Woman's Own

by Robyn Carr

  “For pity’s sake,” Patricia said in disgust, crossing her slender arms over her generous bosom.

  “Well,” Lilly said, sitting up dizzily, “it was my first try, you know.”

  “Hopefully, he’ll catch you before you hit the ground or you’ll kill yourself.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, someone…surely.” Patricia sighed. “You have to fade. You’re not being thrown from a train, you know.”

  “I think I’d rather be thrown from a train, actually.”

  “You’re being purposely uncooperative. Be an old spinster then.”

  “I’d prefer it to this if you want to know.”

  “Hah! That’s what you say now, but just wait. If you think my husband and I are going to take care of some old spinster aunt--”

  “You’re the one who wants to be taken care of. You’re the one who is pretending to be weak just so some--”

  “Lillian Armstrong, you are the most bullheaded--”

  “I’d rather be bullheaded than dishonest. And weak!”

  “Sometimes you are such a child!”

  “Lillian! Patricia!”

  “Coming, Mama,” they sang out in unison. Both girls grabbed armfuls from the cushioning pile, tossed the mess atop the unmade bed, and prayed their mother wouldn’t inspect their room before they could tidy it. Then they bolted toward the stairs.

  “Trade biscuits for dishes?” Patricia asked in a whisper.

  “No.” Lilly was firm. She knew what the trade meant. Biscuits were set to rise before dinner. Dishes were washed after. Patricia must have evening plans. Again.

  “Please? Roger is calling on me.”

  “I can’t abide Roger. He smells.”

  “Does not,” Patricia whispered furiously. “Please?”

  “No.”

  Their mother was waiting. Both girls arrived at the bottom of the stairs together. Emily smoothed Patricia’s collar while she assessed Lilly’s appearance. She frowned. “Oh, Lilly, how you do come apart. You might have to replait your braids. Who helps before dinner?”

  “I do, Mama,” Lilly said.

  “Well, trade tonight. Or go back upstairs and fix these braids.” Emily reached for her younger daughter, untying the ribbon at the end of one braid and retying it. Patricia glided away with a very superior air.

  “That’s what she wanted anyway,” Lilly sulked. “Roger is calling on her tonight.”

  “Ah. That would explain her victorious posture. There, that’s better.” Emily put her hands on Lilly’s shoulders. “Help Sophia anyway, Lilly. And set an extra place--we have another boarder coming.”

  “Another?”

  “Yes. Goodness, you’re wrinkled. What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing. I mean, nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?”

  “Promise not to get angry?” Lilly didn’t wait for an answer because Emily never made such promises. “Patricia was teaching me how to pretend to faint.”

  “Whatever for?” Emily asked, wide-eyed.

  “In order to make a man think that I need the strength of his protection for my moral character.” She took a breath. “As Patricia tells it.”

  “I see,” Emily said, her lips quivering with the temptation to laugh outright. “And? Did you learn?”

  “Not so far. And even if I do, I doubt I’ll ever use the skill. I don’t have any interest in getting a man who’s stupid enough to be taken in by something like that.”

  Emily patted her daughter’s cheek. “It’s just as well.”

  “It’s written about in Ladies’ Own, Mama. Did you ever faint so that a man would think you were weak and be attracted to you?”

  “No.” Emily laughed. “My weaknesses were much more obvious than that. I never had to pretend any of them.”

  “You? Weak? You’re the strongest--”

  “We aren’t born with strength, Lilly. We develop it. And I was young once, too. As young as you.” She smiled at Lilly’s dubious expression. “Oh, honestly I was.”

  “It’s hard to imagine,” Lilly said, and then she began to color. “You being weak, that is.”

  “It takes a great deal of discipline to become strong. And faith,” Emily said, but somewhat absently. She was thinking about Patricia. She would have to speak with her about this unwise practice of deceptive tricks to attract men, as if Patricia didn’t have more than enough suitors already.

