by Radha Vatsal
“Should we move on?” She checked the time on her wristwatch.
The fresh snow squeaked under Kitty’s and Georgina’s boots as they passed a frozen pond and made their way to a low-slung structure adjacent to the main building.
Georgina had come out only in her cardigan.
Why was it, Kitty wondered, that schoolgirls never seemed to need jackets? “Aren’t you freezing?” she asked.
Georgina shook her head, and her breath came out in white puffs as she answered. “It’s only a few minutes.” She knocked on the door to the lab.
A voice from inside called, “Come in!”
“I’ll leave you here.” The head girl rubbed her bare hands together to warm them. “Come back to Miss Howe-Jones’s office when you’re done.” She turned and ran back to the main building.
Kitty stomped the snow off her boots and entered the lab, which was bright and crowded with equipment. Fish of different sizes and colors swam in a tank. Plants grew under an electric light. Tortoises crawled around another tank, and a glass display case held a stuffed owl perched on a branch, a robin about to take flight, and a dusty rabbit, frozen and stuffed in death, as well as a chipmunk against a painted backdrop of foliage. She marveled for a moment at the taxidermist’s art. Then she turned to face a chart on the wall, which illustrated layers of the earth and different types of rocks, while another listed the periodic table of the elements. Tables in the center of the room had been set with lilies on white sheets of paper, petri dishes, and sharp knives, one for each student.
“You must be Miss Weeks.” A dark-haired woman with a plain but kind and intelligent face rose from a chair and held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Swartz. Miss Howe-Jones told me to expect you.”
“This is wonderful.” Kitty gestured around her with amazement.
Mrs. Swartz smiled. “It’s out of season to be dissecting flowers in winter. We’re late this year. When the girls return from vacation, we will begin with insects as part of animal classification.”
Kitty itched to pick up one of the knives and cut into a blossom. Her own botany lessons had been restricted to sketching from nature. “Are all your lessons so”—she searched for the word—“physical?”
“I find that girls learn best when they can use their hands, but science education isn’t what it used to be.” Mrs. Swartz sighed. “Even as recently as when I was a student, we were taught physics and chemistry. Now, it’s all nature study: leaf gathering and bird-watching. Some of the parents object to my dissections and even the most basic chemical experiments.”
“You were taught chemistry and physics?” Kitty had been taught neither.
“Oh yes.” Mrs. Swartz took down a couple of books from her shelf. One was titled Juvenile Philosophy. “That’s physics.” The other—Conversations on Chemistry. “Take a look at the publication dates.”
Juvenile Philosophy was structured as a series of conversations between a mother and daughter and had been published in 1850. Conversations went as far back as 1809. Kitty had learned a bit about light and heat and rain, but of the topics in Conversations, written to offer the public, “and more particularly…the female sex,” an introduction to the subject, Kitty knew nothing. In it, a woman by the name of Mrs. B. and her female protégé spent entire chapters discussing the difference between latent heat and chemical heat, oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, and sulfur, metals and alkalis.
“Why don’t they teach this anymore?”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Swartz said, “that it’s not considered feminine. These days, the ablest girls study the classics or go into the general field of education.”
A clatter sounded from an adjacent room. “Elspeth!” Mrs. Swartz called. “What is going on in there?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Swartz. I dropped something.”
“We have a visitor here,” the teacher said. “Why don’t you come out and say hello.”
Silence. Then a figure in an apron and goggles emerged, removing thick white gloves from her hands.
“Meet Miss Elspeth Bright, one of my brightest students,” said Mrs. Swartz.
The girl pulled off her goggles and smiled, revealing perfect pearlescent teeth. Her eyes were an incandescent silvery gray, her hair silvery blond to match.
Kitty sucked in her breath.
The young woman held out her hand, and dumbly, Kitty shook it. Elspeth Bright must have been a bit younger than her; still, it was Kitty who felt intimidated. Miss Bright was radiant; she ought to have been in an advertisement for dental paste.
