May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  Among the many annoying friends of her brothers there are only two, Marshall Varrick and Peter Septon, whom Marcella finds to be generally quite tolerable. Perhaps it is because they do not call her brothers Mickey and Barto as most of their other acquaintances do. Perhaps it is because they display at least some intelligence and a sense of humor. But more likely than anything, it is because they have already lost more than two hundred dollars each to Marcella in the card games she sometimes manages to talk her way into when Miguel and Bartolomé bring friends back to the house much the worse for brandy and looking to extend the evening’s amusements. She is equally accommodating to all of her brothers’ friends when it comes to cards, but Marshall Varrick and Peter Septon at least lose with dignity.

  Marcella and Pilar walk downstairs to the parlor, only to see that the two of them have already arrived, fully fifteen minutes before five o’clock—a mild social offense even for such familiar acquaintances. Both she and Pilar curtsey as the young men stand and bow, Marcella and Varrick and Septon smiling wryly through this still formal greeting, even though they have been in the house dozens of times by now. Both Varrick and Septon have, at different times, tried their hand at wooing Marcella. Septon lasted little more than an afternoon, but Varrick, being the more resilient of the two, endured for nearly an entire week, making him the most impressive of a thoroughly unimpressive array of would-be suitors.

  The proprieties taken care of, Marcella and Pilar settle into their customary seats and the conversation becomes less formal as the butler fills the gentlemen’s brandy glasses. Mama looks over at Papa with as much of a corrective glance as she can ever manage, hoping to at least slow him down so early in the evening, though it has no effect. And then it is the usual sort of banter, with some mention of business between the men, a trickle about the opera season, and then, somehow, a too-healthy dose of politics that finally piques Marcella’s interest, only to have the subject quickly changed by Mama just as Marcella is about to enter the fray.

  “So when do you gentlemen go to Europe?” Mama asks Varrick and Septon. “It is the custom for young gentlemen to take a summer in Europe, yes?”

  And Marcella can see the faint smile on her mother’s face at having taken away her fun before it even has begun. It is just as well, Marcella decides, since it affords her the opportunity to leave early for Mrs. Carlisle’s and the “recital” she will attend that evening.

  IN THOSE FIRST YEARS IN New York, she read every book and every newspaper she could get her hands on, and became the family’s resident grammarian to the point of annoyance. The servants became her closest friends and confidants, though that was very much a relative term. When they first arrived, there was just the cook, Mrs. Bridges, and Molly, the Irish maid, for Marcella to shadow. Molly did the shopping for the Arroyos in the early years, and Marcella tagged along with her whenever she could. They sometimes stopped to see Molly’s sister Patricia, who worked in a house on Twenty-Third Street, and on one of those early visits Marcella met the widow who owned the house, Mrs. Carlisle.

  Mrs. Carlisle was almost as old as Abuela, and of a similar disposition. She had been born in New York and was nearly thirty when she married a man from Savannah, spending seventeen years there until he died. Childless, she sold everything off and moved back home, carrying on the abolition work she had come to slowly in a decade-long conversion surrounded by slavery’s inescapable cruelty. To assist her in this crusade, she hired Miss Catherine Hardwicke, an ardent abolitionist who had been recommended to her by like-minded members of Mrs. Carlisle’s family from upstate New York. And the two of them, Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine, lived what seemed to Marcella an idyllic life of music and books and Friday afternoon teas with the newly created Ladies Abolition Society. Mrs. Carlisle was impressed with Marcella from the start, particularly with how proficient she had become in English within less than two years of arriving here. She told her she spoke with such an indistinguishable accent that people might easily mistake her for a native of New England or somewhere out west perhaps. As for Catherine, as she insisted on being called by Marcella, she seemed perfectly wonderful as well. Molly remarked that she was unlikely to ever marry, having reached the preposterous age of thirty-three, but that mattered little to Marcella, of course, who was instead fascinated with how Catherine had taught herself to play the pianoforte.

