A Proper Pursuit

by Lynn Austin

  Mrs. Grant had come calling with two daughters of her own, Hattie and Nettie, who were close to my age. Her unkind remarks had the same effect on me as a shot from a starting pistol at the beginning of a race. I remained composed as I sized up my competition. Neither of the Grant sisters was as pretty as I was, even with my dusky skin. And their assets could have used a little plumping from Ruth’s Egyptian elixir. But we were in a race to the altar, and I wasn’t about to offer any advice to my rivals.

  “Violet is well aware that she needs to stay out of the sun,” Aunt Agnes said. “Aren’t you, dear?”

  “A parasol is an essential summer accessory for every woman,” I replied.

  “I find that her unusual coloring adds to her mystique,” my aunt said.

  “What about suitors?” my hostess asked. “Do you have any gentlemen callers, Violet?”

  I didn’t dare tell them about stodgy Herman Beckett, the shipping clerk from Lockport. Then, to my horror, I recalled giving the traveling salesman, Silas McClure, permission to call on me at Grandmother’s house. What on earth would I do if he showed up at my door with his garish plaid suit, flashy grin, and oiled hair? I couldn’t invite him in! His head would leave grease stains on our upholstery! Why, oh why, had I given him Grandmother’s address?

  “I’ve arrived in the city only recently,” I replied, dodging the question. “I’ve been away at Madame Beauchamps’ School for Young Ladies in Rockford.”

  “That’s a fine institution.”

  “Yes, wonderful reputation.”

  “Agnes, dear, why don’t you bring Violet to the fund-raiser for the Art Institute? I would like my grandson, George, to meet her.”

  My heart sped up.

  “And I would love for her to attend my soirée. My grandnephew Edward will be in attendance.”

  One of the Grant sisters gave me a malevolent glare at the mention of Edward. But soon the women lost interest in me, and the conversation shifted—or dare I say degenerated—into gossip. No one’s private life seemed off limits as they talked about who was courting whom, how the courtship was progressing, which gentlemen had proposed, which ones were never likely to, and so on. I stayed alert, cataloging the information, aware that my future success might depend on it.

  Later, as Aunt Agnes and I were taking our leave along with the other women, our hostess caught my arm and whispered, “Stay for a moment, Violet. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She beckoned to a serving girl, who hurried over. “Katya, please ask Nelson to come downstairs for a moment.”

  The serving girl hesitated as if she hadn’t understood the command. But her questioning eyes met mine, not Mrs. Kent’s. I had the distinct feeling that she was sizing me up the same way that I had sized up the Grant sisters. Katya was young—no more than seventeen or eighteen—and very pretty, with slanted blue eyes and wheatcolored hair and sharp, Slavic cheekbones. She dropped her gaze and curtsied.

  “Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.” I could have sworn I saw tears in her eyes.

  Of course! She was in love with her employer’s grandson, this Nelson whom she had been sent to fetch. Maybe he was in love with her too, but their love had to be kept secret because she was an immigrant serving girl and totally unsuitable for a man of his social standing.

  They met on back stairways and in the darkened garden after midnight, exchanging tearful embraces and passionate kisses. Katya had begged Nelson to run away with her, but he was torn between his love for her and his love of money. Then, one stormy night—

  “Katya emigrated from Poland,” Mrs. Kent explained while we waited. “She didn’t speak a word of English when we first hired her, but she is improving every day.”

  A few minutes later, Nelson arrived—without Katya. I imagined her weeping in the linen closet, using the spare blankets and bed sheets to muffle her jealous tears.

  Nelson Kent ambled out to the foyer dressed for the tennis courts, and I had to bite my bottom lip to keep my mouth from dropping open. He was the living embodiment of every romance story’s hero: tall, slender, fair-haired, and handsome. And if this home was any indication, he was also extraordinarily rich.

  “Nelson, dear, I’d like you to meet Miss Violet Hayes. She is my dear friend Agnes Paine’s great-niece and has just arrived in Chicago. She needs to meet some other young people her age. Violet, this is my grandson, Nelson Kent.”

