Gabriel straightened. He tightened his jaw and stiffened his shoulders. “Stay away from my brother,” Gabriel ground out. “He’s doing just fine without you.” He turned to leave, stopping short when he saw me witnessing the scene from the doorway. He flushed and brushed past me, leaving the schoolroom abruptly.
I moved toward Florence, unsure how to approach her. She seemed as fragile as one of my beloved seashells, and I did not wish to cause her further pain.
“Florence,” I whispered, kneeling by her side, grasping one of her hands gently in mine. “How can I help you?” I asked.
She shook her head futilely, tears seeping out of her eyes. “You can’t, Clarissa. I made this mess, and I have to find a way to make it better.” She began to sob, and I enfolded her in my arms, comforting her as best I could.
CHAPTER 15
“SO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME that he yelled at poor Florence?” Savannah asked over tea the following day. We sat in the Russell family parlor, the door closed for privacy. I glanced around, noting the subtle changes to the artwork. Aunt Matilda had replaced a few of the scenes of New England with European ones. I sat on the ugly lime-green settee, choosing comfort over beauty.
“Yes, Sav,” I replied, absently biting into a piece of sweet bread. “I think there is an awful history between them. I just don’t know what it is.” I sighed, hating being ignorant of the full story.
“Rissa, maybe this is a sign you should forget about him. I’d hate to think of you with someone with an evil temper,” Savannah said with a shudder. She daintily took a sip of tea, abstaining from eating during teatime. Her strawberry-blond hair was perfectly pulled back in a relaxed bun with no hair out of place. She wore a fine navy-and-white striped silk day dress with a navy belt highlighting her petite figure.
I shook my head in disagreement. I continued to chew on the sweet bread, marveling at Savannah’s ability to abstain from eating any of the delicious foods on the tea tray.
Savannah rolled her eyes, in frustration. “Rissa, I know he’s handsome. And he’s clearly fascinated with you. But I think we should try to find you someone reasonable,” she urged. “Someone more from our class. I’ve come to realize he is completely inappropriate for you.”
“Why are you allowing Jonas to change you so much?” I whispered.
“Rissa, if, when you marry, you will realize you must believe, act, feel exactly as your husband,” she replied. “It is as it should be.”
“How can you believe that, Sav?” I asked, deciding to ignore the sting her words wrought about me possibly not marrying. “Shouldn’t you want to be with someone who wants you to be your own person?”
“Rissa, quit reading those suffragists’ publications and enter the real world,” Savannah demanded. “No man wants a free-spirited, forward-thinking wife. He wants a compliant woman to create a soothing home environment in which to raise children.”
“Can’t you think your own thoughts while creating that environment and raising those children?” I asked.
“I know it’s the turn of the century, but you really must not be too modern,” Savannah warned.
“I don’t agree with you, Sav,” I replied. “I never will. I…my mama wasn’t like that.”
“Promise me that you will start to consider acceptable men. Though, of course, I would never mean Cameron.”
“I have come to believe he will never surface,” I said, a tinge of exasperation in my voice. “I think there must have been some mistake.”
“Do you think he would have come to find you so quickly?”
Though she had asked her question in a gentle tone, I sensed a criticism. “Yes, I would have thought he’d speak with me by now. I thought I had meant more to him…”
“Rissa, you meant something to him, that much is obvious. Just not enough.” Savannah looked at me knowingly, not attempting to soften her words in any way.
“Enough talk about me! Any news on wedding plans?”
***
AFTER THE SHORT WALK HOME, I entered the front hall dreading another lecture from Mrs. Smythe. I turned toward the coat rack to hang my hat and jacket. As I headed toward the stairs, I noticed a small envelope on the front hall table. I glanced at it with no real interest, certain it did not pertain to me. However, in bold male handwriting, I saw my name scribbled on the front. My heart leapt at the unfamiliar handwriting. I grabbed the letter, stuffing it into my purse to keep its presence a secret.