“So, do you have any questions for me?”
“Don’t be forward, Elspeth.” Her teacher corrected her, but mildly.
“You know what they say, Mrs. Swartz. Those who wait, wait in vain.”
Mrs. Swartz raised her eyebrows as though she was accustomed to Elspeth’s quick rejoinders but not entirely pleased by them.
“Are you a student of science, Miss Bright?” Kitty asked.
“You could say that.”
“What are you studying now?”
“I’m working on something.” Elspeth Bright emphasized the word working, clearly insulted by the insinuation that she was a mere schoolgirl. Teacher and pupil exchanged glances. “Let me put it to you this way, Miss Weeks. In the words of the great Sir Isaac Newton,” she continued, “‘I don’t know what I may seem to the world, but as to myself, I seem to have been only like a boy’—I’d say like a girl—‘playing on the sea-shore and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.’”
“That’s an inspiring sentiment. Do you study the natural world then, Miss Bright?”
“I study chemistry and physics. Molecules, atoms, energy—”
“All right, Elspeth.” Mrs. Swartz stepped forward. “Time to return to your classes. Miss Weeks, if you wish to speak further with Miss Bright, you must first obtain permission from our headmistress.”
“Or if you’d like, I can tell you more over vacation.” Elspeth Bright reached into her pocket and handed Kitty a card embossed with a Manhattan address.
“Elspeth!” Mrs. Swartz sounded dismayed.
The Westfield Hall article would run on Saturday, but that didn’t worry Kitty. She sensed that Elspeth Bright might deserve a story of her own.
Chapter Two
The rest of the week passed quickly. Kitty caught up on her Christmas shopping and soaked up every last detail the papers reported about President Woodrow Wilson’s weekend wedding to Edith Bolling Galt in a quiet ceremony at the bride’s home in Virginia. The year 1915 was inching to a close, but the president’s remarriage, while in office and to a widow, made it feel like the end of an era. Kitty could almost see the ticker tape falling outside her window.
She arrived at work on Monday, December 20, to find formidable Helena Busby, who ruled the Ladies’ Page with an iron hand, in a furious mood. The beanpole figure kept her head down and shoulders hunched as she made her way through the clatter of the typists’ hall—otherwise known as the hen coop—like a pedestrian forcing herself through gale-force winds.
“My office, five minutes,” she said to Kitty and Jeannie Williams, her other assistant, both of whom sat at the front of the room.
“What’s gotten into her?” Jeannie said as she gathered her papers. She had once been a typist herself but had been brought on to the Page to take over some of the more mundane tasks when the workload became too onerous for the editor to handle alone.
“No idea,” Kitty replied. Miss Busby in a foul mood never boded well. She watched the clock at the front of the hall. The hand hit the five-minute mark.
“Shall we?” Kitty rose from her seat.
The two young women made their way down a narrow corridor, past the Weekend Supplement editor’s office to the alcove at the back that se
rved as Miss Busby’s doorless, windowless office.
“He’s done it,” Miss Busby said as they entered. “He’s betrayed us. All of us. Each and every one of us.”
“Who has, Miss Busby?” What could be so dire? Kitty feared the worst. Could Mr. Eichendorff, their publisher, have decided to put the Ladies’ Page out of business?
“The president…Mr. Wilson.” Miss Busby looked on the verge of tears.
She had disapproved of the president’s engagement since it had been announced in October. Mr. Wilson, whose wife of nearly thirty years had died a few days after the European war broke out in August 1914, had been a widower for just over a year when he told the public that he would be marrying Mrs. Galt, the widow of jeweler Norman Galt. And now this “blue-eyed descendent of Pocahontas,” as the press had dubbed her for claiming native ancestry, who drove around Washington, DC, in her electric motor car, had become First Lady to the nation.
