the conflicted feelings so apparent in her daughter’s tone.
Allie shook her head. “I was selfish, I admit that. I wanted her to stay with me.” She glanced at Janey and wondered how much the little girl understood of the conversation. She seemed so intent on convincing Mrs. Gibson to give her liberal amounts of jam.
“Well, this picnic will begin the work of repairing your respectability. We must focus on renewing connections and making new friends.” With a decisive nod, Mrs. Leeds folded her napkin beside her plate and rang for Maggie.
Allie bit her tongue, wanting to point out that her mother was making decisions without any of her input, down to when breakfast was finished.
“Miss Bertram will arrive today at noon for Janey’s first lesson on the piano,” Mrs. Leeds declared as Maggie appeared with an ornate bowl of grapes.
Janey gasped, eyes alight. “Piano? Lessons for me? Oh, Grandmother Leeds, thank you!”
“You’re very welcome, child. Every young girl needs to learn an instrument. Your aunt played piano for many years.”
“She did? She never said.” Janey frowned in Allie’s direction.
Mrs. Gibson chuckled. Allie threw her a glance and said, “Yes, well, I was never very good so as soon as I could get away with it, I stopped.”
“But why, Auntie? Just think how you could have played and sung in the big concert hall in San Francisco! I will practice and practice every day, I promise. I wonder what name I should choose when I am famous...” Janey’s innocent face was full of imaging a future as a concert hall star. “ I will wear furs and jewels, my hair down my back, and black kohl around my eyes for effect.”
Her mother sucked in a breath and her face twisted with shock. A sound emerged from her mouth that was sure to be the beginning of a tirade, but it was cut off mid-syllable. Mrs. Gibson had laid a soft hand on her sleeve, faded blue eyes full of warning.
“Oh, Janey,” Allie shook her head, trying not to burst out laughing. Her first lessons and all she could think of was becoming a famous singer.
“We will play for our own enjoyment, my dear. I think nothing ends an evening so well as a beautiful hymn,” said Mrs. Gibson.
Allie nodded, remembering how she and the Stellers, the elderly couple from upstairs, had sung hymns in the evenings. When they had brought Janey to visit her in the hospital, they had sung to her then, too. That first week, when she was in so much pain, they had knelt down beside her bed and prayed. Allie closed her eyes for a moment, remembering how she had turned her head and pretended that her throat was too raw to join them.
“And Alberta, Mr. Bascomb will be here at eleven to take you for a carriage ride,” said Mrs. Leeds.
Allie’s eyes flew open. “What if I do not fee
l like taking a carriage ride with Mr. Bascomb?” she bit out, struggling to contain her anger.
“Don’t be difficult,” her mother sighed. “You agreed that you would be social. He offered and I accepted for you.” She took a sip of her tea, as if accepting invitations for a grown woman was perfectly normal.
“Mother, I am twenty five years old. I can decide for myself whether I want to parade around town with an arrogant, self-absorbed, uncharitable―”
“Alberta, that is unkind,” her mother interrupted angrily. She thumped her palm against the table cloth. “Mr. Bascomb will be here at eleven and you will be dressed for a carriage ride. Mrs. Larson has invited you both to tea.”
Allie’s eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. Furious words battled in her throat but she shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She must think of Janey, of how they would survive in this new situation.
“I understand,” she said simply, and rose from her chair in one smooth motion.
“Alberta, where are you going?” her mother called after her.
Allie paused, one hand on the handle of the French door to the hallway. “To change, mother. If I’m going for a carriage ride, I should be properly attired.”
***
Twenty minutes past the hour and Mr. Bascomb had finally appeared. His suit was a fashionable pin stripe, but as usual it seemed as if he had stolen it from a much larger man. His hat sat far down his sallow brow and he peered out from under the brim, blinking rapidly like he was unused to the sunlight. Allie settled on the hard leather seat. She had chosen the plainer of the two new dresses that were delivered that morning. It was still very striking with its tiny buttons and lace accents. The pale green complemented a deeper forest green velvet ribbon trim at the waist and sleeves. Allie smoothed the fine fabric over her lap and thought of the people still camping in parks in San Francisco. They had nowhere to bathe, no cooking areas. Soon, winter would come and the tents would be even more miserable than they already were.
“I was tempted to bring out the closed carriage. I understand how women do not enjoy the feel of the wind against their faces, especially a woman used to warmer climates, like yourself,” Mr. Bascomb said. Allie wondered how much hotter he thought San Francisco was. The Chicago sun was beating down on them relentlessly.
“But then I remembered how important it is for a woman to be seen and to see. The open top, although less luxurious, will allow you to show yourself to best advantage.” He said this last as he closed the low door and rapped the side with his knuckles. The driver, perched at the front of the carriage, clucked his tongue and twitched the reigns.
Allie adjusted her skirts again and bit back the acid words that threatened to spill from her mouth. Being seen with Mr. Bascomb was the at the bottom of her list of desired activities. She snapped open her parasol and took a deep breath. Maybe an outing was a good thing and she would enjoy getting out of the house for a bit. She would do her best to ignore his comments and enjoy herself.
Mr. Bascomb struck an oddly stiff posture and began to describe his plans for the next city council meeting. “We must move very quickly on our plans for the new railway line,” he began.
Allie nodded every now and then, and he accepted that as proof of her rapt interest. She wished that her mother would have let her stay while Janey had her lesson but she was fairly certain that the carriage ride coincided with the lesson for a reason.
