by Jen Turano
“And here’s where it’s time for me to take my leave,” Norman said firmly, turning from where he’d been watching the cats to nod at Beatrix. “You’re sure you’ll be all right if I leave you here?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then this is where we part ways.” Norman took Beatrix’s hand, surprising her when he brought it to his lips and kissed it. “You’re an unusual woman, Beatrix Waterbury, and even though you’ve annoyed me more than any woman I’ve ever known—and that’s with us only spending a day together—it’s been a very interesting day and one that, oddly enough, was somewhat enjoyable at times.” He caught Beatrix’s eye. “Do try to not unintentionally shoot anyone else while you’re in Chicago.”
“Can’t make any promises,” she said, to which he might have actually smiled before he turned to Aunt Gladys, inclined his head, then turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, disappearing through the front door without another word.
Aunt Gladys moved to stand beside Beatrix. “I must admit that the last person I expected to show up at Hyde Hall with you was Mr. Norman Nesbit, but he’s not nearly as odd in person as I always assumed he’d be. Do you imagine he’ll visit you often while you’re in Chicago?”
“As he mentioned, I frequently annoy him, and he definitely annoys me, which does suggest he’ll not be paying us a call anytime soon, if ever.”
“How disappointing, but enough about Mr. Nesbit for now. We need to discuss the plans I have for you, ones I came up with after your mother asked if I’d be willing to have you come for an extended stay.”
“She said I’m here for an extended stay?”
“Did Annie not tell you that?”
“I’m afraid she didn’t.”
Aunt Gladys took hold of Beatrix’s arm. “I’m afraid you’ve finally pushed poor Annie too far, my dear, what with your propensity for havoc and becoming embroiled in the most unlikely of situations. She must be at her wits’ end to resort to sending you here, which will see you missing the New York Season.”
“I’ve been wondering if Mother might have done me a favor by banishing me for the Season, since word has certainly gotten around about Mr. Thomas Hamersley getting engaged to someone who isn’t me. He’s been shielding me for years from being pursued by other gentlemen, but with him out of the picture . . .” She smiled. “Perhaps it’s good I’m here for an extended stay after all.”
Aunt Gladys returned the smile, looking more terrifying than ever. “It is indeed, and frankly I don’t know how you managed to get through six Seasons when I couldn’t make it through one.” She pulled Beatrix into motion. “My father—your grandfather—moved to New York after my mother died. I was eighteen and decided I wanted nothing to do with living in a big city like New York after having only been there a month. I returned to Chicago even though Father stayed in New York, where he met and married your grandmother, Erma, and they had your mother a year later.”
Aunt Gladys drew Beatrix toward a room where she could hear the tinkling of piano music. “Your grandmother was a lovely woman, but she was firmly of the social set. She invited me back to New York, which I agreed to, but only because I knew my father expected that of me. However, after I made my debut, I knew that that life was not for me. Father then set up an account for me that allowed me to build Hyde Hall, and I’ve not had a reason to regret my decision to stay in Chicago.”
Beatrix stepped with Aunt Gladys into a room where the women covered in red clay were waiting for them.
“Ladies, you’ll be amused to learn that Mr. Norman Nesbit has all but fled from our presence.”
“There’s nothin’ amusing about having a fine-looking gentleman like that get away from us,” a woman wearing a bright purple turban on her head declared. “We don’t get many gentleman callers as it is, and that we’ve apparently caused one of them to flee, well, it’s cause for concern.”
Aunt Gladys leaned closer to Beatrix. “Della used to work for one of the big houses over on Prairie Avenue. She got dismissed because she set a friendly eye on her employer’s twenty-two-year-old son.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little flirting, and me and George were the same age, and . . .” Della released a huff. “It’s not like we would have gotten married or anything, but his mother found out about the flirting and sent me packin’.”
“Della’s now trying to learn how to operate a typewriter, but I’m not certain that’s the best option for her since she does seem to have an eye for the men, and men are usually the ones hiring women proficient in using a typewriter,” Aunt Gladys said before she launched into introductions.
Fifteen minutes later, Beatrix had not only been introduced to Blanche Bell, Mamie Stewart, Della Hayes, Nancy Collins, Arwen Daugherty, Colette Balley, Roberta Shaw, Clara Davis, Susan Morris, and Dorothy Brown, but she’d also been divested of her clothing, given a pair of short trousers and a billowing shirt, and had red clay pressed to her face.
“And now that you’ve met everyone and heard a bit about what they do,” Aunt Gladys said, “tell us something about yourself.”
Not knowing what to say about herself after hearing how all of the women gathered in the room had overcome great odds and horrible circumstances—those being abusive relationships, repugnant bosses, horrible working conditions, and the list went on and on—Beatrix caught her aunt’s eye.
“I’d rather hear how it came to be that you became involved with all these women.”
“Your aunt’s a well-known supporter of the suffragist movement,” Blanche Bell said before Aunt Gladys could speak. “Many of us became acquainted with her while participating in marches and listening to speeches. Then, after she heard our stories, she took it upon herself to assist us when no one else would, even offering us rooms in this house until we got on our feet.”
