The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  “There was no kindness involved.” Wils smiled as he helped her with her books. “I tried to tell you yesterday that I thought you had the wrong impression about me from our first meeting. Blunt words for a person’s work do not mean blunt words for a person. My cousin said that you were, well, not my equal at present, but quite intelligent.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Not your equal?”

  He took a quick breath. “I’ve been harassed by professors for three years now in order to turn what talent I do have into good poetry. After you’ve faced the unrelenting criticism as much as I have, then I’ll talk to you about being my equal.”

  She gave a laugh completely uncalled for in the situation and perhaps terribly improper under the circumstances. “Such bravado,” she said, trying to stifle her smile as Morris Rabin appeared, the pungent scent of lye still on him. “I admire it.”

  “You do?” said Wils with a smile. “I have more.”

  “Did you ask her?” Morris said.

  “About what?” asked Wils, wishing Morris would leave immediately.

  Morris frowned at him. “Jackson left our study group and we’ve come to ask you to join us. We can meet in the Harvard Union at lunch to review assignments.”

  “Study with you two?”

  “Yes,” said Wils, a bit too quickly for his taste.

  She hesitated. “I’m afraid our views may be too divergent—”

  Morris interrupted. “Nonsense, Helen. Wils and I never agree on anything. If we were only friends with those with whom we agreed, we’d have no friends. We’ll see you Monday, then.” And with that he nodded and left the room for work. The two were now alone.

  “That,” said Wils, “is Morris.” He turned and looked at Helen. “Tomorrow?” he asked, holding the door for her.

  “Mr. Brandl?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know I’m to go to a festival in Concord this weekend with your cousin Riley Spencer.”

  His face fell, and his smile disappeared. Of course, she probably wanted information on Riley. “Yes, I know,” he said after a pause. “I’m to drive.”

  “Really?”

  “Is there something you need to know about Riley?” he asked in a bored voice.

  “Wils, I don’t know how to put this.” Here it comes, he thought. “But do you know if there is another woman? Is he indeed engaged?”

  He bit his lip and turned to examine the door casing. “I’m sorry, Miss Brooks, I try not to get entangled in my cousin’s affairs.”

  She felt her own blush. “I didn’t mean to impose. I just thought you would know if it’s true.”

  He looked back at her, annoyed with himself. He should have listened to Morris and Jackson. It had begun—the questioning, the prying, the “but doesn’t he love me?” protestations.

  “Would you like me to tell Riley you asked of him?”

  “No thank you,” she said, aware that the easiness of their exchange before was gone and they were again strangers. “I will be my own messenger.”

  They walked a few steps in silence down the hall to the point where they would part, she returning to Radcliffe, he to Beck Hall.

  “Miss Brooks, Morris and I would be honored if you’d come to our group. You’re a woman of talent who can hold her own and is not afraid to speak her mind. But Riley isn’t part of that group.”

  She nodded. “I’ll meet you and Mr. Rabin at the Harvard Union on Monday.”

  He gave her a half smile. “You know, this is a good thing, or at least it can be.” He walked down the hall toward Beck and out, the glass doors swinging behind him. She watched him as he made his way down the crowded path.

  Chapter Nine

  The Harvest Festival

  Concord, Massachusetts

  Saturday, September 5, 1914

  Since 1714 the centerpiece event of the Middlesex County Harvest Festival had been the reenactment of the marriage of two prominent Pilgrims, John Alden and Priscilla Mullins. The townspeople dressed in costume and met around an arbor covered in wild roses to celebrate the happy time. An artist “of the first class” was hired each year to paint the scene, and the painting was donated to the young woman who played Priscilla.

  The roles rotated between townships, except for the coveted role of Priscilla. The festival’s charter required that the committee “scour the county for a maid of seventeen years who was the fairest in mind and heart and soul and face, whose price would be set beyond rubies.” It was a requirement that every young maid in each Middlesex township knew by heart, no matter how rich or poor, infirm or hale, bluestocking or unlearned.

