Woman's Own

by Robyn Carr

  She heard the constable making his rounds, his nightstick on a fence, his cheerful “Good evening.”

  “Stay right here now, and the constable won’t bother you,” she told the man.

  “Thankee, miss.”

  “Wasn’t that a kindness you jes’ done,” Sophia said. Sophia came into the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and began to drag out the tub. “I’ll be fixin’ Mr. Padgett his bath before I go. I think you wasted jes’ about all the time you can, Miz Lilly. If you scrubs this kitchen any more, you’re gonna see your first naked man.”

  Lilly made a face while Sophia laughed at her own joke. She dried her hands and reluctantly went to find her mother. She knew Emily would be mending in the parlor.

  Emily Armstrong valued honesty, propriety, and industry above all. Lilly hoped to convince her mother she had been industrious even though she hadn’t attended the school, but she had bungled honesty. That she had been less than proper, given the subjects she had been reading and her discussions with a forbidden man, she planned to keep to herself. It was not that Emily’s punishment was likely to be severe--in fact, it would probably be hardly anything at all--but her mother’s discomposure would be unbearable. Lilly could feel destroyed just hearing, “Oh, Lilly, I’m so disappointed in you…”

  “Come in, Lilly. You’ve put me off long enough, don’t you think?”

  Lilly looked toward the open parlor window. Right outside, Patricia entertained her suitors.

  “Don’t worry about them, Lilly. They won’t be paying any attention to our conversation. Come and sit by me,” she said, putting her sewing aside and patting the settee.

  Lilly perched on the edge of the settee and folded her hands in her lap. “Mama, I can explain.”

  “Let me speak first, Lilly. I apologize. I made a poor choice for you. Of course Sylvia Stratton’s school is not right for you. You’re too clever to make good use of all her subjects, and you’re already a perfect young lady. But I was perplexed. I can’t afford the university or a private tutor, and I couldn’t imagine what you’d do without a schedule. I enrolled you because even if you didn’t learn a great deal from the curriculum, I hoped you would make friends among the young ladies.”

  Lilly couldn’t believe her ears. Her mouth was open, but she was speechless.

  “You haven’t gotten into any mischief with all that time to yourself, I hope.”

  “Oh no, ma’am,” she said quickly, praying she wouldn’t blush. She hated her tendency to blush. “I’ve been studying right along. I’ve been going to the lending library or the Women’s Sanitary Gymnasium, or reading in the park.”

  “Oh, Lilly, not the Gymnasium. All the women there are so…political.”

  “No, they’re not, Mama. Not all of them. And I’ve read some of the most wonderful books: Dickens, Eliot, Sir Walter Scott, Emerson. I’ve even read parts of Origin of Species, although the librarian didn’t want me to.” She saw her mother frown, knowing there was great concern about Darwin’s theory contradicting the Scriptures. “I’ve read Leaves of Grass, Mama.” Her hands were no longer folded in her lap but moving around in animated description.

  “Leaves of Grass,” Emily repeated doubtfully. “Reverend Detwiler considered that unseemly for women.”

  “Oh, that old prude. Well, it’s not--it’s simply the most wonderful thing in the world, and I wept and wept. One of the soldiers Walt Whitman visited might have been my own father. I simply had to read it. It was difficult, though, because I--”

  Lilly abruptly stopped speaking as Patricia’s voice, sharp and laced with anxiety, came through the parlor window. “Perhaps you had better leave, in that case.” Lilly saw Emily’s head instinctively turn toward the sound.

  “Since this is between you and me, Patricia, why not ask them to leave. If you please.”

  That voice, Lilly knew, belonged to neither Roger nor Arthur.

  “Can’t you hear right, Montaine? She wants us to stay. It’s you she wants to leave.”

  Emily rose and went quickly to the porch, Lilly close behind her. In front of their house a very rich covered carriage waited. Patricia had ridden in it a few times upon invitation from Dale Montaine, whose father was said to be among the richest men in Philadelphia. There was a fancy scrolled M on the door and a uniformed driver. Lilly remembered very clearly that their mother had not wanted Patricia to become enamored of a man who had so much, fearing he would not treat Patricia as respectfully as he might treat women of means equal to his own. Patricia had ignored her mother, and Lilly had not understood.

