by Lynn Austin
“Okay then, Violet. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Can you hurry, please? I have less than two weeks to search for her.”
“Two weeks? And then what happens?”
“Then my father is going to make me go home to Lockport.”
“Hey, McClure. Come on,” one of the men called from across the street. “Court is back in session.” I tried to get a look at their faces and see if I recognized “Josephine” or Robert, but the men had already turned away.
“Sorry, but I gotta run.” He squeezed my arm. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out something, okay?” He gave me a long, lingering look, like he was memorizing my face. His candelabra grin had returned. “It was great seeing you ladies again. Bye.”
I watched as he dodged around the traffic again and bounced up the courthouse steps. He turned and waved before disappearing inside. I couldn’t seem to move. There was something terribly wrong with my heart. It was out of rhythm and pounding wildly. It’s because of the gun, I told myself. He has a gun!
Aunt Birdie tapped me on the shoulder, breaking the spell. “He’s in love with you,” she said.
“No. Th-that’s impossible. He’s … he’s completely unsuitable!”
“Your cheeks aren’t pink this time, dear, they’re bright red.”
I covered my cheeks with my hands and felt the warmth. Aunt Birdie cocked her head to one side and smiled at me.
“Make sure you marry for love, dear.”
Chapter
24
By the time Aunt Birdie and I arrived home, I had finally stopped shaking from my encounter with gun-toting Silas McClure. But I battled tears of bitter disappointment because I hadn’t found my mother. I wished I’d gone to LaSalle Street four weeks ago instead of wasting all this time. Now less than two weeks remained in which to find her, and my best hope of doing so was with the help of a thieving elixir salesman. I wanted to push past Aunt Birdie and run upstairs to my room and weep.
“It looks like you got another letter,” Aunt Birdie said. She had stopped in front of me to scoop up the mail that lay waiting for us on the foyer floor.
“From whom?” I asked wearily.
“It says, ‘Mrs. Charles Crane’ on the return address. ‘Riverside, Illinois.’ ”
It took me a moment to realize it was from Herman Beckett’s sister—whom I had dubbed Misery Mary. I took the letter from Aunt Birdie and ripped it open.
Dear Miss Hayes,
I am writing to invite you to a family picnic on July the fourth here at our home in Riverside. Herman will be coming by train from Lockport along with our mother, so you will have the opportunity to become better acquainted with our family. I know this is short notice, but I do hope you will be able to attend. Herman and my husband, Ernest, will call for you around ten o’clock in the morning. I look forward to seeing you again.
Sincerely,
Mary Crane
“Is it from one of your beaus?” Aunt Birdie asked.
“From his sister. She invited me to her Fourth of July picnic.”
“Oh, how nice. And tomorrow is the Fourth.”
“It is? Oh no,” I moaned. “That means there won’t be time to write back and send my regrets.”
“Don’t you want to go, dear? I do love Fourth of July picnics with the parades and the fireworks and everything. Don’t you? And everyone is so patriotic now that our country is at war.”
“It’s just that I can’t afford to waste another day, Aunt Birdie. I need to find my mother before the two weeks are up, and I have no idea where to look.”
“Well, you could always ask Philip. He would know where she is.”
Philip? My father’s missing brother? A strange, tingling sensation rippled through me—the kind I used to get when one of the detectives in True Crime Stories unearthed an important clue.
“Did my Uncle Philip know my mother?”
“Well, I’m sure he did.”
I hesitated before asking the next question. “Where … um … where can I find Philip?”
“Well, he’s … I mean … Oh, that’s right. Philip is off fighting in the war like my Gilbert. He … they …”
Her gray eyes clouded over with tears. She looked down at the pile of mail she was holding and her frail hands trembled as she leafed through the letters again.
“I can’t imagine why Gilbert hasn’t written. He must be so warm down in Virginia this time of year—the poor dear. Those uniforms are ever so hot. And the Virginia Peninsula is such a muggy, buggy place. And it looks like Philip hasn’t written either… .”
