by Joy Callaway
The last note echoed in the room and a hush fell over us.
“Thank you,” Lily whispered, her eyes glistening. She inhaled and then let out a breath. The flame flickered once and then died, leaving the four of us with our hands gripped together, watching the thin trail of smoke dissolve with the words we’d said.
8
I heard the distant hum of a pitch pipe from where I sat by the fire in the dormitory’s gathering room and glanced up from a diagram of the organ systems in my physiology textbook. The old cherry grandfather clock next to the fire began to toll seven, and I hoped it was running fast. As grateful as I was to have the opportunity to speak with President Wilson in a few short hours, I was still not looking forward to being on the arm of Mr. Richardson. I hadn’t seen him since he’d asked me to be his date to the ball two weeks ago, and I had a feeling our interaction would be uncomfortable at best.
Lily absentmindedly tucked a stray tendril back into the mass of hair gathered in a loose bun at the top of her head as though she hadn’t heard the pitch pipe. Perhaps I hadn’t either, though the sudden squealing coming from the eight divinity girls gathered across from us told me otherwise. The loudest girl, who had a beautiful face and a ready smile, was Luetta Grace. I’d never spoken to her, but I’d heard her name so often in passing that I’d eventually figured out who she was. I eyed the group, confused at their willingness to involve themselves with fraternity men. Whitsitt had examined Iota Gamma and found them satisfactory to the Christian lifestyle, I reminded myself, but even so it seemed peculiar when the college and the church seemed to abhor fraternities as a whole. Then again, at least one of the Iota Gamma brothers was studying divinity. I vaguely recalled him offering the dinner prayer in place of Chaplain Blair one time last semester.
The breathy whistle came again and I pressed my elbow into Lily’s ivory kid leather gloves. I knew what was coming next, and the prospect of being serenaded by a man I didn’t even like made me wish I could disappear. Lily, who had clearly thought my nudging an accident, kept her eyes on the fire in the floral tile-lined hearth as she smoothed her gold silk dress across her stomach. As Mary and I had predicted, she’d resumed her menses last week, and every time she’d tried on the dress—an old costume of Katherine’s she’d had sent from Kentucky for Lily—I noticed her running her hand along her torso. She was overjoyed that she would remain free for a while longer, a schoolgirl without the complication of motherhood and the reminder of the despicable Professor Helms.
Lily shook the skirt, which she’d carefully embellished with mousseline de soie ruching, over her crossed legs. Footsteps echoed from the hall to our left and I took a deep inhale of the cedar smoke.
“Lily,” I whispered. “They’re coming.”
“I’m so excited,” she said. “I’ve never been to a ball besides the all-women cotillion that the orphanage held. I know the steps to most of the dances, but I’ve never had a proper partner before. What if I—”
Her words were suddenly eclipsed by the baritone of four male voices.
“Iota Gamma Sweetheart, you are the silver rose that grows in winter.”
Will wasn’t singing, I could tell, because the song was beautiful, without a trace of his monotone. I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the smooth, deep harmonies, trying to pretend that I was enjoying a simple choral performance.
The floorboards creaked beneath the Iotas’ procession as they made their way down the hall. I tried to ignore the nervous fluttering in the pit of my stomach and forced my body to relax, slouching against the old leather couch. I’d been to plenty of balls, but none with an escort. Will and I had attended a few together, but his sister had always been with us and it had hardly been a romantic pairing anyway. Perhaps I’d never been asked because men thought me dull or plain. The constriction of the dress I’d asked Vera to send from home protested my slumping, black silk bodice bunching the glass straws and pearls embroidered in a leaf motif. I forced the insecure thoughts from my mind, wondering why I’d decided to think them in the first place, and straightened my posture. It didn’t matter what Mr. Richardson thought of me. He would never be my beau.