Beatrix’s brows drew together, a tricky feat since the clay on her face was already beginning to dry. She looked at her aunt. “You’re a suffragist?”
“Been one since 1872—the election year when Susan B. Anthony took a stand and insisted on being allowed the right to register to vote in her hometown of Rochester, New York. She was forced to read aloud the Fourteenth Amendment to the inspector overseeing the registration, which then had him, albeit reluctantly, allowing Susan and her sisters to register. Word soon got out about that and women began showing up in other wards in that part of the state to register, but after Susan actually cast a vote a few days later in the election, she was arrested. She was then charged with voting without having the lawful right to do such a thing.” Aunt Gladys nodded as the women around her began tsking. “I thought that was a most grave miscarriage of justice, and from that moment on, it’s been my goal to further the advancement of women and the right to vote.”
“Does my mother know you’re a suffragist?”
“Hard to say. With me being so much older than Annie, we don’t actually have that much contact with each other.”
“But I thought Mother sent me here to keep me well away from anything related to the suffragist movement.”
“And that very well could be, but by sending you here, she’s clearly expecting me to use my own judgment as to how your time should be spent.”
“And how do you want me to spend my time?” Beatrix asked slowly.
“I’d like for you to find your true purpose in life because, what with all the shenanigans Annie told me you’ve been involved with over the years, I’ve concluded that you’re floundering.”
“Floundering?”
“Indeed. You lack true commitment to any cause.”
“I most certainly do not lack commitment,” Beatrix argued. “I assist at numerous missions, support the suffragist movement, help out my friends, and I even volunteer at Grace Church, teaching lessons of faith to the children.”
“All very commendable acts, my dear, and I don’t want you to believe that I find any of that objectionable. However . . .”
“Why do I get the distinct impression I’m
not going to enjoy hearing what you’re about to say next?”
“Because it’s occasionally painful to have truths pointed out to us. And your truth is this—while you’ve thrown yourself into philanthropic endeavors, your privileged life has left you at a distinct disadvantage. So in regard to the suffrage movement, I don’t believe you truly grasp the reason why women are so desperate to obtain the vote, no matter that you want to support the movement by attending rallies and marches.”
“I understand why women want the right to vote.”
Aunt Gladys inclined her head. “In theory perhaps, but you don’t know what it’s like to be at the mercy of an employer who can level abuse on you at his whim, and you have no alternative but to take it because you have mouths to feed or rent to pay. That right there is why I’ve decided that the best way for you to spend your time in Chicago is to take up a position.”
“A position, as in . . . a position of employment?”
“Quite right.” Aunt Gladys gave Beatrix’s arm a pat. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted to learn that I’ve arranged for you to have an interview with Mr. Bailer at Marshall Field & Company. He’s expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.”
Chapter 8
Norman had the uncanny feeling someone was watching him.
Lowering the newspaper he’d been reading in the breakfast nook of his mother’s grand house, he discovered a young boy gazing back at him from across the table.
Norman set the paper aside, took a sip of coffee, and frowned.
“Do I know you?”
The boy nodded, a less-than-helpful response if there ever was one.
“We’re not related to each other, are we?”
“Of course you’re not related to him, Norman. That’s Oscar Weinhart.”
Looking past Oscar, Norman found one of his sisters, Constance Nesbit Michelson, bustling into the room, dressed in a gown of green, paired with an enormous hat that had four birds with different colored feathers attached to it.
“Am I going to suffer a lecture if I admit I still don’t know who he is?” Norman asked, which earned him an eye roll from Constance as she helped herself to a cup of coffee from the silver pot resting on the buffet table.
“He’s Marian’s son.”
“Still don’t know who he is.”
“Do not tell me you’ve forgotten that Marian is my best friend, have you?”
“I’ve not forgotten that you’re friends with a Marian, but that Marian’s last name is Shaw and you stated this boy’s name is Oscar Weinhart.”
“Because Weinhart is Marian’s married name. Surely you must remember her getting married twelve years ago because you were present at her wedding.”
Norman raked a hand through hair that was longer than ever, him having neglected to make time to visit his barber since he’d returned from New York, unsurprised that his sister was watching him as if she were afraid he was suffering from some dastardly illness.
He couldn’t say he blamed her because he wasn’t one to forget events he attended, but he’d obviously forgotten all about Marian’s wedding. The only explanation for that curious lapse was that he was apparently still suffering from the effects of his encounter with Beatrix Waterbury, even though it had been seven days since he’d parted ways with her, a sufficient time to recover, but . . .
“What’s wrong with you today?”
Shaking himself from his musings, Norman found that Constance had abandoned her coffee and was advancing his way, determination in her every step. Norman summoned up a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with me, and of course I remember attending Marian’s wedding.” He turned and nodded to Oscar. “I’m sure I just didn’t recognize you because it’s been ages since I’ve seen you, but you must be friends with my nephew Christopher.”
Oscar immediately looked disgruntled. “Christopher’s only four, Mr. Nesbit. I’m eight and friends with Gemma—your niece, if you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten who Gemma is, but she’s a girl.”
