Gabriel moved toward the table, brushing off dust and random pieces of paper to make room for the mugs and teapot. “Sugar, miss?” he asked, holding up the cracked sugar bowl. I shook my head, wishing for milk. He scooped out two heaping mounds of sugar, dumping them in his mug before adding the scalding tea first to my mug and then his. I eagerly reached for my mug, warming my hands. I sighed again in contentment.
“You might find this chair more to your liking, Miss Clarissa,” he said, appearing embarrassed. I turned in the too-tall chair, noticing a small new delicate-looking rocking chair off to one side. I hopped down from the tall chair, thankful I refrained from spilling my tea, and moved toward the rocking chair. I sat, concerned it would give way as I did. I leaned into the chair, relaxing as the back of the chair seemed to have been made for someone of my proportions.
“Do you like it?”
I smiled as I relaxed in absolute comfort into the chair, gripping the arm of the chair with one hand. “It’s very comfortable for someone my size.”
“Exactly,” he murmured, turning away.
I watched as he picked up his mug, moving toward the workbench. He began to work in silence, and I wondered if he liked to talk while he worked. I rocked gently, lulled into a sense of well-being. After a few minutes of silence, I set my mug on the floor and reached for my purse, pulling out the book.
I cleared my throat and began to read, quickly becoming lost in the new story. I had to check myself a few times from laughing too loudly. I found myself enjoying the book and the travails of the main character as he awoke to find himself in a new time period. After losing myself in the story for nearly an hour, I realized the time. I needed to leave.
Gabriel glanced toward me as I rose, placing the book aside. I set my mug on the table, unsure if I should offer to help wash up.
“You’ve a very pleasant reading voice, miss,” he said.
“My family thinks so,” I agreed. “I remember you said your mother read to you.”
“My mum would read to us every night,” Gabriel said, a distant look in his eye as he gazed toward me.
“What were your parents like?” I asked.
He considered his answer, appearing to weigh his response. “Truthfully?” he asked with quirked eyebrow.
I nodded, waiting.
“My da was a poor laborer, uneducated, worked to bring up his younger brother, Aidan. They were orphans, too, you see?” he said. “Uncle Aidan remained in school, though only for the requisite time period, until age fourteen. He learned his letters well, though. Loved to talk over books with Mum. Uncle Aidan always said there were plenty of hours to fill while out to sea.
“Da worked hard, working on the project to fill in the Back Bay,” he said. “Where your cousin will live.” He nodded toward me, as though I were unsure where the Back Bay was. “He took tremendous pride in his work. Believed that no matter what a man did, he should do it well. Work hard. Earn his wage.”
“And your mother?” I asked.
“My mum, she was from another world. She came from a middle-class family, a learned woman. She was a free spirit. Believed each person makes their own way. Loved transcendental poetry and their beliefs,” he recalled, the distant expression overcoming him again. He glanced toward me wistfully, shaking his head as though to clear the memories.
“How did they meet?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted regretfully. “I never thought to ask while they lived. Now it’s too late.”
“No one ever told you?” I asked.
“Aunt Masterson loathed my da. Never wanted to speak of him. Thought he and his offspring were beneath her. Beneath notice,” he said, anger lacing his voice. He had picked up a piece of wood and a chisel but refrained from working.
He watched me, as I thought about what he had related. “Have I answered all your questions, miss?”
I nodded. “I must go, or they will worry.” I donned my jacket and hat, girding myself for the blast of cold air when I left the workshop.
“I’ll be by the school in a week or so to tell you of my progress.”
“That seems a long time,” I replied attempting not to appear too eager to see him again.
He smiled. “Yes, well, anything sooner might seem…” He shrugged his shoulders, still watching me. “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”
I felt breathless, watching him as he studied me. From the added heat to my face, I knew I blushed a darker shade of red, nearly tripping over a low bench as I turned to leave.
“It will be lovely to see you again,” I whispered, and turned to leave.
