Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  She began to pace around the office as she warmed to her subject. “Basil might be able to charm little old ladies into depositing their life savings into our bank, but I can make their money work for the good of the bank and for them at the same time.” She turned to face her father. “Please, Papa, I am begging you to let me go now before the season begins. I must get away from stuffy old New York City. Our clients in St. Louis need me now, not in the fall.”

  “I agree it would be a good move for you, my child, even though I have full confidence in your brother’s ability to run the St. Louis branch. Your mother is the one who needs convincing. And you know what she considers important.”

  “The Cotillion,” Ginger whispered her reply, as tears began to well up in her eyes, unbidden. She knew she was losing this argument. Nonetheless, she persevered. “Who thought up this wretched ball idea anyway? I will feel like a piece of horseflesh at the Cotillion, being paraded about like a fine filly and up for grabs to the highest bidder.” She stamped her foot in frustration.

  Ginger watched her father’s jaw flex. He was not an imposing man, but he had a will of iron. He needed a strong constitution to have successfully raised nine children and to have provided a privileged life for all of them. So, when she saw the movement of his jaw, she knew what it meant. Things were not going to go her way.

  George Fitzpatrick stood and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know you despise the idea, but you are not the only one concerned here. You have your sisters to consider. You know how high society works in New York, especially when the Astors and Schemerhorns are involved. If a precedent is not set this year for our family, your sisters will bear the brunt of it.”

  “But, Papa ... ”

  He raised a hand to silence her. “They will not be invited to any future balls and will miss their opportunities to be presented to society, all because of your selfish acts. I doubt you want to carry that mantle on your shoulders for the rest of your days, do you?” He smiled to soften his words.

  “Papa, you can’t be serious! My actions really won’t have any impact on my sisters, will they?”

  He nodded in affirmation, and his eyes flashed at her. “Should you choose not to participate, or to make life difficult for your mother, there will be no trip to St. Louis for you, now or in the future. You’ll stay at our home here in New York with only your sisters for company, who will be forever known as the ‘Spinster Fitzpatricks.’ Won’t you have a lovely existence to look forward to?”

  She dropped her head and softly asked, “So exactly what do I have to do?”

  George raised both hands in front of him, ticking off each item on his fingers. “You will do whatever your mother wants. Obviously, there will be fittings for new clothes between now and the ball in April, so you will be relieved of your duties here at the bank as of Friday. You will also limit the amount of time you spend with that rabble-rouser, Amelia Bloomer. Your mother will spend the next two months giving you the etiquette lessons you’ve been avoiding for years, in preparation for the high social season of balls, parties, plays, and operas. You will participate in each and every event and will present yourself with dignity in accordance with our family’s position in society. You will appear to have a good time, even if it means you will be putting on an act every night. All this will be over and done with by August, and if you have done everything to your mother’s satisfaction, I will allow you to go to St. Louis. But only if you still want to.”

  “Of course I’ll still want to.”

  Ginger gulped as a tear slid down her cheek. She turned her face away, hoping her father wouldn’t notice her moist eyes. He had never been this unreasonable before. For one of only a few times in her life, she could not cajole him into doing her bidding. She brushed the tear away, smoothed her skirt, and then turned back to him, meeting his tough yet tender gaze.

  “All right then. I will do what you ask, Papa, to appease Mother and for the sake of my sisters. But I want you to know I will hate every moment of it. I will be marking off the days between now and the end of August when I can escape the bonds of conventional society and move to the frontier. I will never become any man’s chattel.”

  Her father smiled. “That’s all I ask for, Ginger. Peace and harmony on the home front. Thank you for being so agreeable.” His voice held more than a touch of irony.

  She closed her father’s door and walked slowly back to her office. Ginger stood in the middle of the small room and placed her hands on her hips. Under her breath she muttered, “Bless my bloomers, I’ve been outfoxed.”

  • • •

  New York City, April 1855

  Sitting astride his most stubborn horse and leading another, Joseph Lafontaine attempted to navigate both horses through the wide and bustling cobblestone streets. He had successfully managed to move four of his six horses from the railroad car to the livery already; these were the last — and most troublesome — of the group. Broadway was the main boulevard in this part of town, and Joseph kept an eye out not only for buggies and carts, but also for pedestrians crossing from one side of the street to the other — a perilous act.

  His hometown of St. Louis might be raucous, especially down by the docks on the Mississippi River, but New York, and particularly this street, was beyond his wildest imagination. Now, if he could just get these last horses to the livery — only one more block — and then find his way to his hotel, he would breathe a whole lot easier.

  Loud noises up ahead caught his attention. Several policemen were attempting to break up a group of people in the street. Joseph scanned the area, searching for a clear route around the chaos. Despite what his good friend Basil Fitzpatrick said about how affluent New Yorkers would accept him as a French-Canadian, the Indian half of his background was barely tolerated in St. Louis — and would be much less so in New York City. He wanted to avoid confrontation while he was here in this strange town. Staying away from the authorities was probably a wise decision, and he was not eager to test the waters on his first day here. He should have remembered to tie his shoulder-length dark straight hair back into a queue, to lessen the look of his ancestry. Too late now, he thought as he focused on handling the horses under his command.