“Is that you, dear?” called out Mrs. Smythe from the formal parlor. She sailed into the front hall, hair perfectly coiffed, impeccably dressed, her posture so straight I thought she would topple backward.
She realized I stood in the front hall lost in thought, with no purpose, and sighed with exasperation. “Oh, it’s you, Clarissa. What are you doing, just standing in the hallway?” She tugged my arm, pulling me into the parlor.
I tripped on the edge of the rug, nearly causing the two of us to tumble to the floor. Mrs. Smythe let go of my arm, righting herself by grabbing a nearby chair. I banged into a wall, smashing my shoulder.
“Really, Clarissa!” she hissed. “You could do with learning a little grace!”
I meekly nodded in agreement as I rubbed my shoulder. I entered the parlor, noting a new plush rug, wondering idly if it were oriental. “Nice rug,” I said unable to feign enthusiasm.
“Is that all you can say, dear?” Mrs. Smythe chided. “No other words of encouragement as I take on the monumental task of refurbishing this albatross of a house?”
I watched her closely, noting she considered this a house, not a home. I wondered if she only viewed it as a project to show off to the neighbors. I glanced around the room, liking what I saw, memories of happy times flooding me, each piece provoking a sense of nostalgia. I saw no need for redecoration. I tried to see it through her eyes but failed. She wanted everything to change, be modern and new. I wanted everything to be as it had once been and realized neither of us would be completely satisfied.
“I’m sure you will have…” I began.
“It’s not as though I receive any support from you or your brothers,” she wailed. “And Sean only wants me doing minor alterations. Minor alterations. As though this home is acceptable with so few changes,” she sniffed, looking affronted.
“Mrs. Smythe.” I attempted to speak gently, feeling a terrible headache coming on at the thought of having to attempt to reason with her. “The house is well furbished.”
“Well furbished!” she scoffed. “If you call fading wall hangings, threadbare carpets and out-of-date furniture with dreadful covers well furbished.” She glared at me. “I thought I would find a little support in you, Clarissa.”
I shook my head, unsure why she would look to me as an ally.
“I thought, surely, as the only other female in the house, you would understand my plight.”
We sat in awkward silence a few moments with me unwilling to engage in this discussion. Finally I excused myself, escaping to my bedroom to read my letter. I walked up the stairs at a sedate pace, not wishing to cause any suspicion in Mrs. Smythe. I opened my door, latching it shut behind me, as I pulled the letter out of my purse.
I sat on my bed and held the correspondence, noting the unfamiliar red wax seal with the indent of a chisel. I smiled, gently caressing the seal before breaking it open. I unfolded the paper, careful not to rip it, and scanned to the bottom for the signature, Gabriel. I sighed in pleasure, my eyes moving to read the letter from the beginning.
April 18, 1900
My Dear Miss Sullivan,
Please excuse my presumption in writing to you. I want to apologize for the scene you witnessed. I would never wish to cause you any distress, though I fear I have done so by the expression in your eyes. I never meant to cause you pain.
There is a long, difficult history between me, Richard and Florence Butler. But I don’t feel I’m at liberty to speak with you about it. At least not yet. Just know I have acted to protect my brother. As I would act to
protect anyone I care for.
I feel most regretful at not speaking with you. May I come to the school again to see you?
Yours sincerely,
Gabriel McLeod
I stared at the letter, frustration roiling through me. Why couldn’t he have written more? I reread it, hoping to find a hidden message, yet there wasn’t much more to read into those simple words. I sighed in exasperation, already composing a return letter in my head. I moved to the desk, pulling out a piece of paper, and began to write.
April 19, 1900
Dear Mr. McLeod,
I thank you for writing me your short missive. I must admit to a sense of shock at the scene I witnessed between you and my dear friend Miss Butler. Since your first visit to the school, I have wondered at the history between you and realize it must be extensive for you to react so strongly to her. I am conflicted as to how to correctly answer your request but do enjoy your company and know you will explain your family’s history with my friend when you feel it to be appropriate. I, too, wish we had been able to speak. Perhaps it would be less awkward if I were to visit the workshop.