CHAPTER 12
DURING AN EVENING when Mrs. Smythe and Da had a dinner engagement, leaving Lucas, Colin and me the parlor to ourselves, I decided to read one of my suffrage newspapers in the parlor, rather than sequestered away in my bedroom. The Woman’s Journal never failed to inspire me. My eyes lit up as I read that a meeting would take place in a few days in the Back Bay in the late afternoon. I focused on the article, feeling nervous, purposeful energy roll through me. I closed my eyes, exhaled slowly and determined that this would be a gathering I would attend.
After I made my decision, my attention returned to the room. Lucas sat at the piano, playing lyrical, hypnotizing music. I remembered hearing occasional strains of it whistled by workers as I walked down the street but had never heard the complete song played before on the piano. I rose, quietly walking toward him to watch him play. The music was joyous, filling me with happiness and a desire to dance.
Lucas’s brow furrowed in concentration. His right hand seemed to flow over the keys, emphasizing sounds and chords in contrast to the rhythmic beats from his left hand.
As the song ended, I began to clap, causing Lucas to look up from the music for the first time. He smiled, playing out the last few notes in a dramatic fashion. I laughed with delight, twirling around, nearly falling over as my skirts became entangled with my enthusiasm.
“Lucas! That was fantastic! What was it?” I asked.
“It’s called ‘Maple Leaf Rag,’ Rissa,” Lucas said, wiping his brow. “And it sure is hard to play.” He touched the piano keys fondly a few times, striking a few chords here and there from the song.
“I’ve never seen you practice before, and Savannah never speaks of you playing the piano at home. Where did you learn to play it, Lucas?” I asked, curious.
Lucas smiled widely. “From friends of mine.” His cryptic remark only fueled my curiosity.
Before I could question him any further, Mrs. Smythe barreled into the room. “What on earth was that horrid music?” she demanded, hands across her chest, gasping for breath after her hasty entrance.
“It’s called ragtime, Mrs. Sullivan,” Lucas replied, smiling sweetly at her. “I can play it again if you feel deprived of hearing it.”
“Why, of course not, Lucas,” she snapped. “I should think you would have better taste than to bring that sort of music into this house.”
“Well, I’m afraid that sort of music is going to be the music of the future, ma’am. This will be the song of the year, so you’d better become accustomed to hearing it.” He winked in my direction, showing no contrition. Then we both stood and walked to our seats, him settling in the chair next to mine.
“Colin, anything in that paper interesting enough to share? You read it like you are hoping to find some long-lost treasure,” Lucas cajoled.
“Hmm…no, nothing uplifting like that song. Just more tales of death and woe around the world. The Boxers are getting more powerful and dangerous.” Colin sighed, setting aside the Boston Evening Transcript.
“And why should we care about a bunch of pugilists?” Mrs. Smythe demanded, her thin face even longer with her disapproval.
I giggled; Lucas snorted before acting as though he were sneezing to hide his amusement, but Colin stared at Mrs. Smythe with frank fascination.
“Do you read the papers, Mrs. Sm…Sullivan? Talk with your friends?” At her cold stare, he c
ontinued. “The Boxers are discontented Chinese on the verge of rebellion who are indiscriminately killing Christians in China. Including American Christians,” Colin said helpfully. “I thought it was the topic of conversation these days.” He glanced toward Lucas and me, and we both nodded our agreement.
“A genteel woman,” Mrs. Smythe began, with a sniff in my direction to indicate I must be lacking in that regard, “would not know of such vulgar goings-on halfway around the world with a bunch of savages, my dear Colin. I do read the papers but only the parts that pertain to my world and me. The parts about running a good home, a good kitchen. About decoration.” With this, she waved her hand around the room to indicate its frightful state. “Decorum.” Yet another censorious glare was sent in my direction. “These are the important matters of my life,” she stated with one more sniff, showing her displeasure at the topic.
I gaped at her, unable to imagine finding happiness with such a restricted life. Lucas, in the meantime, had reached over and grabbed my paper. I tried to snatch it back but did not want to make a scene in front of Mrs. Smythe. He tucked it under his arm, as though it had been his all along.