  “You there! Stop!” Police shouted as women scattered in different directions in front of him, some of them screaming as they rushed by.

  Joseph halted his horses in the middle of the clogged street and watched. A number of ladies ran directly in front of him, but he noticed only one. Her brown hair was shot through with dark red, reminiscent of a chestnut roan. Rather than being tied up in a chignon, her hair floated around her face in glorious disarray. The waist-length locks billowed out behind her as she ran. Joseph watched as she skittered just out of reach of the approaching policemen, glancing about for a means of escape. If this was what New York women were like, Joseph was glad he had agreed to come east.

  She skirted around his horses to the opposite side of the fray. Very clever, Joseph noted, using my horses as a shield from the authorities. He began walking his charges, which now included the woman, slowly forward through the chaos.

  Joseph nodded to her, acknowledging her presence. “Is this street always so crowded?” he asked the woman.

  “It’s always busy with the open-air vendors on the sidewalks and all the street traffic, but not usually like this. My friend and I just staged a rally, which is why the police are here.”

  “You are safe now, with me. Just follow my lead.”

  The woman nodded her head in agreement, shielding her eyes from the sun as she walked beside the horses and stared up at him. Her other hand reached out to touch the withers of the horse nearest her.

  “How handsome,” she said, not moving her eyes from Joseph’s face.

  “The black?”

  The woman seemed a bit startled, but continued to look at him. Joseph pointed with his
chin to the dark horse nearest to her. “The black horse beside you. He is my favorite, too. I may have to keep that one. Take care, though. These horses are barely broken, and they are skittish in all this noise.”

  At that very moment, a dog ran into the street, startling the black horse, and he lunged. Joseph held the reins tightly in his hands, but the horse reared. Joseph concentrated on controlling his horse and lost sight of the attractive woman. When the horse finally quieted, Joseph scanned the street for her again. She had backed off from the horse’s side, and was rubbing her forearm.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “He only bumped me slightly. It was my fault for getting too close. I’ll be fine.”

  Together, they made their way up the street. When they reached the livery, Joseph dropped from the horse’s bare back in a fluid motion and stood in front of the woman he had shielded from the police. He noticed she had a light dusting of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. And even though she was not as small as she appeared to be when he was astride the horse, his large frame still towered over her.

  “This is as far as I am going, miss. We have come a fair distance. You should be safe now.”

  “Thank you for helping me evade the police.” The woman did not move from the livery doors as she craned her neck to look him squarely in the eyes.

  “I think you would have managed quite well on your own, but I am glad I was able to help.” They stood in the door of the livery, their eyes locked for another long moment until one of the horses nickered.

  Joseph gathered the horses’ reins again tightly in his hands. “I must take care of my horses. They will settle down once they are comfortable.”

  Joseph spent the next few minutes getting the two horses safely into their stalls. When he finished, he was mildly disappointed to see that the bewitching woman had vanished. In a town the size of this New York City, he doubted if their paths would ever cross again.

  But a man could hope.

  Chapter Two

  Ginger rushed into the parlor, her hair loose around her face, still not quite able to catch her breath. She watched as her mother raised her eyes from the current edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book, which showed the latest fashions from France, and her sisters glanced up from their embroidery.

  “Land’s sake, child, where have you been? The twins and I have been waiting for you for nearly an hour!”

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Mother. I promised Amelia Bloomer I’d join her today.” Ginger decided to leave out the part about the rally and the dash away from the police. “We met Elizabeth Blackwell. Can you imagine? What an inspiration she is for young women — the first female physician in this country! How could I possibly have missed it?”

  “That doesn’t explain why your hairpins are missing. And what did you do to your forearm? It’s all red.” Charlotte Fitzpatrick stood up from her chair and moved to her daughter’s side to inspect the injury more closely. “It will probably bruise. We’ll need a lot of Pear’s Almond Bloom to cover it up for the ball tomorrow evening. Whatever did you do?”

  “I, uh, I was running back here so I wouldn’t be late and I bumped into a parked carriage, that’s all. It’s just a small bruise, Mother, and it will be mostly covered by my gloves.”

  Ginger gazed down at the lower half of her arm, which still ached from the bump she’d received from the black horse. But it was the memory of the horse’s owner that made her stomach flip over. She hadn’t been referring to the black horse when she blurted out her outrageous comment about how handsome he was. She still could not believe she had spoken those words out loud.

  “We have so much to do to get you ready for your big night, Ginger. I’ll have no more of your shenanigans,” Charlotte said in despair as she ran her hands lightly over her dark blonde hair. “What was Annie Schemerhorn thinking of when she came up with the idea of a fancy ball to introduce our daughters into society?”