I opened my eyes and looked up at the bare wooden beams along the ceiling forty feet above me. The room was the original structure, part of a former lecture hall they’d converted to a dormitory thirty-two years ago, when the number of female students studying at Whitsitt outnumbered the Green Oaks Unitarian families willing to house them.
“The loveliest blossom in a world that’s cold and dim.” The song went on, voices growing louder as they neared. A blotch of black appeared in my peripheral vision and I turned toward the frosted windows. I didn’t want to watch the men enter the room and be forced into the uncomfortable predicament of how long I should gaze upon Mr. Richardson before he stood in front of me. I let my eyes rest on Lily instead, and was shocked at what I saw. Her face was flushed, lips turned up in a grin. Nearly turning to follow her stare, I stopped myself. I didn’t have to. She was looking at Will. I’d seen him have that effect on a young woman many times, but never on her.
When she’d received his letter, she’d been as perplexed as I thought she’d be at the prospect of attending a ball on the arm of Will Buchannan—they were only acquaintances, after all. She told me as much, worrying that she feared she wouldn’t be up to conversing if she found she was with child. The only thing that had made her change her mind was the reminder that she’d be there with me when I spoke with President Wilson. The thought that she was actually looking forward to it now hadn’t crossed my mind.
Mr. Richardson’s stare burned my face, and I looked away from Will and Lily to meet his gaze. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with silk lapels and a silver bow tie like the rest, but somehow he was more striking than all of them. I wished he’d break eye contact, but instead he smoothed his dark curls, smiled, and knelt in front of me. I heard a snicker and looked up to see Will laughing. In contrast to Mr. Richardson’s elegance, Will hadn’t bothered to shave and looked as though he’d pulled his tuxedo from a heap of soiled laundry.
“Miss Carrington.” My eyes snapped back to Mr. Richardson in front of me as he slowly reached for my hand.
“Miss Carrington,” he started again, “may I have the honor of—” Unable to meet his stare for a moment longer, I stood up, interrupting the formality. I’d already accepted; of course I was going.
“Yes,” I said abruptly. “Now, let’s get on with it.” I started toward the foyer, not bothering to turn around to make sure he was behind me. Will hooted. I’d lived up to the warning he’d doubtless issued Mr. Richardson.
“Am I that intolerable?” Mr. Richardson’s voice came from behind me. A few girls coming in from dinner stopped at the base of the stairs to stare. Unable to tell if he was embarrassed or angry, I shook my head, but didn’t turn to face him. I stepped into the cloak closet to retrieve my mother’s old fox fur, but he circled my wrist and pulled me back. “Really, Miss Carrington. Am I?”
I studied his face for a moment. His eyes glistened as though what I’d done had amused him.
“I’d prefer you call me Beth, and no,” I said, though I was a horrible liar. “I mean, I suppose not.”
Mr. Richardson plucked the coat from my grasp and stepped behind me, fitting it over my shoulders.
“Oh. So you’re not sure,” he said softly. “Well then. Why ever did you agree to accompany me?” Mr. Richardson laughed as he pulled his jacket down over his broad shoulders and strode past me toward the door, where he fitted his top hat on his head, and flicked his wrist at Miss Zephaniah, who stood at the entryway. “Miss Zephaniah,” he acknowledged without respect or formality.
“Mr. Richardson.”
“Ten o’clock,” he said. “And no inappropriate conversation or contact while in the coaches unsupervised or we will be strictly reprimanded. Yes, I know.”
Miss Zephaniah nodded and then slunk back against the wall. As irritating as I often found her, I doubted she me
rited Mr. Richardson’s contempt.
“I’ll see you then,” I said to her. Her eyes were narrowed to a hawk’s glare in the shadows. “She didn’t deserve that,” I whispered to him as he opened the door and a frigid gust of wind whipped over us, catching the large ostrich feather in my cap, nearly sending it flying from my head.
“Yes, she did. She had a sister of my best friend from home expelled two years back for trespassing in her room,” he said as he reached over and situated my hat. “For the record, she wasn’t. She was on her way to ask Zephaniah a question, found her door open, and stepped in to see if she was available to talk. In any case.”