Constance released a snort. “Of course Gemma’s a girl, Norman, but I don’t understand why you find it surprising that Oscar and Gemma are friends. You’re friends with Theodosia Robinson, and she’s a girl, or rather, a woman.”
“I wouldn’t say Theo and I are friends. We’re colleagues who share an interest in science.”
“And because I have no desire to spend the morning arguing with you about whether or not you’re friends with a woman you spend an inordinate amount of time with, let us move on to why I’m visiting Mother today.” Constance nodded to Oscar. “Gemma and Oscar have been pestering me for over two weeks to bring them here, which is why I’ve stopped in for the past seven days once I heard you’d returned from New York, but you’ve not been here until today.” She caught Norman’s eye. “Where have you been?”
Because he wasn’t comfortable telling his incredibly nosy sister that he’d been taking the train the short distance to Hyde Park every day, and then had spent hours running through the streets, doubling back time and time again to run past Hyde Hall, Norman ignored the question. Instead, he returned to his eggs and bacon in the hopes that his sister would grow tired of waiting for an answer and move on to a different subject.
It was disruptive, this preoccupation he had with Beatrix. Every time he tried to settle into a relaxing bout of mathematical equations or attempt to draw a diagram of an improved electrical motor, thoughts of Beatrix interrupted his work.
He’d never had thoughts of a lady disrupt his work before, which was why he’d decided that to cure those disruptive thoughts once and for all he needed to travel to Hyde Park to make sure she was not suffering mistreatment at the hands of an aunt who was certainly odd and who could also be slightly mad.
The problem with that decision, though, had been that after he’d run past Hyde Hall three times on the first day, approaching the house from different vantage points and then peering through the slats of the iron fence that encompassed it, he’d not gotten a single glimpse of Beatrix. That had left him more concerned than ever, which was why he’d traveled to Hyde Park for the next five consecutive days, choosing different times each day to improve his chances, but even with being so diligent, he’d never caught sight of her.
Unfortunately, while he’d been running past her aunt’s house yesterday, he’d almost run over Edgar, who’d stepped directly into Norman’s path right as Norman had been craning his neck as he ran, hoping to see Beatrix roaming around her aunt’s extensive grounds.
It soon became clear that Edgar had taken note of how often Norman had been running past the house. And even though Norman had tried to convince Edgar that he’d been running the streets of Hyde Park for a change of scenery, the amusement in Edgar’s eyes had suggested he didn’t believe Norman’s story.
Edgar had then proclaimed in a voice that held a trace of laughter that Miss Beatrix was currently not at home, having taken up a position at Marshall Field & Company.
Instead of alleviating Norman’s concerns, learning Beatrix had evidently been forced to seek out employment had left him reeling.
Everyone in Chicago knew that Miss Gladys Huttleston was a woman of means. The notion that she’d insisted her niece, who was obviously a woman of limited means, take up a position suggested that Miss Huttleston was a stingy woman, unwilling to extend even a small bit of her fortune to the niece who’d come to stay with her.
It was disturbing, Beatrix’s unfortunate situation, but what he could actually do about rectifying her situation was a puzzle he’d yet to figure out.
“I hope you realize that the longer you take to answer what I originally thought was a fairly easy question is only going to increase my curiosity about the matter.”
Norman polished off the last of his eggs, took a swig of coffee, and elected to continue ignoring his sister. He turned to Oscar instead. “Do forgive me, Oscar,” he began, earning a blink from Oscar in return, “I’ve neglected you most dreadfully. To r
ectify that, tell me why you’re spending your time sitting across from me when you could be doing something vastly more amusing. Where’s Gemma?”
Oscar shifted in his chair. “She’s off seeing a new doll her grandmother purchased for her.”
Norman smiled. “Ah well, I can see why you chose to sit at the table with me instead of accompanying Gemma to retrieve a new doll. I was never one to care for dolls even though Alice, my oldest sister, used to try to get me to play with hers.”
“Gemma doesn’t like dolls,” Oscar muttered.
“Gemma doesn’t like dolls?” Norman repeated, glancing to Constance, who was taking a seat beside Oscar.
“Not really. She prefers her chemistry set,” Constance said.
“Gemma has a chemistry set?”
“I bought it for her on her last birthday.”
“You bought your daughter a chemistry set?”
Constance shrugged. “I always enjoyed playing with chemistry sets when I was her age, so when she asked for one, I saw no harm in getting it for her.”
“You never had a chemistry set when you were young.”
“Well, I didn’t have my own set, but I freely admit that I took liberties with yours whenever you were away from the house.”
“No wonder my supplies were always dwindling more rapidly than they should have.” Norman frowned. “I distinctly remember you telling Mother that I was careless with my supplies when I complained to her about the situation.”
“I couldn’t admit that I was the culprit, not with how adamant Mother always was about how unacceptable it was for girls to be interested in science.” Constance shook her head. “She became suspicious of me after I invented this soap that I tried out in the washing machine. I obviously used too much sulfate because, before I knew it, the washroom was filled with bubbles. Mother found me standing in the midst of those bubbles, and while she never outright accused me of anything, she did begin buying me doll after doll, evidently hoping I’d abandon my interest in science and adopt a love of doll collecting.”