  Emily had not feigned weakness at eighteen. She had been frightened, lonely, vulnerable, in desperate need of a man’s love, and finally pregnant. The brief time with her husband had been intolerable, disastrous. The years of struggle to feed and clothe her children without their father’s help had been harder still. She must convince Patricia. She might even tell how her own misconceptions about love and marriage had led her astray, but the very thought of such a confession made her stomach leap. Patricia was usually sensible; maybe a little advice would do.

  “Does Patricia plan to entertain Roger here?” Emily asked.

  “If she does, I hope there’s a good breeze.”

  “Don’t be mean, Lilly. He works around horses.”

  “Mama, that’s more than horses.” Lilly wrinkled her nose.

  “When you’ve finished your chores this evening, we should have a talk. You and I.”

  “About what, Mama?”

  “About what you’ve been doing rather than going to Sylvia Stratton’s School for Young Ladies. And what you’ve done with the money I gave you for tuition and horsecar fare.”

  Lilly’s face paled and she felt her throat constrict. Caught. “Mama, I saved the money. I wouldn’t--”

  “After dinner will be soon enough, Lilly. That will give you plenty of time to think of all your excuses.”

  “But Mama, I was bored! It’s terribly boring, Mama. And I haven’t missed anything because instead of going there I go--”

  “Stop, Lilly,” Emily reproached, shaking her head. “I’m not going to discuss this with you now. Later.”

  During the fall term, from September until the Christmas holidays, Lilly had attended the young ladies’ academy faithfully, completing all the required studies--reading, literary discussion group, bookkeeping, sewing and design, deportment and etiquette--all things she could learn better from her mother. Sylvia Stratton’s school was not designed for women with university ambitions, nor for rich girls whose families could afford sophisticated boarding schools or tutors, but rather as a place for the daughters of working people to fill the time between public school and marriage. The studies were intended to do nothing more than groom intelligent and sufficient wives. Lilly had tucked the tuition money her mother gave her into her satchel and did not enroll for the second term in January. But she left the house every day, going instead to the Women’s Sanitary Gymnasium or the lending library. Lilly was not averse to studying, nor was she unmotivated. She studied independently, subjects of her own choice.

  Lilly’s grades had not been outstanding, because the trivial uselessness of the curriculum bored her. She was in a hurry. She wanted to read all the things that were considered unseemly or unsavory. She wanted to earn money, and she was not drawn to the few occupations considered appropriate for women. And, since pretending to faint held no appeal, she had decided she’d better have some resources other than marriage.

  Patricia had always been pointed toward marriage; it was her unflinching target. Since the age of twelve or so she had been more interested in young men than in any other thing. She had reached her eighteenth birthday last December and was determined to become engaged before she reached nineteen. She would be married the following spring and deliver her first child the spring after that. She collected essays on wifely occupation and protocol, domestics, manners, and even intimate practices. She had fabric samples snipped from great bolts of cloth and a collection of fashion plates from all the popular magazines. She had decided the menu for her wedding supper and the name of her first child, which would be a boy. But from the host of
suitors who plagued the Armstrong front porch, Patricia had not yet selected a husband.

  Lilly knew that Patricia was more like other young women in this pursuit than she was; most were preoccupied with becoming wives. But not Lilly. “Don’t you have to be in love?” she had asked her sister.

  “I will be,” Patricia replied.

  “But will you be in time?” she asked, referring to Patricia’s rigid schedule.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course. I’m a little bit in love already. And I will marry when I’m completely in love.”

  “And what’ll you do?”

  “Well, silly, I’ll get married.”

  “But what’ll you do?”

  “Oh, Lilly, you’re such a ninny. I’ll…I’ll be like Mama.”

  “But Patsy, Mama isn’t married.”

  “It’s all the same thing. You’re such a child sometimes.”

  Marriage was a state of grace for women. Lilly sometimes thought about the reasons for getting married. Wanting children, for example, for Lilly wanted children. She was very fond of babies especially, and often helped neighbor women by rocking babies or chasing the little tots who had just learned to walk. Patricia said she wanted to have a family but Lilly knew that Patricia was made nervous and cranky by crying babies, and chasing toddlers exasperated her.