  Patricia was sitting on the porch swing, with Dale facing her, and Roger and Arthur standing on either side of her. Dale seemed unconcerned with either of them; his head was bent as he spoke angrily to Patricia. “I don’t understand the meaning of this; we spoke just the other day and you were looking forward to an evening with me, a ride.”

  Arthur responded for her. “She forgot your plans, then, so go on and leave the rest of us to enjoy the evening.”

  “Just shut your mouth, this has nothing to do with you!” Dale looked again at Patricia. “Why don’t you just come along with me now, and we’ll discuss this misunderstanding. I’m sure you have an explanation for--”

  Arthur made a move around the swing when Dale reached out for Patricia as if to pull her. Arthur’s fingers closed around Dale’s wrist and the contact seemed to incense Dale, who quickly snatched his arm away. He gave Arthur a shove that sent him tumbling over the porch rail and into a bush at the base of the house. Not only was Arthur no match for Dale in either size or strength, he was obviously unprepared for combat. Patricia gasped in surprise and Roger retreated a step. Dale’s hand reached toward Patricia again.

  “Mister Montaine!”

  Dale whirled to face Emily Armstrong, a scowl on his undeniably handsome face. His features did not relax a bit, not even when facing the mother of the girl he was pursuing.

  “I believe you have overstayed your welcome,” Emily said, her voice steady and firm.

  “As a matter of fact I’ve had no welcome at all, Mrs. Armstrong. Your daughter accepted an invitation from me, and I have arrived to find her occupied with these fops and proudies; I believe this was intentional.”

  Lilly frowned. She had thought for some time that Patricia was probably headed for trouble with all her schemes, and now she had one angry young man on her hands.

  Emily did not look at Patricia. She stared at Dale Montaine. “Whether you came by invitation or not, Mr. Montaine, you are no longer welcome. Patricia is done entertaining for the evening.”

  Patricia’s face had paled considerably since her mother stepped onto the porch. She stood to go into the house, and as she passed Dale, he grasped her wrist. “Just a minute,” he said. “I think maybe you ought to know, Mrs. Armstrong, that your daughter most enjoys leading her suitors around by the nose, making them all look like fools, full of insinuations and promises and plans, only to--”

  “Get your hands off my daughter!” Emily snapped.

  They stared at each other for a moment, Dale’s face growing more red, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn together. His voice became boyish and wheedling, but he had a mean look on his face. “Look, I’m willing to listen to an explana--”

  “I said, let go!”

  Reluctantly, Dale released Patricia’s wrist and she skittered to stand behind her mother. But Dale did not budge.

  Lilly was mesmerized by Dale’s violent expression while at the same time the anger in her mother’s voice fascinated her. She had never witnessed this kind of force; Emily was firm when she meant to be obeyed, but never snappish or loud. Standing behind her as she was, Lilly could discern a slight trembling in her mother’s shoulders, and she knew that it must be rigid, hot fury. Lilly had never witnessed such intense emotion in her mother.

  Lilly felt a pair of hands on her shoulders and she was gently moved away from the door. Noel Padgett stepped between the women and onto the porch, where he faced Dale Montai
ne. They were the same height, but Noel was slightly more muscled. He was in an alarming state of underdress and must have come from the kitchen where he was preparing for his tub. He wore only his trousers, boots, and a ribbed undershirt opened at the throat. He surveyed the scene with his hands on his hips. Dale glared, Arthur pulled leaves out of his shirt, and Roger stood silent and shaken against the wall.

  “Who are you?” Dale demanded.

  “Just company, son. Now, were you asked to leave?”

  “This is none of your concern. My business is with--” Dale made a move as if to pass Noel and approach Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter, but Noel took matters into his own hands. He lifted Dale by his very costly lapels and tossed him over the porch rail. It was so quickly done that Lilly hadn’t even anticipated it. Arthur had to spring out of the way as Dale soon decorated the same shrub Arthur had just vacated. It took Dale a moment to roll over, get free of the crushed bush, and rise to his feet. The expression on his face passed the mark of anger and moved full steam into rage. His cheeks lost the color of temper, and his dark eyes sizzled with hatred. Noel Padgett calmly leaned both hands on the porch rail and met those menacing eyes with lazy poise. “That your horse and buggy, son?”