She dropped two letters as she shuffled clumsily through the mail. I picked them up, then gently took the rest of them out of her hands and laid them on the hall table.
“Let’s go make some lemonade and you can tell me all about my Uncle Philip, okay? What’s he like?”
“Full of life,” she said with a smile. “But headstrong. He and his father are always butting heads, you know. Isaac didn’t want his boys to fight, but as soon as Philip turned eighteen, he ran away to enlist. Is that a letter from him?” she asked, pointing to the invitation from Mary that I still held.
“No. I’ve been invited to a picnic tomorrow.”
I decided not to ask any more questions about Philip. I feared that he also had perished in the war, and I worried that my probing would hurt Aunt Birdie. We made lemonade and a light lunch. Afterward, I went upstairs to my room to devise a new plan.
I couldn’t afford to waste time crying helpless tears of disappointment. My future was at stake. My father seemed determined to marry me to Herman or to Nelson. I had been taught to be well mannered and compliant, trusting that men were more knowledgeable than women and better able to make choices for me. But that was before I’d seen for myself what women could accomplish; before I’d visited the Woman’s Pavilion and the suffrage headquarters and seen the work that my grandmother and Jane Addams did.
Yes, I needed to take matters into my own hands. My two goals would now become three: find my mother, stop Father’s marriage, and—did I dare believe it?—decide my own future.
I had no idea what that future might be, but I knew that I did not want to marry Herman Beckett. Tomorrow I would make certain that he saw a side of me that he would find unacceptable. But first, I would use the picnic as an opportunity to glean more information from Herman’s mother about Murderous Maude O’Neill. I needed something so damning it would prevent my father from marrying her.
While rummaging through my wardrobe in search of something to wear to the picnic, I came upon an idea that was pure genius. I had found the outfit that Madame Beauchamps made all of us girls wear for physical exercise classes at school. It consisted of a baggy pair of light blue pantaloons with elastic around the ankles and a tunic-style blouse with short, puffy sleeves and a sailor collar. It even had a navy blue sailor tie. I had tossed the exercise outfit into my trunk on a whim, and now I was glad that I had. Herman would be so scandalized to see a woman wearing bloomers that he would probably cancel the picnic as well as the courtship. Yes, my idea was ingenious. Ruth Schultz would have been proud of me.
When the time came the next day to button on my bloomers, I nearly lost my nerve. In truth, I felt naked without my usual layers of petticoats and skirts. I couldn’t imagine all women everywhere throwing away their skirts and dressing in pants someday, in spite of the lady doctor’s predictions. Fortunately, the Fourth of July had dawned cloudy and gloomy. I drew courage from the fact that we weren’t likely to be viewing parades on public thoroughfares or picnicking in a city park in such weather.
In the end, the hideous prospect of becoming Mrs. Herman Beckett strengthened my resolve. I climbed into my bloomers and stood at my bedroom window to wait for Herman. For my plan to work, I needed to watch for his arrival and make a quick escape from the house. I couldn’t let my grandmother see me dressed that way, or she would never let me out of the door.
As soon as Herman’s carriage dr
ew to a halt out front, I raced downstairs to make my escape—and nearly collided with my grandmother, who was in the foyer pinning on her hat.
“Violet Rose Hayes! What in the world… ?”
“Herman’s here, I’m going to be late, bye,” I said breathlessly.
“Wait a minute!” she said, snagging my arm. “Where are you going? You can’t go outdoors that way! You aren’t dressed!”
“Yes, I am. These are called bloomers.” I twirled around in the hallway to demonstrate my freedom of movement. “All the girls at Madame Beauchamps’ school were required to purchase a pair. And according to a very distinguished female doctor, it is much better for a woman’s health to wear bloomers in place of a stifling corset.”
“Where did you hear such a thing?”
“I heard the doctor speak at the Woman’s Pavilion.”
“Matilda!” I had never heard Grandmother raise her voice, let alone yell so loudly. “Come out here right now!”