  Ginger picked up her needlework and settled into a chair opposite her sisters. Embroidery was yet another accomplishment Ginger needed to perfect in accordance with society’s expectations of how well-bred ladies should spend their afternoons. From the looks of the wretched piece of cloth, her poor mother had an uphill battle on her hands if Ginger was ever to become an accomplished embroiderer. Ginger glanced at her mother in surprise and decided to take advantage of the moment to press home her objection to the ridiculous dance one last time.

  “I’d be happy to bow out of the Cotillion, Mother. It’s a stupid concept anyway. I know it’s been a tradition in Europe for years, but this is America and we don’t have any kings to whom we need an introduction! So, if it’s providing a hardship for us, I don’t see why we should bother.”

  Charlotte stared at her unruly daughter. “Sitting out the Cotillion is not an option. We both know the only way to ignore an invitation from Annie Schemerhorn is if you are in confinement while expecting a child or mourning the loss of a loved one. This is a huge event for New York society, and we will attend and claim our rightful place.”

  The twins, Jasmine and Heather, glanced up from their fine stitches.

  Jasmine asked, “How can you not be excited about the Cotillion?”

  Heather replied, “Just thinking about meeting my future husband at the ball makes me shiver all over.” She sighed dreamily.

  Ginger glanced at her sisters and smiled. “I somehow doubt either of you will be looking for husbands for too long when it’s your turn. You’re both lovely girls.”

  Ginger spent a moment comparing the twins’ beauty to her own appearance. Ginger’s light brown hair had these damnable reddish highlights, whereas the girls’ had such rich brunette coloring. Ginger’s eyes were an ordinary green, but the twins had beautiful dark brown eyes. And, curse of curses, Ginger had freckles. She was afraid the twins won hands down in the comparison.

  Jasmine glanced at her older sister again. “Did you say you were with Amelia Bloomer today? Isn’t she the one who wears trousers in public? And holds public rallies in the streets?”

  “They’re called bloomers. At least they are now, since Amelia Bloomer is such an advocate of them. They are a long undergarment divided into pants and cuffed at the ankle and are usually worn under a short skirt. The feeling of freeing your legs from the layers of petticoats and fabric is absolutely exhilarating.”

  Ginger chose to ignore Jasmine’s second question. The less said about public rallies, the better. She continued. “It’s all part of the suffragette movement. Some of us want more from life than to chain ourselves to a man and do nothing more than bear and raise his progeny. We want to be on an equal footing. That’s why my work at the bank is so important.”

  “You’ll change your mind when you meet the right man,” Jasmine replied, sure in her knowledge that a husband was the only goal worth achieving. “There must be no better feeling in the world than to know you will be cared for and made to feel safe from everything life throws at you.”

  “I won’t say it’s beyond the realm of possibility, but I don’t think just sitting back and having children while my husband produces the income is going to be enough for me. I’m good at making money, and I want nothing more right now than to further my position at the bank.”

  Charlotte glanced up from her fashion book. “For now, Ginger, I want no more talk of the bank or Amelia Bloomer. You are to nap, relax, and prepare yourself for the biggest night of your life. I’ll have no more of your wild ways. Tomorrow night will be monumental, and I want nothing to go wrong.”

  Chapter Three

  The new maid Charlotte Fitzpatrick had employed for the season made a few final adjustments to Ginger’s hair. Each big curl on the top of her head was anchored with a pearl pin and a trio of sausage curls draped softly over her left shoulder.

  “Colleen, I love it!” Ginger took the hand mirror and studied her new up-do
from a variety of angles. “Who would have ever thought my hair could behave like this? You truly have a gift.”

  Colleen beamed at the praise. “You have the most lovely hair to work with, my wee lass, so it’s easy to create a fetching hairstyle. It’s such a rich shade of brown, with these reddish highlights. I love how it gleams in the light of the candles.”

  “I do sometimes wish my hair was the same color as yours, though. You have the most striking, gorgeous flame-red locks. I just have a bit of red. It’s like my hair couldn’t make up its mind.”

  “’Tis the Irish in me, miss,” Colleen proclaimed proudly, flashing her lively blue eyes as she gave one final touch to Ginger’s hairdo. “But your hair coloring is beautiful. Now that we’re done with the hair, I’ll help you into your dress. Of all nights, you don’t want to be late tonight.”

  Jasmine and Heather came flouncing into her room to examine their sister’s hair.

  “Oh, Ginger, you look so grown up! Colleen, I want you to attend to me and Heather next year when it’s our season,” Jasmine said with a touch of envy as she ran her hand over her brunette curls.

  “Let’s see the dress Mother has been talking about for weeks,” Heather chimed in.

  Together, they held their breath until Colleen stripped away the final wrappings and, with a flourish, revealed the white-and-cream gown. Jasmine and Heather sighed.

  Ginger smiled at their enthusiasm. “Soon enough, it will be your turn. I’d give anything to trade places with you tonight.”

  They stared at her in dismay.