  Dale turned and stomped away from the house. He arrived at the opened door of his carriage before turning back to the women to impart his final shot. “I’ll be seeing you, Patricia. You can count on that!” Then his driver took him quickly away.

  Noel stared after the departing conveyance until it was a mere cloud of dust before turning toward the gallery of women, Emily at their helm.

  “Mr. Padgett, I’m sure you meant well, but you’ll find that we’re a family that abhors violence of any sort.”

  Lilly watched his eyes; his expression reflected the irony, and he grinned in amusement. But there was more in his smile, his eyes. Admiration. Approval.

  Finally he gave his head a nod. “I’ll try to bear that in mind, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said. And he moved slowly past the women back into the house.

  Chapter Two

  “You best tell them girls where they come from, Emily,” Sophia quietly advised. ‘Specially Miz Patsy--girls that age all the same, black or white, they think the world’ll come to an end if they don’t find them a husband.”

  Emily and Sophia stood in the foyer just inside the front door while John Giddings waited on the porch. All was quiet but for the soft creaking of the porch swing. John routinely took an evening stroll at the time Sophia walked home, never letting on that he played escort, no matter how inconvenient the hour of her departure.

  Sophia was leaving far later than usual because of all the excitement. Lilly and Patricia had been sent to their room, and Mr. Padgett had finished his bath and climbed the back stairs to his attic room. The thing that made Emily most proud was the civility of her boardinghouse--quiet, decent, never any real trouble. The fracas had awakened Mrs. Fairchild, brought Annie and Jamie from their room; even neighbors leaned out of windows and doors to watch the Montaine carriage depart.

  “I’ll talk to Patricia. She might just listen to some advice now,” Emily returned, expressing the hopeful thoughts she had had all afternoon.

  “No, ma’am. We all got things we got to own, honey. You ain’t gone and done nothing so terrible. Women been havin’ trouble with men since Eve. You tell them girls where they come from. Sometimes all we got is our history.”

  “Did you, Sophia? Did you tell yours?” she asked. Old Mary knew what had befallen her, but Sophia had been the only woman Emily had ever confided in. And Sophia did not know everything.

  “Yes’m, I had to tell my girls where I come from. You think it was easy tellin’ my girls I was born a white man’s property?”

  “But that wasn’t your fault!”

  “We carry a lot o’ burdens ain’t ours, so how come we still ashamed? Ain’t your fault neither. You was jes’ a young girl like Miz Patsy. A young girl full of love and hope.” Sophia squeezed Emily’s hand. “You think about this, honey. You’ll do right.”

  “Oh, I thought they’d be better off in innocence.”

  Sophia squeezed the hand harder. “Miz Em, you listen to me, Miz Patsy, she’s a good girl, but she’s foolish, not innocent. The things she does is deliberate. She does what she does on purpose. The only thing that girl is innocent ‘bout is how much trouble she’s gonna make.”

  Emily averted her eyes because she did not want to face that truth. She remembered how much her own ignorance combined with her absolute conviction had cost her. She sighed wearily. “It’s been so good these past few years, no real troubles, no real dangers.”

  “Yes’m, you thought you was past all that. I think we don’t never get past…we just get on.”

  “They think me clever for thinking of a porch--they think I have intuition. Good Lord, I once called my private trap to the portico! Oh, Sophia!”

  “Blamin’ yourself won’t do them no good, honey. Go see ‘bout them girls--they’re shakin’ plenty by now.”

  Emily smiled softly. “I would be so alone without you,” she whispered. “I hope I haven’t made a big mistake in letting Mr. Padgett have a room.”

  Sophia grinned, her large white teeth flashing against her beautiful brown skin. She was ten years older than Emily and had been through a great deal more. Her smile was beautiful, engaging, free. “Girl,” she whispered conspiratorially, “you gone and forgot everything you ever knew ‘bout men and women. Maybe we says we can get by jes’ fine without a man, but I ain’t never going to forget jes’ how handy they is.”

  Emily hesitated after Sophia had gone. Dale Montaine had no idea whom he had treated so rudely. If he went home and told his father about his altercation with Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter, Wilson Montaine would have no idea who she was. In fact, if she visited Mr. Montaine to discuss his son’s behavior, she would have to use her maiden name to be remembered. She would prefer to be forgotten, just as she would prefer to forget. One had proved quite possible; the other, tragically impossible.