“And I do not see why I should be made to suffer listening to music such as yours, Lucas,” she snapped. “I am sure your mother would be most displeased.”
Lucas smiled. “I’m sure she would, except she hasn’t heard me play recently.”
“I expect to hear calming, soothing music in my parlor in the evening, not a riotous mixed-up jangle of melodies. I am sure a simpleton with no musical abilities wrote that piece and duped you into thinking it had merit.”
“Well, ma’am, I never like to contradict a lady, but I think you’ll find you are wrong. I did just learn a much more basic song, with quite simple words. Would you like to hear it?” His feigned innocence, so like how Colin acted at times, put me on edge.
“Of course, Lucas, as long as it is more appropriate for the parlor,” Mrs. Smythe simpered, settling back into her chair with a sigh.
Lucas rose, walking back toward the piano bench.
I followed at his heels, unable to do anything more than hiss, “Careful, Lucas!”
His angelic smile did little to calm me.
Lucas sat at the piano bench, placing my paper away from me, stretching his fingers in a theatrical manner. Colin had moved over toward the piano, to distance himself from Mrs. Smythe and to better hear the performance. Lucas began to play a ponderous, plodding gospel hymn that I vaguely recalled from my sparse church attendance. I looked toward Colin, and he whispered the title, “‘Hold the Fort.’”
I nodded. Of course. A gospel hymn from the Civil War would be exceedingly acceptable to Mrs. Smythe. I looked toward her to find her humming along contentedly, swaying side to side with her eyes closed.
Lucas looked up at me, winked, and then began to sing.
Hark the sound of myriad voices
Rising in their might
’Tis the daughters of Columbia
Pleading for the right.
Raise the flag and plant the standard,
Wave the signal still;
Brothers, we must share your freedom,
Help us, and we will.
At this, point, I peered around Colin to look at Mrs. Smythe to find her watching Lucas with a horrified expression. I knew she had not meant a suffrage song, adapted to an acceptable gospel hymn, was to be sung in her parlor.
Think it not an idle murmur,
You who hear the cry;
’Tis a plea for human freedom
Hallowed liberty.
“Lucas!” Mrs. Smythe screeched, storming toward the piano. Lucas barely had time to snatch his fingers away before she slammed down the piano key cover. “How dare you sing such a song in my house? You know that such a song will never be acceptable,” she hissed. She glowered at the three of us, considering all of us as part of a conspiracy against her. “I know Clarissa has backward ideas, but they will never be acceptable, do you hear me?” she shrieked.
I grimaced from the high pitch of her voice, and Colin actually touched his ear as though in pain. Lucas smiled, seeming pleased that he had riled her so much.
“Mrs. Sullivan, I believe my musical talents are wasted on your discerning ear,” he said without a trace of mocking in his voice. “It is time I headed for home.” He rose, slipping my paper under his arm again. “Rissa, will you see me out?”
I walked by his side from the room, gripping his arm firmly as though expressing my displeasure with his outrageous actions.
“Lucas, how could you?” I whispered in the front hall as he donned a light jacket.
“The question, Rissa, is how could I not? She was begging for something like that. It was almost too easy,” he said with an impish grin.
I stifled a giggle as I thought back to her antics.
“Though I fear I might have lost the ability to hear a few octaves, sitting next to her as she shrieked,” Lucas said with a rueful shake of his head. He handed me my newspaper, winking at me again. “Careful with that one,” he said, nodding toward the parlor. “She won’t be kind if she finds this kind of paper in your room.” He gave me a quick hug and left.
I stood in the hallway a moment, battling my anxiety at what she would do if she were to find out about my planned attendance at the suffragette meeting.
CHAPTER 13
“FLORENCE,” I SAID two days later, twitching nervously, delaying my departure from school for a few moments, “won’t you come with me this afternoon?”