“You didn’t try to stop her expulsion? Surely you could have.” Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to, I thought. Perhaps she’d been a former sweetheart and he didn’t truly mind her absence.
“I didn’t know about it. Neither did she, before she was called to the president’s office and swiftly escorted back to Milwaukee. By that time, the paperwork had already been submitted and there was no undoing it.” He flexed his open hand and I took it, glancing out at the lawn. It looked just like a Currier and Ives print. Five covered sleighs lined the drive and bells jingled on the horses’ reins as they pranced beneath the lantern-light in the snow, waiting to take us to the abandoned colonial gathering hall—a venue between Whitsitt and Green Oaks that the college used for nearly all of its formal functions. Stunned by the sight, I barely registered that Mr. Richardson was leading me forward.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, before I had a chance to stop myself. I didn’t want him to think that I was enjoying myself at all. I cleared my throat, remembering his question I’d left unanswered. “Because you promised me a favor.”
Mr. Richardson’s breath billowed out in a cloud in front of us, and he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.
“What?”
“You asked why I agreed to accompany you. It’s because you’re doing me a favor. You know I need to speak with President Wilson.”
The driver climbed down from his perch at the front of the sleigh and let us into the coach. I reveled in the warmth of the cab, stealing a glance at Mr. Richardson as I did. He looked at me as though I’d recited a joke. I didn’t understand his merriment. I hadn’t been the least bit pleasant; in fact, I’d been altogether rude.
“The better question is, why? You won’t help me yourself, so why would you do me a favor?” I asked as he climbed in. Leaning out of the open door for a moment, he dusted the flakes from the top of his black hat before taking the tufted leather seat across from me.
“Perhaps it’s because I find you captivating, Beth Carrington,” he said with a raised eyebrow, then looked down to adjust his bow tie, which was already perfectly arranged.
I laughed.
“No you don’t. You don’t know me.”
“I know you well enough,” he said. “You’re honest. To a man like me, that’s more enchanting than the loveliest face . . . not that yours isn’t lovely, too, of course.”
“Honesty isn’t exactly a rare quality. I can’t help expressing my thoughts around you anyway,” I said. “You’re infuriating, Mr. Richardson.”
He chuckled.
“Thank you, but please call me Grant. And, actually it is. Quite a rare quality, I mean. At least for me.” The sleigh began to move and the bells jingled steadily with the horse’s swift trot. He lifted his index finger to the window beside him and began to draw on the frozen pane. “You know who I am.”
I didn’t conceal my annoyance.
“Because everyone should?”
Grant drew his finger upward, rounding out what looked like a pillar with a large base and quickly added a cross on top.
“No,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “Because it seems that everyone I’ve met on this campus already does.”
“It seems that in your case, it’s an advantage, not a problem. But perhaps I’m mistaken.” I looked down at the white chiffon lining my bodice. His sudden melancholy confused me. It was unnerving and completely contradictory to the overconfidence I was used to from him.
“It’s not,” he said. “Not an advantage, I mean.” He paused as though he wanted me to ask him to elaborate, but I didn’t.
I couldn’t understand why he’d sought me out, why he wanted my company in the first place, but the thought that he found me enchanting was obviously not the reason. “Do you know what that is, Beth?” He gestured to the window pane.
“No,” I said.
“It’s a chess piece, the king. That’s what I am.”
“Of course you think of yourself that way—the most desirable, valuable player on the board. It’s quite humorous that I thought you were actually attempting a conversation involving the slightest bit of humility. You’re nothing but a—”
“Please stop.” His hand found my knee and before I could move it he leaned forward. We were so close I could smell the coconut and palm oil in his hair. “That’s . . . that’s not what I meant. You’re right. It’s the most desirable piece on the board, but why? Not because it’s intelligent, witty, or honorable, but because it has power, and the players will stop at nothing to capture it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Grant sighed. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to fill your evening with my problems, but you wanted to know why I asked and, in a way, this is it.” He prodded the drawing with his finger. “For three and a half years, I’ve been the recipient of flattery and bribery from everyone I’ve met. At times it’s cloaked in friendship, at times respect, but never honesty.”