“He could have turned back,” Helena Busby said. “He could have changed his mind. Instead, he’s chosen to betray Mrs. Wilson’s memory and so betray all of us. One year. One year—that’s all it took for him to forget. Men,” she spat out, “can be so fickle.”
Kitty wondered whether Miss Busby spoke from experience, whether her heart had once been broken. “The country seems to be happy for them,” she observed mildly. “And the president’s daughters”—all three were grown, and two were married—“seem to approve.”
“That’s because the world has lost all sense of propriety.” Helena Busby shook her head, and her chandelier earrings swung back and forth. “To think that I cheered him on, that I put my faith in this deserter.”
Although Kitty secretly concurred that the marriage did seem too soon and too sudden, she also thought they must put personal feelings aside and think of their readers when it came to the stories they chose. Saturday’s Ladies’ Page should have included some commentary about the momentous event, but Miss Busby had refused to allow a single word to be printed on the topic. At least, to both Mrs. Galt and the president’s credit, the ceremony had been simply and tastefully conducted. According to news reports, the forty-three-year-old widow exchanged vows with the fifty-eight-year-old widower in front of just forty guests. The bride wore a gown of black chiffon velvet; the service had been Episcopalian; and the decoration consisted of scores of orchids in shades of mauve and purple, as well as American Beauty roses. Invitations had gone out with the president named as a private citizen—Mr. Wilson—in keeping with the private nature of the proceedings.
“Now, upcoming assignments.” Miss Busby squared the corners of a stack of papers on her desk with a determined thump.
Kitty had an idea of what she might like to write about—girls in science—but she wouldn’t propose it until she fleshed the piece out fully, and that would require speaking to Elspeth Bright first.
“I have this weekend’s story set,” the editor continued, her jaw clenched. “I always write the Christmas feature myself. We will work on something special for the New Year’s issue and fill the remaining columns with so much fluff—holiday trivia, whatever—that nobody will notice we haven’t said a word about that interloper.”
• • •
Kitty arranged to meet Miss Bright on Wednesday afternoon at Tipton’s, a tearoom on Madison Avenue. A thick blanket of fresh, white snow covered the streets. Soon, the white powder would be dark gray from automobile soot and the footsteps of hundreds of pedestrians, but for the moment, it was pristine, and the city looked like it did in holiday postcards: lights, wreathes, candy canes, and trees in every store window, vendors selling roasted chestnuts, shoppers hauling hefty bags, carolers singing on street corners. Just three shopping days left until Christmas.
Rao, the Weekses’ chauffeur, pulled the Packard up in front of the restaurant, and Kitty climbed out, adjusting the stole around her neck. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere around her. Manhattan at holiday time was like nowhere else. One could buy anything one’s heart desired: player pianos; fox, lynx, and Russian sable sets; bonbons; port in Delft jugs; hosiery fine enough to be pulled through a ring; evening slippers; enameled watches; even Tecla’s cultured pearl necklaces for seventy-five dollars or real pearl ones for a fortune.
This was only Kitty’s second winter in the city. She had arrived last spring after a decade at school in Switzerland and, before that, had traipsed around behind her father as he conducted business across the Near and Far East. She had been born in Malaya, where her mother had died shortly afterward. Her father, Julian Weeks, never remarried and left his only child in the care of maids and a succession of governesses. Now that they lived together again, he gave Kitty a fair amount of freedom. He was busy with his investments, his club, his books, and his papers and allowed her to do pretty much what she wanted so long as she didn’t get into trouble.
“Hello.” Miss Bright waved when Kitty came in. “I ordered tea and sandwiches for both of us.” With her pale complexion and fair hair, she looked as striking in her white wool jacket as she had in the gray school cardigan.
Tea arrived in a porcelain pot covered with a knitted cozy, followed by cucumber, chicken, and egg-salad sandwiches on a tiered tray borne by a deft waiter. Kitty poured.
“I saw your piece in the Ladies’ Page on Saturday,” Miss Bright said.
“What did you think?”
“It was complimentary.”