Florence glanced up from correcting ledgers, her black curly hair falling out of its pins, her dress sleeves pushed up around her elbows, her hands chalk and ink stained from a strenuous day of teaching, to study me curiously.
“Clarissa, I’ve told you I won’t go to hear those suffragettes belabor their lack of freedom as they sit in their expensive parlors, drinking tea, with servants waiting on them.” She eyed me severely, over her horn-rimmed glasses, daring me to contradict her.
“It’s a good cause, Flo,” I argued.
“So is correcting these ledgers so I can walk home in the daylight,” she countered with a hint of a smile.
I nodded, feeling somewhat dejected, yet mainly nervous. I had no idea what my reception would be at today’s meeting. “Well, in that case, good luck with the ledgers and I’ll give you a full report tomorrow.”
Florence nodded absently, already absorbed in her work.
I gathered my purse, gloves and shawl. As I pinned on my hat, I was thankful I had taken a few moments this morning to consider my appearance. My mint-green long-sleeved poplin dress and matching jacket with lace at the collar and wrists had been too fancy for school. However, I had known I would not be able to return home to change before the meeting, as Mrs. Smythe would have prevented me from leaving again.
I walked outside, attempting to breathe the fresh scents of spring. I focused on the positive to calm my nerves. I turned left from the school, down Blossom Street, right on Cambridge Street, and then onto Charles Street, which would allow me to circumvent Beacon Hill.
As I walked toward the Back Bay, I thought about the recent expansion of Boston. It had been a very small city before its leaders had decided to fill in the Back Bay. The bay had been a festering tidal flat until about fifty years ago when it was gradually drained for the filling project. Though controversial at the time, the filling project had been enormously successful, and the Back Bay was now the most desirable place to live in Boston with all the many modern amenities such as central heating, electric lighting, telephones, modern plumbing and a sewage system.
I continued to walk along Charles Street passing numerous stores including rope builders, carpenters, tailors, coffee shops and grocers. I crossed Beacon Street into the Public Gardens through wrought-iron gates and breathed in the fresh air, enjoying the momentary peace and the sensation of being in an oasis in the midst of the city. The trees were in full bloom, the tulips striking in their beds, all of one color. I
paused on the bridge over the pond to bask in spring’s sunshine and to calm my nerves. Reluctantly I began walking again, exiting onto Commonwealth Avenue, slowly approaching my destination.
I crossed over from the central tree-lined, shaded mall in the middle of Commonwealth Avenue to stand across the street from an imposing redbrick mansion with its slate roof and a garden at the front of the house. Many of the bow-fronted windows had lighter brick inlay, outlining and highlighting their shape. The large, highly polished oak door with brass knocker gleamed in the sunlight. I tried to work up my courage to cross the street, ascend the steps and knock on the door.
I remained rooted to the spot, watching elegantly dressed women and a few men enter the house. I fretted that I didn’t have an invitation. I dithered a few more moments, attempting to gather my courage. As I exhaled loudly, a refined voice at my elbow interrupted my thoughts.
“It’s a bit overdone, wouldn’t you agree?” a scratchy, nearly hoarse female voice said.
I turned toward the voice, noting a stout middle-aged woman in an eggplant-colored dress in bombazine fabric with pearls sewn into the front. She wore a matching hat covering gray hair with ivory gloves reaching to midforearm. Her piercing aquamarine eyes assessed me as quickly as I had her. I must not have been found wanting as she looped her right arm through my left arm and started across the street, dragging me along with the force of her momentum.
I found myself ushered into the enormous, opulent front hall. Floor to ceiling was paneled in gleaming dark mahogany. A large mirror sat over an onyx fireplace with two chairs on either side of it. I had never seen a hall so large as to merit a fireplace. The marble-topped entryway table held an enormous bouquet of flowers including daffodils and tulips. Dark blue plush carpets covered hardwood floors.
“Mrs. Chickering,” a high-pitched voice squealed, causing the hair on the back of my nape to rise. “How wonderful you could make today’s soiree.”
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