  It wasn’t long before Marcella had convinced Catherine to give her lessons. Fourteen by then, Marcella in turn convinced her father that the four dollars a week such lessons would cost were well worth it. Of course, Catherine gave Marcella the lessons for free, delighted as both she and Mrs. Carlisle were to have the company of such a bright young girl. But Marcella insisted that her father wanted to contribute three dollars a week to the Ladies Abolition Society fund, the same one that went toward purchasing freedom for several slaves every year. The extra dollar went toward Marcella’s personal liberation fund, an enterprise no one, not even Catherine, not even Molly, not even the journal entries written to Abuela, knew anything about.

  Through the intervening years Marcella grew closer to Catherine and Mrs. Carlisle, and it was generally accepted that her education be passed into their hands once her Mama had conceded to the inevitable. The contributions to the Ladies Abolition Society were then doubled as Papa insisted that he would pay the customary eight dollars a week that a personal tutor cost. And Marcella was then free to spend the better part of four days every week with Catherine and Mrs. Carlisle, though she managed to keep the two parts of her life remarkably separate from each other beyond the initial meeting and whatever Molly’s sister felt qualified as worthwhile gossip. Marcella went to Mrs. Carlisle’s house each day with Molly or the butler or even her Papa and brothers on their way to Wall Street. But by the time she was seventeen she was able to travel mostly by herself and always stayed for the Friday Teas of the Ladies Abolition Society. She had become an abolitionist mainly through the passion and influence of Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine, but as she grew older and understood more about the inner workings of the institution, despising how her father profited from it just as so many other men did, her devotion to the cause became fully her own, and no longer the residual effect of her friendships. Her visits to Mrs. Carlisle’s house soon grew to include Saturday mornings and even occasional Sunday afternoon “recitals” or “gallery expositions,” which were, as often as not, completely falsified. But above all, she was careful to keep the two worlds separate and was happy when Molly married a young man who took her out west, and any links between her own home on Sixty-Third Street, and her adoptive one forty blocks away, were diminished even further.

  Catherine is by the front door and is smiling more than usual when Marcella arrives that evening. One of the temporary servants takes Marcella’s coat, and Catherine leads her into the vast dining room, where the great table is being attended to by three more servants hired just for the day.

  “It’s beautiful,” Marcella says to Catherine as they look over the room. “I don’t understand though … why are there so many settings?”

  Catherine smiles again but discloses very little, toying with Marcella now the way Marcella had with Pilar.

  “Oh, are there more settings than you anticipated?” she asks with exaggerated innocence. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  And Marcella probes now for the meaning behind Catherine’s smile, a playful sort of banter not unlike that she had engaged in with Pilar that very morning, though rather than conjecture about imaginary suitors, they are instead counting off the guest list for that evening’s banquet. Marcella names the women of the Abolition Society, the fourteen of them who are regular attendees and the half dozen others who are less involved in the weekly meetings, including the women with spouses who are likely to accompany them. It brings the total to thirty-one, and then thirty-four when she includes herself and Catherine and Mrs. Carlisle, of course. But there are forty-one settings in all, and Catherine mentions a few additions and husbands who will be dragged along f
or the first time.

  “That makes thirty-nine,” Marcella says.

  “Oh yes. I suppose that does leave us with two extra places …” Catherine teases.

  Marcella says nothing, but smiles, waiting for Catherine to finish with her fun.

  “Perhaps they are for two special guests … people who have come from far away … perhaps from all the way up in Cooperstown …”

  And she smiles, as Marcella quickly comes to understand. She long ago heard of Mrs. Carlisle’s cousin from there, the woman who assisted on the Underground Railroad, carrying food and clothes to runaways throughout Pennsylvania and central New York and helping them make it all the way to Canada.

  “Mrs. Stimson is coming?” Marcella beams.

  “And Mr. Stimson as well,” Catherine answers. “Mrs. Carlisle has gone to the station to meet them. They are due any minute.”