  All the young girls had at one point dreamed of holding hands under the golden September sun with John Alden—including Helen. This was to be her year. She had been told as much in January. But that was before her mother’s fall from grace.

  When the actual day of the Harvest Festival arrived, Helen had more than a suspicion she was to be snubbed, and how badly, as Ann explained that morning, was no longer in doubt. Her community work, writing honors, and careful conduct had all been wiped away, Ann said, when Mrs. Brooks decided to start mailing the illustrated Family Limitation. Caroline was to be named Priscilla that year. Helen would stand in as a Wampanoag native.

  “What? Not even a Pilgrim?” protested Helen.

  “I’m as bewildered as you,” said Ann, red-faced in sympathy at her friend’s humiliation.

  “But what community service has Caroline done to be a Priscilla?”

  “She’s marrying Frank Adams, which apparently is an extraordinary community service for both families.”

  Helen burst into tears at the double insult.

  “I told them it should be you,” said Ann softly as she reached for her best friend to embrace her. “I’m so sorry, Helen. If it were me I’d have made you Priscilla.”

  “And if I were them I would have picked me too,” said Helen in a muffled voice on Ann’s shoulder. Ann’s blouse smelled like fresh lilies.

  As the clock chimed from the mantel, Helen rose and wiped her eyes on the back of her gloves.

  “Helen, I’ve got to leave and meet Mother. Are you coming out with Riley?”

  “Yes, my possibly engaged escort.”

  “You’re not going to ask him about it, are you?”

  “No. You’ve convinced me not to. So instead, we will race cars to further embarrass ourselves.”

  “You’ll win that race,” said Ann, smoothing her friend’s hair. “Caroline has no idea what she’s up against. You’ll be proud at the end of the day, I promise. Now, I have to leave. Will you be all right?”

  Helen sniffed as Ann picked up her purse, walked out, and closed the door. There was no more time for tears. Riley would be here in a moment and she didn’t want to greet him with a swollen nose and red-rimmed eyes.

  As she finished dressing, she admonished herself with words of Thoreau: “However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.” She tucked her light wool butternut sweater neatly into her slender skirt and pushed a loose tendril under her tawny straw hat. Satisfied, she picked up the bag of red, white, and blue ribbons her mother had asked her to bring to the festival and went downstairs to the foyer.

  “Miss Brooks! A letter!” called Miss Sullivan from her corner. Helen cringed as the woman’s voice rang out through the room. Everyone looked up at her as she went to retrieve the note.

  “From Mr. Archer.” Helen opened the envelope and found a typed page.

  Dear Miss Brooks,

  I am forming the Harvard and Radcliffe chapters of the Patriots’ League. The League was started by my father, City Councilman Charles Archer, when I was unfairly jailed (and quickly released) for bringing to light the activities of a German spy. My father is running for the U.S. Congress and knows how to stop the flow of damaging information
across the Atlantic, to prevent vice in our city, and to help our country!

  The first rally in Harvard Yard was a success, and we have plans for five more. But we need your help.

  I understand your mother and my father are currently at odds. I believe they might be persuaded to work out their differences should you help protect the City of Boston from the German spy you so recently defended in Harvard’s halls. News of this has scandalized many good folk, and I know that you must have been misled to have done such in the first place. I am offering you a chance to demonstrate your patriotism.

  As you know, dark forces are at work. We have reason to believe that some of the very people who enjoy the freedoms of our country are using those freedoms to wound the children of France, Belgium, Russia, and Britain. These people live among us, even here at Harvard. The newspapers stated this week that the foreign worker population of Boston stands at nearly twice the population of native-born men. We are outnumbered, and where we do know of perfidy we must act.

  We ask you as a patriot and as a fellow sufferer in the war against the kaiser to join us in our cause.