The carriage wheels rolled smoothly along the lengthy dirt road from the house. The city had grown by leaps and bounds while she was gone. She had always thought of Bellevue as isolated but just beyond the acres of woodland, bustling neighborhoods swarmed with people.
Allie realized she had not seen the woods during the daylight since her return. The trees were thick and healthy, birch and aspen growing close together. She could hear the birds’ call over the carriage wheels and she grinned. How many hours had she and Thomas spent trying to imitate the Gold Finch? Matthew once told them that if they could fool a Gold Finch, it would roost on their shoulders and lay a golden egg. As a ten-year-old child, Allie was sure that treasure would be hers. Thomas was the first to suspect they’d been tricked, but Allie refused to give up for weeks.
“Exactly what I feel. A progressive city is a healthy city. We cannot allow the uneducated majority to decide the direction we take. Voting is acceptable for presidential campaigns, but not for the city business,” Mr. Bascomb said, shaking an index finger toward Allie’s face.
She blinked, wondering what he was going on about. She hadn’t been listening in the slightest. “Are you speaking of women or the poor? As it is, we women can help decide city matters, and I hope ,very soon, we can vote for president.”
His face turned a light shade of rose. “I was speaking rather more indirectly, about the fact the established families here should have a greater voice than newcomers. Soon, we will all be held hostage to their needs for housing and schools for their children. Practically every name you see in the paper, especially the crime reported, ends in an A or an I.”
“So, if you’re from a respectable, wealthy family and are a woman, you agree that we may vote?” Allie frowned, then wondered why she was even engaging Mr. Bascomb.
“Yes, well, I suppose exceptions may be made. Perhaps there can be a token voice from the female population, a symbolic casting of a vote when it is a historic moment.”
“Token? Symbolic? What good would that be?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and looked toward the back of the driver’s head, as if there were answers written there. “It would be beneficial for the females to feel as if they are involved.”
Allie’s eyes opened wide. “To feel involved?” She knew she was repeating him, but she had the strangest sensation that the logic had dropped out of the conversation. “A symbolic vote would be worthless except to the men who would use it to show how open minded they were being.”
Mr. Bascomb sat up straighter, if that was possible and said, “The real issue is the large immigrant populations that are overwhelming our city. Worse than the Negroes, they think everything can be had for the asking. They outbreed us four to one. We shall soon be working for them and forced to learn Italian or Polish to buy our bread.”
Allie felt the muscles of her face straining. She wanted to throw her parasol in his rabbity face. “Outbreed? They are not animals.”
“They might as well be.” He shrugged and waved a hand. “You have not seen the squalor in which these people choose to raise their children. It is shocking. And they are continually asking for assistance― food, housing, employment. Everyone must pull their own weight, I say.”
“But if they’re asking for a job, doesn’t it mean they want to work?”
“Well, I mean they are asking for better jobs. No one wants to be a servant anymore, or muck out stables.”
The sun beat down on the open carriage and Allie tried to organize her thoughts. She hardly knew where to start. In the back of her mind she knew it was futile to argue. There are some kinds of ignorance that run too deep. “What about Mr. Bradford. He went to the university and has a very successful business now.”
“He might be the exception, and even then he was born here, wasn’t he? And his parents only had the one child, so he wasn’t surrounded by hungry siblings every step of the way. Very wise of them, since they wouldn’t have been able to feed more. ”
Allie flinched, remembered Mrs. Bradford saying how they had wanted more, but none had survived after Thomas. “From what I know, they did not have just one so that they could give him everything. And I understand deep poverty, I have seen terrible neighborhoods in San Francisco. But don’t you agree that these families also have the right to grasp what joy they can from life? There is wealth, and then there is the joy that comes from a loving family.” She leaned forward, tone earnest.
He opened his mouth, then closed it, lips twisted up in a half smile. “I forget, you have taken on the care of your brother Matthew’s child.
It must seem that any sacrifice is worth a child’s sticky embrace, when that is all you have to look forward to. But after a few more months here you will see that she is not the only prize to be had.”
Allie sat back as if she had been struck across the face. Janey’s bright spirit and her contagious spark could never be reduced to a ‘sticky embrace’. She wished she could crawl up on the driver’s perch and escape this outing. The street was uneven in this section of town but the residents didn’t seem to care, or slow their pace. The driver kept up a steady stream of whistles and barks of frustration at the increasingly frequent logjams. The traffic was thick today, as if the thunderstorm had brought out new vigor.
Allie tried not to think of the storm, her panic, and the conversation with Thomas on the porch. She hoped he would be too busy to see them again until the picnic. A week would be enough time to recover her emotions, she hoped.
“We will be stopping very soon. I hope you don’t mind if I attend to an errand before we take tea with Mrs. Larson.” His tone was offhand.
“That is fine,” she said, wondering why he could not have attended to it on the way to out to Bellevue.
The street narrowed until it was just wide enough for one carriage at a time. The scent in the air― a mixture of roasting meat, baking bread and something that might have been hops being turned into dark ale― reminded Allie of San Francisco. She glanced around, curious what sort of errand Mr. Bascomb could have in this area. They passed a restaurant where the door flew open and a large gentleman tossed a very drunk man into the street.
“And stay out until you can pay yer tab, ya layabout!” he yelled. The drunk man crwoled very slowly along the gutter. Allie’s eyes widened with concern, but the unwelcome patron began to sing in a warbling tone.
All The Blue of Heaven (Colors of Faith) Page 12