  And there was the physical aspect of marriage, the coupling. Patricia had shared an essay which not only explained that coupling was a thing men required, but also listed some methods a virtuous wife might employ to discourage her husband’s conjugal demands, such as wearing a scratchy bedgown, complaining of fatigue and illness, even discussing household problems to divert his attention. It had all sounded to Lilly like more trouble and discomfort than simply letting him do as he pleased, which caused Patricia to gasp in disbelief. Patricia dreaded that part of marriage, whereas Lilly had never let it worry her.

  Of course there was love, which was one of the greatest reasons Lilly was afraid she wouldn’t marry. Not from the absence of love, but quite the opposite. There was a man, known to her only as Andrew, whom she had met at the library. He was forbidden, and Lilly knew it. He was far too old for her, maybe thirty, and very handsome. He was dark Irish and had a smile that cut through Lilly to her bones, leaving her with a vague unsteadiness. She knew he was rich and well educated; his clothes were costly and new, his trousers did not bear a store-bought crease but were smooth and tailored from the finest, thinnest wool. She could tell from his diction, manners, and comportment that he was very sophisticated and refined, although there did seem to be a careless, almost reckless motion about him--even when he was silent and still.

  Once there was some trouble with the librarian over reading she requested. She wished to read an essay about séances and spiritualism and was arguing for an old copy of Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly when Andrew had stepped in and instructed the recalcitrant librarian to give Lilly anything she asked for on his approval. The librarian looked disappointed, but she said, “Yes, sir.” Even though Lilly wore a matronly bun rather than her braids so that she wouldn’t be denied any reading because of her age, she learned there was plenty that was considered inappropriate for her gender.

  She thanked him kindly, shyly, and was surprised to find him in the square later as she was leaving. She learned then that he was a patron of the library, but she did not learn his last name; indeed, she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know; it could only bear testimony to his importance--and his distance from her class of people.

  But he asked if she had found the essay interesting, and they discussed spiritualism for a long time. He knew about séances, though he said he wouldn’t attend one. Once, he said, great stock was put in summoning spirits for a consultation; Cornelius Vanderbilt was known for seeking mystical insight. But lately séances had become trifling entertainment for bored rich people who didn’t believe in the potential power. “How foolish to toy with something as provocative as spirits and magical entities,” he had said, smiling slyly. “What if they get mad?”

  Lilly wondered if he was bored as well as rich.

  She saw him a second time and they had walked together in the square, almost strolling together as couples do, talking about Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. After that she began looking for him. He remarked that her determination to learn was delightful, her curiosity refreshing, her sense of adventure and daring fascinating--all this was complimentary enough, but affectionate? She wasn’t sure. Maybe he considered her something like a younger sister--perhaps a pupil or protégé.

  She had conjured up many vivid daydreams about him, but when he looked at her, she could not distinguish amusement from intrigue in his eyes. Inexperienced as she was, she couldn’t tell the difference between admiration and desire. He had an uncanny knack for getting her to talk about things she had never guessed would flow so easily from her lips. She shared her ambitions, her frustrations, even the problem of an older sister with an unbearable quest for marriage. And she would die if he knew how attractive she found him.

  Here was a man, Lilly was certain, who would not be won by a feigned swoon, nor be made malleable and contrite by a scratchy bedgown.

  It seemed to Lilly that she, who would be pleased to find love, marriage, and children, would remain unhappily alone. And Patricia, who did not like children, could not abide the thought of coupling, and loved no one in particular, would marry in any case. There was much about life that Lilly found inequitable.

  Lilly and Patricia had no models for marriage in their own family. Emily had been on her own since her husband, Ned Armstrong, left to fight in the Civil War two years after Lilly was born. In fact, Lilly’s second birthday marked the day the Confederates had captured Fort Sumter; two days later President Lincoln had called for seventy-five thousand volunteers. Emily said that Ned Armstrong had been among the first to leave. Lilly could not remember him, of course. And Emily had not even entertained a gentleman caller since, although there had been a man or two who had expressed an interest in paying court. Emily was very self-sufficient and beautiful, and Lilly did not think that signs of weakness had attracted those occasional men.