Aunt Matt’s bedroom door burst open. “What? What’s the matter?” She had a look of startled fear in her eyes, as if the Great Fire had just been rekindled.
“Look what you’ve done!” Grandmother said, pointing to me. Someone knocked on the door.
“That’s Herman Beckett,” I said sweetly. I turned to open it, but Grandmother blocked my path.
“Oh no, you don’t. I’ll answer it. You go straight up those stairs, young lady, and put on some clothes.”
“What’s wrong with her clothes?” Aunt Matt asked. She had folded her arms across her chest, ready to do battle. “Those are called bloomers, Florence, in case you don’t know. Many of our suffragettes are already wearing them. And I dare say that all women will wear them someday.”
“They’re indecent! She looks like she’s in her undergarments.”
“Don’t be absurd. She’s covered all the way to her ankles.”
I heard Herman Beckett knock again, louder this time. Aunt Birdie glided into the hallway.
“Isn’t someone going to answer the door?”
“In a minute, Birdie.” Grandmother held out her arms to bar the way as if guarding against my escape.
“What’s the difference between a baggy pair of bloomers and a long skirt?” Aunt Matt demanded.
“Well … well, for one thing,” Grandmother stammered, “everyone can tell that Violet has a derriere! And legs!”
“Of course she has legs. And I’m sure people are just as aware of that fact when she’s wearing a skirt.”
“No, Matilda. Her backside is much more … more apparent … in bloomers.”
“Violet, dear,” Birdie asked, “why are you wearing your underwear?”
“See what I mean?” Grandmother asked. Herman knocked a third time.
“Someone better answer that,” I told my grandmother.
“Go on, Violet,” Aunt Matt said. “You go and have a nice time at your picnic. And good for you!” She applauded quietly.
“Matilda!”
I ducked beneath Grandmother’s arm and opened the door. I had taken a daring step, but if Herman and his mother reacted the way my grandmother had, the courtship would be called off before noon.
Herman’s eyes boggled when he saw me. He never had been overly talkative, but my bloomers turned him into a stone mute. I took his arm, chattering enough for both of us as we walked down the front steps to the waiting carriage. Misery Mary’s husband, Ernest, would be driving us to Riverside. He caught himself staring at me, then carefully averted his eyes from my shocking costume, staring at my toes as Herman introduced us.
“Violet—Ernest… . Ernest—Violet,” Herman said curtly.
“How do you do, Ernest? It’s so nice to meet you. I’m so sorry you were unable to join us for our day at the fair, but it’s kind of you to invite me to your holiday picnic.”
“Um. Yes.”
I climbed into the back of the carriage and sat cozily by Herman’s side as I continued my monologue.
“How have you been, Herman? Do you have the holiday off from work? Too bad the weather is so gloomy. It’s not a very nice day for a picnic, is it? Do you think it will rain? How far is it to Riverside? Will the ride take long?”
His mouth opened and closed in response to each of my questions, but nothing came out. His caterpillar brows had crawled halfway to his hairline in surprise and seemed to be trying to hide in his hair. He slowly blinked after each of my questions, as if hoping he would open his eyes and discover, to his great relief, that he had been having a nightmare.
It seemed to take forever to ride the nine miles to Riverside. In Herman’s muted condition, our conversation resembled a onewoman tennis match in which I was required to lob the ball over the net, then run over to the opposite court to retrieve it. I reached our destination verbally exhausted.
The Crane home was a sprawling, three-story residence with a turret and a wide front porch adorned with wooden gingerbread. It was in a lovely neighborhood of winding streets and stately homes near the Des Plaines River. The grassy front yard would have made a splendid spot for a picnic, but the damp day and misty rain would drive us inside.
Our carriage pulled beneath a covered entryway on the side of the house where Herman’s mother and sister awaited our arrival. I watched their faces transform as I stepped from the carriage. I had seen expressions like theirs before in a crowd that had witnessed a spectacular buggy crash in which horses and wagon wheels and bloodied victims had become hopelessly entangled.