  And she considers what a joy it will be to meet a woman who has such inspiring stories of the cause, a woman who has not only met the great Harriet Tubman on several occasions, but has even had her as an overnight guest in her home! Thankfully, Marcella can share a story of her own with her, and hopes there will be time to tell her about the money she delivered to Reverend Campbell in Savannah.

  Mrs. Stimson—Olivia, as she insists on being called—is in fact the second cousin of Mrs. Carlisle, and a few years younger than Catherine. And within minutes of meeting her, Marcella wants to hear all the stories she has to tell, finding it easier, now that she sees the small woman with determined features, to imagine her riding through the hills and woods, dashing in and out of harm’s way, to help the cause. Her stories are not quite so fantastical, but they are more than enough to captivate Marcella thoroughly, as the room slowly fills over the ensuing hour.

  Mrs. Carlisle has placed Marcella near the head of one table, with Mr. Stimson beside her and Mrs. Stimson directly across from them. It is Mr. Stimson’s turn to entertain those seated around him, as he tells of his days on the other side of the cause, when he was hired out by town constables to help track down runaways in the county. He describes how his heart was always filled with reluctance to do the work, but his belly told him it wanted to eat, so he went along. And then he came across Olivia riding in the woods not far from Otsego Lake carrying enough food and water for half a dozen people …

  “Well, that’s when everything changed—for me,” he says.

  And there is laughter all around them.

  “ ’Liv had me converted to the cause before the end of the afternoon, had me converted to the Quakers before the end of the month, and had me married before the end of the summer.”

  “Well, he wasn’t much at first,” she adds, “but he’s a fast learner.”

  And Marcella is silent amidst the laughter, trying to imagine such a moment ever occurring in her own home, trying to imagine her father or brothers ever being strong enough to become such a man. The evening ends far too early for Marcella, but she is on her way just before ten o’clock, while there is still vibrant conversation and more than half the guests still present in the front parlor. These are the limitations of her present state, she reminds herself when she steps inside the taxi carriage and waves goodnight to Catherine, who stands at the front door. The Stimsons will stay for a week at least, and there will be plenty of chances for Marcella to talk with them more; still, it is difficult for her to depart knowing what she will return to.

  Back home there is nothing like the atmosphere there had been at Mrs. Carlisle’s. Papa has already retired for the evening, thanks to the brandy, but Miguel, Bartolomé, Varrick, Septon, and two others she has not met all linger in the parlor.

  “Marcie,” Bartolomé whispers to her as she makes her way upstairs.

  Marcella stops and walks back a few steps.

  “We going to play cards … you wan’ …?”

  “I think he meant to say,” Varrick interjects, “that we were just about to start a little card game, Marcella dear …”

  How many brandies did it take for you to call me that? she thinks.

  “… and it would be entirely more memorable if you graced us with your presence.”

  Oh, you have had a few, Varrick … dear.

  Given the circumstances and the presence of two unsuspecting newcomers, Marcella could probably add at least a hundred dollars to her coffers. But there is more important business she feels compelled to get to, and quickly, unimaginatively declines.

  Pilar calls to her from behind the opened door of her room as Marcella passes.

  “How was the recital, Marcie?” she asks, sounding more like a little girl than she had just hours before, given where Marcella has spent the evening.

  “It was good, Pila,” she responds. It’s not her fault, she reminds herself. Be nice to her, poor thing. “How was the dinner?”

  Pilar shakes her head and then rolls her eyes the way Marcella had that afternoon before the onslaught, and Marcella can’t help but laugh.

  “Do you want to talk for a while?” Pilar asks.

  And she doesn’t have to think of an excuse, as their mother is soon in the hallway turning down the lamps.

  “In the morning, Pila,” Marcella says. “You can tell me all about it then.”

  A few minutes later, once she’s changed into her nightclothes and glanced into the hallway to make sure that Pilar and Mama have turned their lamps all the way down, she returns to the dressing table where the day began. Uncovering the key once again, she takes out the top notebook this time and folds back its already-filled pages. The ink bottle will have to be filled again, but there is enough to at least begin to tell Abuela about this magnificent evening.

  Abuela,

  Tonight was the greatest of all the dinner parties I have ever been to at Mrs. Carlisle’s. Her cousin, her second cousin, it turns out, was there with her husband and …

  MARY

  RICHMOND

  NOVEMBER 3, 1860

  Two well-dressed women arrived at the front door and opened it, allowing the noise from the street to invade the relative quiet of the shop. But the ladies did not step inside, hesitating for a moment as they noticed two other women behind them being led by a finely dressed livery slave. They stepped aside, curtseying slightly and allowing the far more prominent Mrs. Simms and her granddaughter Anna to enter the shop first. Mary and Mrs. Kittredge had been waiting for this moment and met the Simms ladies at the door.

  “Bonjour, madame,” Mary said, and curtseyed deeply before Mrs. Simms. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she added with similar enthusiasm and a curtsey only slightly less reverent directed toward Miss Anna.

  Mrs. Simms nodded politely in keeping with the propriety of the situation, but Anna’s response was almost as enthusiastic as Mary’s had been.

  “Bonjour, Mary,” she said in an accent that would have met with Miss Randall’s approval. “Il me fait plaisir de vous voir. C’est une très jolie robe.”

  “Oh, merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Anna,” Mary replied with equal proficiency. “Vous êtes tellement gentil de votre part dire donc, mais la vôtre est beaucoup plus jolie.”

  The two young ladies smiled broadly, the compliments on each other’s dresses taking on an aristocratic air when spoken in French. Mary curtseyed again, and Anna returned the gesture, bending her right leg behind her left and lowering herself two or three inches. The two ladies who had walked in behind the Simmses looked at each other with raised eyebrows, silently commenting on the sight of a society girl like Miss Anna Simms curtseying to a colored girl, free or not. But these women were new to the store, and such reactions were to be expected after all. Mary had been playing this game for several years by now, and her artistry with a needle and thread, her impeccable manners, and her often upper-class diction made it nearly impossible for patrons to see her in the same light as a common slave. And any of the women who frequented the shop naturally treated her in the manner her elegance seemed to demand.

  “Mary,” Mrs. Simms said after barely acknowl
edging Mrs. Kittredge’s presence, “I would like to talk a little about Miss Anna’s wedding dress. It’s only a few months away, you know, and I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  “Certainly, ma’am, Miss Anna, I am right pleased and honored that you would trust me in this most important matter,” Mary responded with another curtsey.

  Then she took Anna’s hand and led her to the counter with almost as much familiarity as if it were Miss Justinia beside her. Anna beamed in anticipation, and Mrs. Simms followed them, all propriety temporarily lost in the rush of excitement. The two other ladies were left to Lilly the seamstress, with Mrs. Kittredge watching both interactions but mostly Mary and the Simmses.

  Miss Anna Simms was the daughter of Mr. Horatio Simms and his wife, Annabelle Curtiss, both of whom could trace their family trees back two hundred years or so to the first aristocratic settlers in the Virginia colony. When his wife died soon after Anna’s birth, Mr. Simms had entrusted his mother with the care and upbringing of his daughter while he went about his business in the House of Delegates. And Anna had been raised to be as prim and proper as her grandmother was, though it only took most of the way.

  “Well anything Miss Anna wears she makes just pretty as can be, but maybe we can come up with some ideas that’ll make all the ladies positively falling over with envy,” Mary said, sounding now like a perfect Southern Belle.

  “Merci, Mary,” Miss Anna replied in the tone of one who was accustomed to such compliments but never seemed to grow tired of them. “Je suis sûr que votre robe sera la plus belle dans Richmond. J’ai dit à ma grand-mere que je n’aurai aucun autre couturière. Il doit être vous, ou je me marierai portant seulement mes jupons!”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle Anna, vous êtes trop choquants! Mais je vous remercie si beaucoup!”