“Too complimentary?”
“I don’t know…” She took a bite of one of the sandwiches. “The pranks the girls play go too far sometimes. But I suppose all of us need to blow off steam now and then.”
“Don’t you like it at Westfield?”
“Miss Howe-Jones runs the place like a fiefdom,” Elspeth said.
“She told me her method builds character.”
“Oh, yes. She’s very proud that she doesn’t use corporal punishment.”
“I saw her question one of the girls.”
“Virginia?”
“How did you know?” Kitty brought the china teacup to her mouth.
“Virginia’s delivering all our mail. You see, that’s Miss Howe-Jones’s trick. She creates certain visible tasks, which we all know are punishments. When one of the girls does them, we can tell that she’s done something wrong, but we don’t know what.”
“That must be awful.”
“It’s embarrassing. Personally, I’d prefer a nice hard rap on the knuckles, and then it’s all over. No lingering guilt or curious stares.”
“Before I forget to ask,” Kitty said, “do your parents know you’re speaking to me?”
Elspeth laughed. “They’d have conniptions if they thought I was meeting a reporter. I just told them I’d be out walking. Fortunately, my parents are very busy and don’t ask many questions. My father is a scientist, and like me, his mind is always on his work.
“And now, may I ask you something, Miss Weeks? Why do you write for the papers? If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like you need the money.”
“Ah.” The girl was nothing if not direct. “You’re correct, Miss Bright. I don’t.”
“Well then?”
“I like to learn about the world, about people. And I want to make something of myself.”
“We’re kindred spirits then. My studies are more than just a hobby. I hope to go on to Cornell University when I finish at Westfield. I know it’s coeducational, and our headmistress doesn’t approve, but competing with the men will force me to become better at what I do.”
“That brings me to my point.” Kitty leaned in toward her. “I’d like to understand what exactly it is that you’re working on, then write about it for the Ladies’ Page.”
“Why, Elspeth, fancy seeing you here!” A fashionable woman in a black hat with black feathers towered over them.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Marquand.” Els
peth Bright looked up.
“Out doing some shopping?” The woman glanced pointedly at Kitty.
“Catching up with a friend. This is Miss Weeks.” Elspeth Bright made the introductions. “Mrs. Marquand’s daughter also goes to Westfield Hall, and the Marquands live down the street from us.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Marquand’s smile stretched to reveal her teeth. “Just a few blocks north of here. Between Park Avenue and Fifth.”
If that was an invitation for Kitty to reveal her address, Kitty didn’t take her up on it.
“Mama still busy with her women’s caucuses, Elspeth?” the older woman asked.
“She is still busy with the Congressional Union, yes.”
Mrs. Marquand remained standing beside them for a few moments. Then, when no further chitchat appeared to be forthcoming from either of the girls, she said, “Well, enjoy yourselves.” She settled herself at a nearby table.
Elspeth ran her hand across the back of her neck. “So, Cornell. That’s where I’d like to go.”
“That’s commendable.” Kitty was fascinated.
“I know I have talent. And I have a practical turn of mind as well. Madame Curie won a Nobel Prize. If I work hard”—she kept her voice low—“why not another woman someday?” She shot a sidelong glance at Mrs. Marquand. “My tea’s getting cold. Should we eat?”
They finished a couple of the sandwiches. Her neighbor’s presence clearly constrained Elspeth, who kept darting looks in the older woman’s direction.
“Why don’t we speak again before you return to school?” Kitty realized they wouldn’t make much headway under the present circumstances. “I’m not in a rush to write my piece, and I’d like to hear more before I submit a proposal to my editor.”
“I’d enjoy that very much.” Elspeth offered to pay the check, but Kitty wouldn’t allow her. They said good-bye to Mrs. Marquand and headed out to the sidewalk.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Elspeth Bright apologized once the door closed behind them. “It’s hard for me to talk when I know someone else is listening. And Mrs. Marquand is the nosy type.”