  She had stopped asking herself years ago whether she had created convenient lies for their sake or to cover her own shame. How could the truth, that Ned Armstrong never loved her, never wanted their children, be useful to them? She had invented the knowledge they had of their father. The war had provided an expedient story.

  She thought she saw him twice. Once a man, stepping out of a compact, smart horse-drawn coupe ahead of a handsome woman, had met her startled eyes. Was there a frown and a flicker of recognition? Was it only confusion on the man’s part because she stared, horrified and stricken? Another time, at Penn Square during a Fourth of July celebration when the girls were quite small, a man walked by. He didn’t notice her but she had known it was Ned. By then her pain had turned to rage. That he had used her, led her astray and abandoned her, was insult enough; but he had left them all in deadly peril. That she could never forgive. She had barely forgiven herself her own gullibility.

  When the Montaine carriage had gone and the crowd had dispersed from the porch, she had faced her daughters, and it was like facing strangers. Things she had always known about them but had never quite taken seriously faced her down. Patricia’s blue eyes blazed with annoyance because her flirtation had run amok. Her lips were tight, her face like carved pink marble. She liked controlling young men, creating daydreams about whom she would have, when, and how life would be. When Patricia wanted something, no matter how foolish or reckless her desire, a team of bulls could not drag the notion away.

  And Lilly. Her cheeks were bright with excitement. She craved adventure, intrigue. Courage and curiosity flamed on her cheeks, and her lips trembled with a suppressed laugh or shout. Emily had not missed the way Lilly watched Noel Padgett; fascination, marvel, delight all glowed feverishly in her eyes.

  In panic Emily had lashed out at them. In a voice more biting than she had ever before used, she ordered them to their room. For the first time in years, she realized her lack of power and the limi
ts of her protection. Her skill in mothering would be challenged, for if she could not influence her daughters now, she could not imagine the direction their lives might take.

  She opened their door. They sat cross-legged on their tester bed, dressed in soft flannel gowns with bedcaps on their heads. Hair had been obediently brushed out, faces were rosy from scrubbing, and they waited, their eyes wide and fearful. They expected the worst of her wrath; she had not lost them yet. Ah, she thought, what beauties.

  They were so different they hardly looked like sisters. Patricia was petite and fair--frail, one might think, unless acquainted with her stubbornness. Her golden hair cascaded down her back to her waist, the tiny waist she begged to corset. Her sapphire eyes were always bright with ideas. She was perpetually happy, filled with plans and schemes. She was small, eager, ripe with fantasies and the wiry strength and contrariness to pursue them. When she was tiny she played princess, draping towels around her shoulders and wearing bowls or pots for crowns. “What will you be after a princess?” Emily had asked her when she was perhaps five years old. Patricia had leveled her superior gaze on her ignorant mother. “A queen, Mama,” she replied, perturbed at Emily’s naiveté.

  Patricia was aware of her beauty and had learned to use her flirtatious smile and audacious eyes to have her way when she was a mere tot. Patricia had no use for studies; the first time a boy had turned his besotted gaze on her, she accepted the power of her porcelain looks and used that power to her advantage.

  So different from her older sister in many ways, Lilly was unaware of her own handsomeness. She was darker, taller, fuller. Her hair was brown with hints of red and blond. Her eyes were not quite blue, but a blue-green that changed with her attire and her mood. She despised her freckled skin; she didn’t realize it was developing into a shimmering bronze. She would soon be a remarkably beautiful woman--more so if she did not become vain like her sister. And Lilly was less giddy, not given to whimsical ideas. She was serious about learning; she was solitary. Her studies, when not frivolous subjects like deportment, filled her with excitement. She liked having friends, but it did not bother her one whit to be left out, to be less than the most popular. She’d brush off cruel and teasing little girls as silly, for Lilly was brave. Too brave sometimes. When a limit had been set, she went beyond it. She was drawn to the railroad yard and station, either watching trains pass or observing people who could afford travel. She stood outside the theater and listened to what people who had seen plays said about them. She did not complain that she could not afford a ticket but would not be denied the privilege of eavesdropping or reading the bills.