Mrs. Beckett stuttered incoherently in a brave effort to be polite. Misery Mary couldn’t seem to look at me, as if I had arrived starknaked. Her two daughters, four-year-old Emily and six-year-old Priscilla, stared and stared and stared, their eyes frozen open, unblinking. I expected one of them to declare “The Emperor has no clothes!”
When I finally realized that Herman’s family was too well mannered to comment on my attire, I took the first step. “What do you think of my bloomers? They’re all the rage in Paris this season.”
“My word …”
“According to all the fashion experts they are de rigeuer for leisure events such as boating or bicycling—and very appropriate for picnics.” I held the material out to the sides as if I were about to curtsy, then twirled around like a ballerina to demonstrate my freedom of movement. The silent pause that followed was big enough to drive a streetcar through.
“They … they are … interesting,” Mary managed to say. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch us something to drink.”
“I’ll help you,” Herman’s mother added. They scurried from the room, herding the two little girls ahead of them as if shielding them from an appalling sight. Herman led me into the front parlor, where we sat opposite one another on the overstuffed furniture.
“Your nieces are lovely girls. Too bad they couldn’t have accompanied us to the exposition.”
“Mary feared it would be too much excitement for them.”
I nodded, trying not to giggle. The gigantic bell made from oranges might have kept them awake all night.
“Is there a parade today?” I asked.
“A small one. Riverside isn’t a very large town.”
“Oh, good. I do love parades.” But when Mary returned with our beverages, she and Herman had a quick, whispered consultation.
“We’ve decided not to watch the parade after all,” she told me. “The day is much too damp. It wouldn’t be good for the girls. I would hate for them to catch a fever.”
“Will we be picnicking in a park, perhaps?” I asked.
Mary shook her head vigorously. “No. Here at home. Inside.”
They were embarrassed to be seen with me. Good. My plan was already working.
We ate our picnic lunch at precisely two o’clock, seated around the dining room table. With my future at stake, I made up my mind to ignore all of Madame Beauchamps’ diligent instructions and do the opposite of everything I’d ever learned about table manners. I started eating before the hostess sat down. I
didn’t use my napkin, much less place it on my lap. I reached across the table for my food instead of asking someone to pass the serving dishes. I ate Mary’s fried chicken with my fingers, when the proper way was with a knife and fork. I buttered the entire dinner roll instead of breaking it into small pieces. I slurped my iced tea. I didn’t have quite enough nerve to belch when I’d finished eating, but I considered it.
Not one of the Becketts or Cranes uttered a word about my behavior. In fact, Herman’s family was so quiet and reserved that I could hear the silverware scraping across the plates while we ate.
Afterward I joined Herman’s mother outside on the front porch, determined to use all of my detective skills to learn the truth about her good friend Murderous Maude. I was quite certain that my courtship with Herman was about to end today, so this might be my very last chance to interrogate Mrs. Beckett.
“I understand that you and Mur—um … Maude O’Neill are good friends.”
“Yes, she is such a sweet person. You’ll love her.”
I doubted that. I leaned closer, as if we were conspirators.
“Listen, I know the truth about her first husband,” I bluffed. A detective in one of Ruth’s novels had used this method with excellent results. He had pretended to know the truth, then waited for a response. If it worked, Mrs. Beckett would either say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” or else confess that Maude had murdered him, believing that I already knew the truth. I waited, holding my breath. Mrs. Beckett glanced all around, as if expecting eavesdroppers.
“You know the truth?” she finally asked in a hushed voice.
“Yes. About his death.” She stared at me, as if waiting for an explanation. “Mrs. O’Neill is marrying my father, after all. And of course I’m holding her secret in strictest confidence. But you must agree that I had a right to know everything since Maude is going to be my … s-stepmother.” I almost choked on the word.
Mrs. Beckett nodded and glanced all around again. “Maude was very courageous throughout the ordeal.”