Sincerely,
Miss Sullivan
I examined my reply, not completely satisfied. I had never corresponded with a gentleman before and was not certain what was proper.
I addressed the letter, sealed it and placed it in my purse, keeping it from inquisitive eyes, to post tomorrow. I carefully hid Gabriel’s letter, as I knew Mrs. Smythe enjoyed snooping around my room when I was out.
CHAPTER 16
SOPHRONIA LIVED IN A CHARMING bow-fronted brick town house on Beacon Street across from the Common with green shutters on each side of all the windows. I walked across Beacon Street and knocked on her door. A formally attired butler answered, requesting my card. I stood in the front hall, a mauve-colored room with a large black walnut hallstand and mirror with chairs on either side. When the butler returned, I followed him up thickly carpeted stairs, moving soundlessly. The mahogany banister gleamed as though recently polished. The upstairs sitting room with white wainscoting and soothing yellow wallpaper overlooked the street and the Common.
“Mrs. Chickering,” I asked after I had settled, “why does there exist such animosity between you and the younger suffragettes?”
Sophronia leaned back in her lady’s chair, perfectly at ease. “Ah, my girl, as you age, you will realize that the younger generation lives to find fault with their elders, and they relish the belief that all of their current miseries are due to our failures. In their minds we failed to get them the vote here in Massachusetts in ’95. And now there is a faction of women, mainly upper-class wealthy women who have never thought for themselves a day in their lives, who are calling themselves the Massachusetts Association Opposed to Suffrage for Women.”
I set my teacup down carefully, wanting to pay full attention and to prevent any possibility of an accident. “Are you saying there are women who are actively working against us getting the vote?”
“A frightful herd of sheep,” Sophronia spat out. “They spout all sorts of useless facts and proclamations, believing that if one such as Queen Victoria is against suffrage for women, then all women should be opposed.” Sophie harrumphed her disgust. “I can’t imagine anything worse than not wanting better for your daughter or niece.”
I sat in silence, thinking about what I knew of these women. “Maybe they think the life they have is the best life for their daughters. Change can be very frightening.”
“You have a kind heart, my girl,” she said in a gentle voice, “but these women don’t deserve your compassion.” Her voice had turned to steel. “Would you have them deny your schoolgirls a brighter future merely so those women could hold onto their sense of superiority, their sense of place in the world?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in challenge.
I frowned, furrowing my brow. “Of course not. And I wouldn’t have them deny my rights, either.” I paused for a moment, unsure how to ask what had really been bothering me. “Mrs. Chickering, why are the young women anti-immigrant?”
“You are recent immigrant stock, aren’t you, girl? And call me Sophie, all my friends do,” she said.
I nodded once in agreement to both her question and her dictate.
She settled into her chair, thinking through her response. “These young women have not lived through the ups and downs of life like some of us have. They see all of this change—the large number of immigrants, the modernization of the world, the new inventions, the social upheaval, the strikes—all of it with distrust. And they see, in a simple way, the perceived injustice of uneducated immigrant men, some who can barely speak English, being granted the right to vote. They are reacting against it.”
“What do they have against the immigrant?” I asked, feeling naive.
“It is as Gertrude said last week. They are uneducated. They don’t speak English. They do not necessarily follow traditional customs. Many drink more than we are accustomed to and go against the temperance movement. And most are not Protestant.” She paused before sharing a rueful glance with me. “And you must never forget the suffrage movement is all about getting the vote. But to get the vote, someone must vote for us. Therefore, it is a very political beast. Currently it is fashionable to be anti-immigrant.”
“But they are hard workers,” I argued.
“That is immaterial to most.”
“Don’t they deserve a chance at the life we have?”