Suddenly, the carriage was uncomfortably quiet save the dull skidding of the blades and the distant jingle of bells.
“I needed something from you too. I still do.” I suddenly felt strangely ashamed that I’d taken advantage of him, even though I knew that given the opportunity I’d do it again.
“I know,” Grant said. “But you asked me straight away and when I chose not to give it to you, you didn’t succumb to groveling or worse, enticement . . . Though you did nearly cause me to piss myself when you snuck in that night.”
I looked away, the image of Grant in his nightshirt materializing in my mind. And when that faded, the memory of his haughty response punctured the warmth that had overcome me.
“I didn’t know how else I could get you alone,” I said evenly, unwilling to pretend that I remembered our introduction fondly. I stared out of the window, though I couldn’t see anything through the frost beyond the intermittent glow of street lamps. The drive seemed to take much longer than it should have. A train whistle blew in the distance, signaling the eastbound train that would make its way to Chicago in a matter of six hours.
“I knew then that you were different,” Grant said.
“You made me feel like a fool that night.”
“I apologize for that. You have to understand though, Beth. I’m trying to explain. When everyone wants something from you, you come to expect it, and sometimes you simply wish it would stop. I didn’t intend to offend you. I was being honest when I told you that I didn’t agree with your cause and therefore wouldn’t help you myself, but would assist you in finding a way to speak with the president alone. Regardless of my beliefs, I think that everyone should have the opportunity to voice their ideas and—”
“I don’t understand. You say you disagree because of your uncle’s stance on suffrage, and to an extent, I follow your mentality, but what’s your position? Is it that you believe women aren’t intelligent enough to need an outlet like a fraternity? Or perhaps you don’t think that we should be educated at all?” I realized my voice was rising, and stopped there. As angry as he was making me, I knew that my rage was in part because his calm disapproval reminded me very much of my father’s—though even he’d been influenced into allowing my education.
“On the contrary,” Grant sighed, running his thumb along the scrolled copper lining the carriage door. “Everyone knows about my father, our company, and my uncle. Somehow, my mother’s i
nfluence seems to have slipped by without a thought. My mother is of Spanish nobility, second cousin to King Alfonso. When she married my father, it was fairly well known that she was a fortune hunter. Her family had a title, but no money left, so . . .” Grant trailed off and for a moment the cords of his neck tensed. “Nevertheless, after some time, I believe she truly did fall in love with my father, but that was after he gave her the reins to his company.”
“He did?” Grant’s father was widely regarded as one of the most successful business tycoons of his time. An innovator in coal harvesting, he’d bought up nearly all of the coalfields in Virginia—and now West Virginia—and worked with the Carnegies and Fricks to power the country from his lush mansion on New York City’s famous Fifth Avenue.
“A little known fact. My father doesn’t like to admit that he’s been emasculated by both love and my mother’s intelligence. No one knows that he’s not the one in control. My mother is a genius.” He smiled, though his eyes were void of any of the light I’d seen earlier. “And I don’t really know her. You see, my father handed her the power six months after the birth of my sister, Clara. I was two at the time and mostly raised by our au pair, as we all are, but my mother supposedly made regular visits throughout the day, as did my father. When he gave her the company, she left. She’s lived in Richmond since. She’s come home thirteen times in my life. My father, as you can imagine, is lonely and regularly takes mistresses.” He said the last bit matter-of-factly, as though nothing of this confession was strange in the slightest. “Since then . . . well, I’ll never succumb to cowardice like my father, and I’ll never agree that women keen to have a family should pursue a career.”