  Sincerely,

  Arnold Archer

  A chill ran through her as she read the note. How self-serving. She balled up the paper, threw it in the trash, and walked outside to greet the day.

  * * *

  Another letter had arrived that morning across Harvard Yard, but it was written in German.

  Riley had noticed a general upswing in Wils’s mood that week, and took advantage of it to persuade Wils to drive him to the Harvest Festival. He needed to concentrate on Helen exclusively and not on driving, and he’d run out of money for the month so he couldn’t hire a taxi.

  As they were leaving the wood-paneled foyer of Beck Hall, Mr. Burton gave a slight cough.

  “Need something, Burton?” asked Riley.

  The plump headmaster looked up over a thick book. “Are you both gone for the day?”

  “That’s our business,” said Riley.

  “Wils, does your mother know you’re out for the entire day?”

  “I’ll return her telegrams on Monday.”

  “I’ll notify her.”

  “You will not!”

  “I will indeed,” said Burton gruffly. “You’re not the only one she’s cabling. She told me that if the steamship traffic opens and you’re not on the boat, she would hold me responsible.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, Burton. She’s worried.”

  “No problem,” he said with a phlegmatic cough. “We all have mothers. But yours is formidable. Where there’s her will, there’s her way.”

  “Then you know what we face,” called Riley as he opened the door to leave.

  “Oh, and Wils—” Burton flipped through a sheaf of papers. “A letter came this morning by courier. It had German writing on it. Do you wish me to hold it?”

  Burton reached for a thin envelope from a pile of mail and held it out to Wils.

  Wils backed up to the desk and looked at it. The seal was old-fashioned—the von Steiger family’s crest. He frowned and mumbled a quick thanks, stuffing it in his jacket pocket. This was the last thing he wished to deal with today—some official notice of duties from the von Steiger family.

  “What’s that?” asked Riley.

  “Nothing,” said Wils, hoping to ignore it. Today he’d spend in the company of Helen Brooks. Not with the dead.

  * * *

  Riley, his navy jacket limp, tie bright blue, and his khaki pants borrowed, held open the door of Wils’s touring car for Helen as Miss Sullivan stood on the porch of Longworth Hall and gave a snort. Riley swallowed a self-satisfied grin as Helen tucked her long skirts inside. He stepped in, closed the door behind them, and let Wils drive them out onto Garden Street.

  “Fine day for a festival,” offered Riley, noting the bag of ribbons between him and Helen on the seat.

  Helen frowned and looked out the window. Wils gave a quick look back at her from where he sat in the front seat.

  “Helen, is something wrong?”

  She pursed her lips and waited a moment. “Yes. Yes, it is. I received some bad news right before I came.”

  “What is it?” asked Riley.

  “It will sound silly.”

  “Nonsense,” both men said in unison.

  “It really is,” she said. “I was passed over for an honor at today’s fair.”

  “An outrage!” said Riley.

  Helen looked at him, bewildered. “How can you think it an outrage if you don’t know why it happened? Obviously some people think it’s quite justified.”

  “But, Helen, if you thought you deserved it then you probably did. That’s all I meant.”

  “What are the facts?” asked Wils.

  Helen leaned forward to speak over the engine’s noise. “My mother’s political activism led to my being shunned today. I was to be asked to play a leading role in the reenactment of the first pilgrim courtship. It’s about Priscilla Mullins, a famous Mayflower maiden whom both Miles Standish and John Alden wished to marry. John Alden won her, and at each year’s festival there’s a painting made of the marriage where we all dress in costume. Instead of my playing Priscilla, the part was given to a woman in town named Caroline Peabody. I’ve been demoted to playing one of the minor characters.”

  “Which one?” asked Riley, moving closer. Helen had fire and he liked that, even when it was directed at him. Edith was so very bland.

  “A Wampanoag native.”

  “A native?” Wils laughed.

  “That’s a fine role,” protested Riley. “Those natives were important to the survival of the Pilgrims. They are the heroes, in my book.”