“Many would say no. The greedy ones. Or the scared ones. The rich ones like the immigrant because they work cheaply and rarely complain.”
“Shouldn’t the immigrant have a right to vote, a voice, just as much as women, to help improve their lives?” I argued.
“One should think so, Clarissa, but there are many who would disagree.”
I settled back in my chair, lost in thought for a few moments, before deciding to change the topic. “What is your background, Sophie?”
“I married well, married young. To a handsome young doctor from a very wealthy family. He was distantly related to the Chickerings who make pianos, though the only contact I have ever had with that branch of the family was to be gifted a glorious instrument on my wedding day. We married, quickly had three children and then war broke out.” She glanced away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “He wanted to help the wounded. Insisted on traveling with the Union Army.”
“I remained here, in Boston, caring for our children,” she whispered. “Letters couldn’t come soon enough to suit me. Then one came that I wish had never arrived. He caught a severe case of dysentery in ’63 and died. My loving Eustace. Gone from this world forever.”
“Oh, Sophie. I am so sorry.”
“Not nearly as sorry as I am, my girl,” she said with bright eyes. “I finally recovered from his loss, emerging from my grief at the time when increased suffrage activity occurred in Boston, and I wanted to be a part of it. I had done a small amount of antislavery work before the war and had a sense of what activism was like.
“Now,” she said, “tell me about your immigrant roots. I am most curious about them.”
“I am only half immigrant,” I said, “though I do not identify well with the nonimmigrant half. My father emigrated from Ireland when he was a child with his family. He is a blacksmith, owns his own blacksmithing shop that he inherited from his father.” I was unable to hide the pride in my voice. “My mama’s family, the Thompsons, are from an old New England family and have been here for generations. They live here on the Hill, in Louisburg Square.”
Sophie gave a bark of laughter. “So you’re the disappointing granddaughter?”
I gasped, unaware I had such a reputation.
“Your grandmother and I pay a social call on each other once or twice a year. We stave off having to see each other any more frequently by sending our cards around and having them do the visiting for us.” She smiled at that. “But, on the few times we do meet, she speaks of how worried she is about her jilted blacksmithing gran
ddaughter.”
“I am not a blacksmith,” I protested.
“Of course not, but you are descended from one, and, to her, there isn’t much worse. Except maybe a chimney sweep. Such dirty professions.”
“And honorable. My father provides very well for our family, and he loved my mama. He is a good da, as she would know if she had ever bothered to spend time with us,” I snapped out, then blushed beet red at my outburst.
“Though you were jilted?” Sophronia inquired, raising her eyebrows again and giving me the full effect of her aquamarine eyes.
“A few years ago. Nothing exciting,” I murmured.
“Hmm…well, a story for another day then,” Sophie said, taking a sip of tea. “It seems to me that one such as you is wasted on the narrow-minded likes of your grandmother.” Sophronia patted my hand. “I wouldn’t mourn the loss of her in your life. You could spend years trying to please her, and she would never cease finding fault.”
I beamed at Sophronia, realizing she truly understood them and their type of people. Then Sophie clapped her hands together with malicious glee and said, “Oh, I hope I am there when she hears you have joined the suffragist movement! I can’t wait to see her face become ruddy and see her at a loss for words!”
My smile dimmed as I fervently hoped I was not present when my grandmother heard the news.
CHAPTER 17
“EXCUSE ME, MUM,” BRIDGET SAID. “Ye’ve a caller for tea.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, handing the silver salver containing the crisp calling card to Mrs. Smythe.
I had been lounging in my favorite chair, imagining the letter I wanted to receive from Gabriel as Mrs. Smythe prattled on about new carpets, drapes and furniture coverings. Thankfully this interruption had forestalled any further discussion about her grand plans for the redesign of the room, yet it now meant I would need to sit through a formal tea with a friend of hers. I bit back a groan, forced myself to sit upright and pasted a pleasant smile on my face.
Banished Love Page 12