  “How do you do?” I breathed. I was grateful that I’d practiced my mysterious smile so I wouldn’t appear too eager. It wouldn’t do for me to greet him with a grin like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Too bad Madame B. had never taught us how to speak when we’ve just had the wind knocked out of us by a handsome, wealthy man.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Nelson replied. He seemed cordial but cool. Unlike Aunt Birdie’s husband, it wasn’t love at first sight for young Mr. Kent.

  “Be a dear, Nelson, and take Violet for a stroll around the garden, would you? There’s something I need to discuss with Agnes.”

  “I would be delighted.” He offered me his arm and escorted me down the hallway toward the rear of the house.

  If I had to describe my first suitor, Herman Beckett, in one word, it would be stodgy. Silas McClure’s word would be slippery. But the only word that could possibly sum up Nelson Kent was smooth. He seemed so at ease with proper etiquette, so casual with the trappings of wealth and his elevated social standing, that it was as if he had never been required to learn such things but had emerged from the womb with them.

  I imagined him socially at ease the very first time guests arrived to view him, mere days after his birth. I could picture him smiling casually and confidently from his cradle and passing out his own cigars: “Mr. Mayor, how are you? Mr. McCormick, so nice of you to visit. Would you care for a drink? I’ll have one of the servants fix you one.”

  “How long have you been in Chicago, Miss Hayes?” he asked as we walked through a set of French doors onto a veranda.

  “Only a few days—and you?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life, except for the years I was away at university. How do you like the city so far?”

  “It seems like a very nice place.”

  My heart skipped a beat when I realized I had just halted the conversation. It was hard to concentrate when strolling on the arm of a man like Nelson Kent.

  “What lovely gardens,” I said, since that had been the pretense for the stroll.

  “You are by far the loveliest flower in them, Violet.” Something about his words sounded phony. I quickly glanced at his face to gauge his sincerity. His pleasant smile hadn’t changed, but his eyes seemed very sad.

  “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Kent.”

  “Please. It’s Nelson.”

  As we made our tour around the garden, I waited for the influenza-like symptoms of true love to strike me: the dizziness, the heart palpitations, the fluttering stomach and fevered brow. If Nelson Kent was destined to become my true love, I should feel something immediately, shouldn’t I? Instead, I felt disappointingly healthy.

  “Have you been to the Columbian Exposition?” I asked him.

  “Yes, several times. Have you?”

  “Not yet, but I would like very much to go.”

  “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you there one day.” This was my third offer. I wondered how Chicago’s young lovers ever undertook a decent courtship before the fair was built. I gazed up at Nelson again and gave him my well-rehearsed, enigmatic smile.

  “Perhaps I will.”

  I had been taught to act mysterious with suitors, to be shy yet flirtatious, to play hard to get. “Men enjoy the pursuit,” I’d been coached. “Chase him until he catches you.” But I had the distinct feeling that Nelson Kent was playing the same game with me, acting charming enough to gain my interest while remaining coolly aloof. And he was a much better player than I was.

  “Might I be seeing you at the fund-raiser for the Art Institute?” he asked.

  “Yes,
you might.”

  “Then I hope you will save one dance for me.”

  My only reply was another enigmatic smile. I longed to ask him one of my favorite questions just to get a sense of who he truly was:

  “If you had to choose between being struck blind and never being able to see the face of your beloved again, or becoming permanently deaf, and being denied the sound of music and of a child’s laughter, which would you choose?” But I didn’t dare ask Nelson Kent such a question.

  Madame B. had warned against the indiscriminate use of our imaginations. “If you could visit only one pavilion at the fair,” I asked instead, “which one would you choose?”

  “The Electricity Building,” he answered immediately. “It’s a showcase of modern progress and innovation. I predict that electric lighting will make gaslights obsolete one day. Just wait until you see the White City all lit up at night. It’s astounding. I’m trying to convince my father to invest in some of the modern inventions that are being introduced at the fair.”

  “Did you ride Mr. Ferris’ wheel?” I asked, recalling Silas McClure’s description of it.

  “Not yet. I went to Paris for the previous World’s Fair and saw Mr. Eiffel’s Tower. There has been quite a controversy over which is the more impressive achievement.”

  “What is your opinion?”

  He gave me his gentle, charming smile. “I’ll let you know after I ride on the wheel.”

  We made a circuit of the garden—it wasn’t very large—and arrived back at the French doors.

  “Thank you so much for the garden tour,” I said as we joined the others in the foyer.

  “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Hayes. I hope to see you again soon.” He gave a slight bow and strolled away, his hands slipping casually into his pockets.

  “You carried yourself very well this afternoon,” Aunt Agnes told me on the way home. “All the ladies seemed quite taken with you.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Agnes. I confess that I was a bit nervous. Did it show?”

  “Not at all. In fact, did you notice how they all competed for you? You can expect several invitations to arrive in the coming weeks. The women are always excited when someone introduces new blood.”

  “New blood?” I shivered involuntarily, wishing I had never read Ruth’s cannibal story.

  “Yes. After a while, everyone ends up related to everyone else and it becomes a bit … unseemly, if you know what I mean. One could lose track of who is a first cousin and who is a second—and that would never do. But if we can manage to marry you well, then our families—the Howells and the Hayeses and the Paines—will all move up a notch or two in the social ladder.”

  I suddenly felt like the prize money in a betting pool—winner takes all. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  “Young Nelson Kent seemed quite enamored with you.”

  “Did he? He was very pleasant and well-mannered.”

  “Be careful not to let him monopolize your time too quickly. I hope he didn’t rush to fill your calendar already.”

  “He mentioned escorting me to the fair. And he asked me to save a dance for him at the fund-raiser.”

  “Oh, dear. He does move quickly. Mind you, he is an excellent catch as far as husbands are concerned, but take your time making your selection. One never knows when an even bigger fish might come along.”

  “Do society men and women ever marry for love?”

  “Love!” She laughed. “My dear, you’ve been spending too much time with my sister Birdie. Do I dare ask how you answered Mr. Kent’s invitations?”

  “I gave him a very vague reply.”

  “Good. Good. Never appear too eager. Keep him in suspense awhile longer.”

  “But I would like to see him again,” I said, thinking that perhaps a fire wasn’t always kindled with one match. “Do you think he’ll ask?”

  “Don’t worry—you’ll see him quite soon. His grandmother told me that she plans to hold a party at her home and invite you and Nelson and all the young men and ladies your age, including some of your second cousins. I’ve always thought it such a pity that you don’t know your extended family very well.”

  “Speaking of family, may I ask you a question, Aunt Agnes? Everyone commented on my skin tone, which is quite unlike my father’s. Did I inherit my dark coloring from my mother, by any chance?”

  “We will not discuss your mother, Violet Rose, under any circumstances. Do not mention her ever again.”With that, Aunt Agnes’ lips drew closed in disapproval, as if they were attached to an invisible drawstring.

  Once again I had encountered a wall of silence from my relatives. I was beginning to wonder if there was more to my mother’s story than I had imagined.

  Chapter

  7

  Friday, June 9, 1893

  Violet … Violet!”

  I opened my eyes to find Aunt Matt standing alongside my bed, whispering my name in an urgent voice. I sat up in alarm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You need to get up and get dressed, quickly.We don’t have much time.”

  I swung my legs out of bed and sniffed the air. I had been dreaming about the Great Fire again, and I expected to smell smoke. Instead, I smelled bacon.

  “Not much time? To do what, Aunt Matt?”

  “There’s going to be a march today, and I think you should see it. Your father is dead set against my work, and he told Florence and Agnes to keep you well away from it, but Florence left for the settlement house and won’t be home until this afternoon.”

  I stared at her sleepily, trying to digest her words.

  “Well, come on. Why are you wasting time? Don’t you want to come with me and help shape the future for all women?”

  “Yes, of course. I’d love to go with you.” Especially if my father had forbidden it. I was still angry with him for lying to me and for bringing Maude O’Neill into our lives. Besides, if I armed myself with Aunt Matt’s ammunition, perhaps I could scare Maude away by myself.

  I climbed out of bed and opened the doors to my wardrobe. What did one wear to a march for women’s rights? I couldn’t recall ever studying that in school. I decided to take my cue from Aunt Matt’s prim attire and chose a long, dark gray skirt and a highcollared white shirtwaist. I pinned up my long hair in a tight bun. But when I came downstairs, Aunt Matt was so focused on the upcoming battle that I don’t think she would have noticed if I were wearing only my muslin undergarment.

  “Do you want breakfast?” she asked. “There isn’t time for it, but I suppose if you’re really hungry I can find you a hard-boiled egg.”

  After feasting on sugary tea cakes and watercress sandwiches the past two days with Aunt Agnes, I could see that the battle for women’s rights was going to involve great personal sacrifice.

  “No, thank you, Aunt Matt. I’m not hungry.”

  “Good. Let’s go, then.”

  I barely had time to pin on a straw boater hat before we marched out the front door. I had a hard time keeping up with my aunt as she charged down the block to the nearest streetcar stop. I should have worn sturdier shoes. Thank goodness I hadn’t laced my corset very tightly.

  “Now the first thing I want you to do,” Aunt Matt said when we reached the streetcar stop, “is to forget everything you were taught in that ridiculous finishing school you attended.Women aren’t silly, delicate creatures, incapable of grasping intelligent ideas. They are not the weaker sex. The act of childbearing alone should tell you how strong we are. Women are perfectly capable of going to the same universities as men and getting an identical education. There is already a school for women physicians, and someday women will be scientists and judges and company presidents too.”

  My facial expression must have revealed my shock and disbelief because she quickly added, “I doubt if I’ll see it my lifetime, but why not, Violet? It isn’t a question of ability—it’s a question of opportunity. Women aren’t going to tolerate being tied down much longer.”

  Her words reminded
me of my mother. Father said she had hated her life, hated being tied down. Could this be what he’d meant?

  A streetcar approached, the horses’ hooves clopping noisily and raising a cloud of brown dust. We climbed aboard and Aunt Matt paid our fares. I waited until we were seated and the streetcar had lurched forward before asking, “Is that why my mother left us? My father said that she felt tied down.”

  “I really couldn’t say. But I doubt if she left in search of educational opportunities.” I detected scorn in Aunt Matt’s tone.

  “Then why did she leave?”

  My aunt gave an impatient wave. “Listen, you aren’t paying attention to the bigger picture, Violet. That’s what I’m trying to show you. Our individual lives as women aren’t nearly as important as the overall movement.”

  “Will this march take long? I’m afraid that if Aunt Agnes comes—”

  “Too bad for her. She had you all week, and now it’s my turn. I want you to see that there are alternatives to the life my sister has planned for you. You don’t need a husband in order to be fulfilled as a woman.”

  “Are you against marriage?”

  “Certainly not. There are some very good men in the world who treat their wives as equals. Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s husband is one of them. But marriage is not for me. I see no reason to surrender my independence for a life of servitude.”

  “Aunt Birdie says I should marry for love.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. She and Gilbert did seem to love each other. But who knows what sort of a husband he would have turned out to be over the years if he had lived.”

  I suddenly realized that I should be paying attention to where we were going and watching the street signs we passed. I needed to learn my way around the city if I ever hoped to find my mother’s address on my own. It had been impossible to see any signposts at all when riding inside Aunt Agnes’ carriage.

  “Every married woman is an actress,” Aunt Matt continued. “Each time she’s with her husband it’s as if she is onstage, playing the part that he expects her to play. The only time she can stop acting is when he leaves the stage.”