  Emily claimed to be very satisfied. She had work that was hard, but gratifying; her income was not grand, but decent. She was far from lonely, with a boardinghouse to keep. She had her family, her friends, her church, a neighborhood that thought highly of her, and she was content. Emily worked very hard, but it always appeared as though she simply followed a routine.

  They had not always lived in this house. Lilly had very early memories of a small, crowded house near the waterfront where they lived with an elderly woman fondly recalled as Old Mary. When she died they moved into a three-room tenement, renting the second bedroom to two sisters who worked long days at the textile mill. Emily, clever enough to share her home for income, gave the women space and an evening meal for a fee. During those years the lamp had burned late in the bedroom Emily shared with her daughters while she sewed for other women, saving every penny toward their betterment.

  Year-round Emily sewed for women who could afford her alterations and mending. Through those acquaintances she found buyers for preserves, jams, jellies, and baked goods. During the winter months, especially at Christmastime, she baked ferociously, and the coal fire served to warm the house while the baking provided income. As soon as Patsy and Lilly could help, they stood on stools around the worktable. In summer they pulled a wagon to market where Emily bargained expertly, as old Mary had taught her, for fruits and vegetables that were near spoiling; if the price was agreeable, Emily could stretch one dollar into ten with her culinary skills.

  Lilly had fond memories of the days when her mother dressed them in their best and took them with her buying or selling. Emily always wore a very modest gray or brown muslin and her only pair of four-button gloves. And she was very precise about getting what she needed. She was soft-spoken but firm, her chin was high, and her shoulders square. More than once she had walked away from a purchase or
sale if she did not feel satisfied.

  In 1867 Emily received a settlement of some kind, probably from her father’s death. With her savings, it was enough to buy this house in a better part of the city. It had three bedrooms then, but also a parlor, kitchen, dining room, pantry, and yard. Later, with the help of a mortgage, Emily added two bedrooms, which she instantly filled with boarders. She was clever enough to have a porch constructed, something she said was popular in southern climes; none of their neighbors had porches, and the boarders liked hers very much in summer. Emily continued with her sewing and sale of foodstuffs, and even though times were less lean for them now, she was no less frugal.

  Lilly admired her mother’s industry and, faced with Patricia’s flirting and fainting, she thought it was far more intelligent to work for one’s own money than to try to trick a man into marriage. Emily had been married and had still been forced to make her own way.

  “That’s what I’ll tell her,” she said aloud.

  “What’ll you tell who?” Sophia asked.

  Lilly hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud. She looked over her shoulder almost guiltily at Patricia and Sophia. “Nothing,” she said, turning back to the pot she had been told to stir.

  Sophia sighed and went to Lilly, taking the spoon from her hand. “You’re standing right here, but you’re thinkin’ somewheres yonder. These are potatoes, girl--don’t keep mixin’ unless you want mush.” She turned away and lifted a tray from the worktable. “Here. You jes’ take this cider out to the porch. Miz Fairchild been fannin’ herself all afternoon. And Mr. Giddings be home from the newspaper now. And your mama jes’ might go easier on you for it.”

  “You know?” Lilly asked in a whisper.

  “Now how you going to keep a secret in this house? Mind you don’t make it no worse on yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lilly said, taking the tray with pitcher and glasses from Sophia.

  Sophia wouldn’t think she’d been foolish, Lilly thought. In fact, Sophia might approve. She had worked for the Armstrongs for seven years now, although she didn’t live with them. Sophia said she wouldn’t live with white folks again, no matter how highly she thought of them. She wouldn’t live with her married daughters, either; there were three, and grandchildren. Once, a long time before the war, Sophia was owned by a white man. She had not only escaped bondage when she was just a girl, but she had married a free black man in Pennsylvania. He also died in a Union uniform. Then, in much the same straits as Emily, she had somehow managed to support herself and her daughters. The struggle must have been enormous for a Negro woman alone, but she had not only managed, her daughters were educated and, Sophia said, had made good marriages.