  “You think so?” asked Helen.

  “Oh yes,” said Riley, putting his arm against the back of the seat. Suddenly the car swerved and Riley was thrown back to his side.

  “Sorry,” said Wils smirking. “An errant squirrel.” Riley shot him a deprecatory scowl.

  “Are you sure the change is due to your mother’s activism?” asked Wils.

  “My mother has ruined my life.”

  “With the pamphlets she’s mailing out?” asked Wils.

  “You know about them?”

  “I’ve been trying to get on her mailing list,” said Wils. “I hear they’re illustrated.”

  She couldn’t help but burst into a laugh. “This is serious!”

  “I apologize for my cousin,” injected Riley seriously. Helen ignored him.

  “If it helps, Helen,” continued Wils, “I know what it’s like to have an embarrassing relative. The kaiser invades Belgium and all my plans of a quiet life evaporate.”

  “But it’s not like that at all, Wils.”

  “You just said your mother ruined your life.”

  “My life is not ruined like yours. Boston’s mad at our family. Not all of Europe.”

  She saw Wils bristle. “Helen, my point is that they’re still family. They’re wrong but they’re still ours. And you shouldn’t go around saying that your mother ruined your life. It’s not becoming.”

  “Helen doesn’t need a lecture from a total stranger,” said Riley.

  “Wils is not a total stranger,” she said.

  “Since when? You hardly know this man.”

  “We’re in class together.”

  “So Helen,” said Wils, “what will you do about this demotion?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” interrupted Riley. “You’re going to win the race with me, a future war hero. Then they’ll know who’s the better—”

  “You could run Caroline Peabody off the road in the race,” offered Wils with a sly smile.

  Helen laughed. Is that justice? she wondered, sitting back and looking out the window again. The smell of th
e city began to recede and the cool air of the country sharpened. The avenues were once again lined with tall trees and stone fences, hemming in the rolling hills and farmland—away from factories and science and into a world where the weather still mattered.

  * * *

  When they alighted from the car, the Harvest Festival was in full swing. The sky was a bright blue with white billowing clouds lazily drifting in the crisp September air. Packs of young boys in white shirts, black breeches, and tricornered hats ran laughing through the tents, their toy guns popping at each other. A clique of young girls congregated at the corner of the tent, talking animatedly to each other, occasionally looking around to see what, if any, boys might be looking their way. The smallest children stood by a fruit press, wincing as they drank cranberry juice on dares.

  Tables were laden with food for sale. Irishmen called out, hawking bowls of clam chowder, blueberry pies, and apple tarts. Steam rose from plates of corn on the cob, half a dozen ears for two cents. An Italian man stood behind a table with a fresh bowl of whipped cream chilled on ice beside bowls of raspberries and blueberries, one scoop for a penny. The Trinitarian Congregationalists sold bread puddings, lemon cakes, and maple syrup from their tables, while the Unitarian Universalists, who churched across the town common, sold pickled herrings, bottled oyster sauce, and poached salmon on plates with slices of lemon and dill. Jars of lavender honey and tins of apple butter were spread out on tables decorated with gourds, squash, and dried Indian corn, tied together at their tops with twine.

  The people in the costumes changed, but the festival would not. Helen’s father had said that it served the memory for Middlesex County, recalling the gratitude of another year of survival: against disease and cold in the early days, the brutality of the Indian Wars, and the valiant shots of rebellion fired by humble farmers. He also thought it served as an excellent berth from which his generation could make a pompous ass of itself.

  * * *

  Four bright red Bugatti race cars sat at the entrance to the festival, bathed in the early autumn sunlight. Each car looked like a glossy red bullet placed on its side. Shiny silver pipes protruded from the engine. The two black leather seats at the far end were framed by large wheels that looked as if they could have been stolen from any passing bicycle. Beside the race cars stood Colonel Darlington’s Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost and a sign that read: