by Adele Whitby
Papa patted Elizabeth’s hand. “When the big day finally came, Katherine here was so nervous that she dropped her basket of flowers. But the bride didn’t seem to mind, did she?”
Elizabeth giggled, but she said nothing. Even Papa sometimes had trouble telling us apart, especially when Essie fixed our hair in an identical fashion.
I giggled along with her. On occasion, confusing people as to which twin was which had worked to our advantage.
Maxwell’s eyes, however, were sharper than Papa’s. “I’ve caught you out,” he said, eyeing me. “You’re Katherine.”
Papa looked at Elizabeth again and shook his head with a laugh. “I should remember to always look at your necklaces before I speak.”
Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed Papa on the cheek. “No matter, Papa.”
I was still thinking about the wedding. “Do you think American weddings are very different from English weddings?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it will be a lovely event,” Papa said. “But Henry Vandermeer and his bride have both been married before and lost their spouses.” Papa’s face fell for a moment. Life at Chatswood Manor had been lighter and happier since our birthday ball, but we all still were struck with missing Mama sometimes. I think Papa felt her absence most of all.
“I wouldn’t expect this wedding to be as grand as if it were the first wedding for both. Nothing like the celebrations we’ll have at Chatswood Manor when the two of you are wed,” he added.
Papa’s comment was directed at Elizabeth and me, not at Elizabeth and Maxwell, but it was a big reminder that our families intended them to marry. Both of them were careful not to make eye contact, and Maxwell’s cheeks turned bright red.
Papa did not notice their discomfort, but I did and changed the subject. “What can you tell us of the bride?” I asked.
“I know almost nothing,” Papa said. “Willem only wrote that Mrs. DuMay was a writer with a growing reputation.”
“A writer!” I said excitedly, a little louder than I meant to. “I’ve never met a real writer before.”
“You’ll have to show her some of your stories,” Elizabeth said.
“I’d like to see them, too, Lady Katherine,” Maxwell said shyly.
“Oh, I—I don’t—,” I stammered, not sure if my sudden shyness had to do with showing a real writer my poems and stories or the fact that Maxwell took an interest in my scribbles. I began to cut my food with vigor, hoping that someone would start speaking.
“I wish you knew more about Mrs. DuMay, Papa,” I said in an attempt to take the focus off of me. “I want to know as much as possible before we meet her.”
“Well, you’re in luck, then,” Papa replied. “We dine with Captain Braxton tomorrow. No doubt he’ll be able to enlighten us about the mysterious Mrs. DuMay. He and Henry Vandermeer are old friends.”
Later that evening, after Essie had helped us undress and get ready for bed, Elizabeth and I performed what had become a nightly ritual since our birthday ball.
I took my half of the heart pendant in my hand. “I am Katherine, and I love my sister, Elizabeth,” I said.
Elizabeth raised hers. “I am Elizabeth, and I love my sister, Katherine.”
We slid the two halves of the heart together to form a single, perfect heart. “Forever,” we said at the same time.
Click. Click. Whirrrrrrr.
We heard the gears spinning and the now familiar sound of the hinge, which we could open to reveal the secret panel. We didn’t tonight. Ever since we had hidden our note inside, we had left it closed. It was enough to know it was there. If we shook the heart, we could hear the confetti rustling inside.
We kissed each other and then climbed into our beds. I was excited about the prospect of seeing land the morning after next and about meeting our American relations. My mind drifted back to Anna DuMay.
“I’m sure she’s very smart and elegant,” I said. “I hope she and Cousin Henry are very much in love.”
My sister responded with only a contended sigh. Was she thinking of Cousin Maxwell?
“Sometimes I wish my future were as fixed as yours is,” I said. “To know whom I am going to marry and where I am going to live. It makes me feel wretched to think of leaving Chatswood Manor someday.”
“Sometimes I wish I had your freedom,” Elizabeth said, sighing again. “I do long to have an adventure before my life is settled.”
I had a thought that made me giggle. “Too bad Cousin Maxwell has learned to tell us apart by our necklaces,” I said. “Or we could both have our wishes.”
The next night, our last at sea, Elizabeth and I put our questions about Anna DuMay to Captain Braxton. The seas had been calm that day and I felt almost normal. Perhaps it was also the knowledge that when I woke up the next morning, I would be able to see land.
The captain told us as much as he knew about Henry Vandermeer’s fiancée. “They are most definitely in love,” the captain assured us. Elizabeth and I smiled at each other. “Henry is proud of her writing, too, and says she has every intention of going on with her career after the wedding.”
“Have you read her stories?” I asked.
“I have not had that pleasure,” he answered. “But I have heard that her reputation is growing. She recently had a great success with a story in a well-known American magazine.
“She’s quite independent, I believe,” he added. “A supporter of those working to win the right to vote for women.”
Papa coughed. “Women voting!” he exclaimed, and I couldn’t tell if he disapproved or was merely shocked.
“I think Mama would have welcomed the right to vote,” Elizabeth said.
Secretly I agreed. As the captain spoke, I realized that Mrs. DuMay was living exactly the kind of life Mama wished for me in her final letter. Not only was she a published author, but Anna DuMay was an independent woman marrying for love. I wondered if I had it in me to live that kind of life. It’s not that I wasn’t brave enough, although I wasn’t half as bold as my sister. It was more that I loved my life at Chatswood Manor so much that I couldn’t imagine a better one. Perhaps Mrs. DuMay would inspire me to cultivate a more adventurous spirit.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I said.
“By this time tomorrow,” the captain answered, “I believe you will.”
The next morning, I rushed into a day dress and didn’t even give Essie a chance to do my hair before I ran out of the cabin. I had planned to knock on Papa’s and Maxwell’s doors as I passed, but Maxwell burst into the hall the moment he heard me.
I was the first one upstairs and on the deck. All I saw before me was ocean, endless ocean. My shoulders slumped in disappointment.
Then Maxwell took my arm. I thought perhaps he had confused me with my sister, as so often happened, even with our hair down. But then he said my name.
“Lady Katherine, it’s this way.” He steered me around to the other side of the ship, laughing at my dismay.
And there it was—land! “Over there!” I shouted, turning to look for my twin. “Land!”
Elizabeth came up behind Maxwell and me. “Boston,” she said, clapping her hands.
Realizing that Maxwell’s arm was still wrapped around mine, I stepped aside. My arm tingled where his hand had rested.
We were too far away to see much of anything, but there was definitely land peeking out from the horizon. I could barely pull myself away from the deck for breakfast, so anxious was I to reach the shore and to meet our American relatives. I returned as soon as I could and stood watching the city of Boston grow bigger and bigger. Soon I was able to make out buildings and ships and then people moving about on the docks.
A couple of hours later, we reached Boston. Minutes after that, we were stepping onto the gangplank and onto the busy dock.
“How will we recognize the Vandermeers?” I asked Papa. He and Henry Vandermeer had never met, and it had been many, many years since he had seen Willem.
I had barely a
sked the question when a man dressed in an elegant suit and silk top hat and a boy who looked just like him, only younger and dressed less formally, rushed up to greet us. “Robert Chatswood?” the man asked.
Papa only nodded before the man swept him into an embrace. “Henry Vandermeer,” he said. “And my son, Alfred.”
Elizabeth and I both curtsied, and Maxwell bowed. It was our English custom. But Henry Vandermeer was American. He hugged Maxwell, Elizabeth, and me in turn. I was afraid Alfred would do the same. I had never hugged a boy before, and I was embarrassed by the whole idea of it. Alfred, thankfully, was more reserved than his father. But instead of bowing like an English boy would, he reached out and gave each of us a hearty handshake. I was astonished and delighted at the same time! Elizabeth must have felt the same way because she was staring at Alfred with a huge, lopsided grin on her face.
“My English cousins!” Alfred exclaimed, kindness and warmth radiating from his robust smile. “It sure is good to finally meet you. Uncle Willem has told me all sorts of tales about the famous Chatswood Manor.”
“If it’s stories of Chatswood Manor you’d like to hear,” replied my sister, “we have many more.”
As Alfred and my sister chattered away, I looked around for the person I most hoped to meet. “Is Mrs. DuMay not with you?” I asked.
“Mrs. DuMay, soon to be Mrs. Vandermeer, has just begun writing a new story and could not be pulled away, I’m afraid,” Henry Vandermeer told me.
Before I had time to feel disappointed, we were being rushed toward a handsome coach with six horses. The driver directed the ship’s men with our steamer trunks, sweeping Essie and Papa’s valet along with them.
The coach was large enough to seat all of us comfortably. Henry Vandermeer lifted Elizabeth and me inside, urging us to sit opposite each other on the coach’s two plush benches so that we could each sit beside the window. Alfred and Maxwell followed, sitting in the middle, while Papa and Henry Vandermeer also faced each other. Essie and Papa’s valet would sit outside on the high front bench with the driver. I was pleased the day was fine. It would have been an uncomfortable journey for them had it been raining or unbearably hot.
As usual, Essie read my thoughts. She smiled at me through the window just before she climbed up onto the high bench. “I’ll have the best view of all,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
Minutes later, the horses jolted forward and we were on our way.
Papa and Henry Vandermeer fell into easy conversation. Alfred and Maxwell did the same, talking about the ship and the size of the waves in a storm we had encountered, about sport, and about favorite foods. I was glad to have the opportunity to look out the window and admire the countryside.
The horses clip-clopped their way through the cobbled streets of Boston. It wasn’t nearly as big or as old as London, but the city had its simple charms. Soon we picked up the pace and galloped through woods as far as the eye could see. Vandermeer Manor in Bridgeport, Rhode Island, sat on the ocean, but for now I was glad to be rid of the sea. Still, the movement of the coach mimicked that of the boat, and when we stopped at an inn for a light lunch and to change the horses about ten miles into our journey, I was careful not to eat too much.
The small villages we passed through intrigued me. They were nothing like the village near Chatswood, with its High Street and its collection of old, brick buildings. Here the villages were smaller. Many of the houses and inns were built of wood, not stone. We passed small, neat farmhouses and, occasionally, a child ran beside us, waving. One little girl clapped with delight when Elizabeth and I waved back.
Every ten miles or so we stopped to change horses. Henry Vandermeer explained that the Vandermeer horses waited for us at the very last inn we would pass before the final leg of our journey. In all, the trip would take us six or seven hours.
“The road is good,” he said. “We haven’t had so much rain as to leave us in the mud, or so little as to make us choke on the dust.”
It was just growing dark when the coachman entered a long circular drive. Minutes later, we stopped in front of a large stone home with arched windows and a handsome central tower. Vandermeer Manor was lovely. A white marble fountain greeted us with a dancing spray. There were big bow windows on the first floor and pretty little balconies on the second. The grounds were a lush green, and there were many trees and flowers.
I knew the house sat on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, and I could hear the ocean waves coming in and going out, but the house blocked my view for the moment. That was fine with me.
At Chatswood Manor, Mr. Fellows, the housekeeper, and the rest of the staff would have stood outside to greet guests along with the family. In America, the custom was different. One stately looking man with a full head of white hair waited for us on the stairs leading to the front door. I thought he must be the butler, but like Henry Vandermeer, he swept Papa into a hug.
“Robert, my good man, in my presence again after all these years!” he cried. “You do Henry and Anna a great honor by traveling all this way for their wedding.”
After more introductions and even more hugging, Willem Vandermeer insisted that Elizabeth, Maxwell, and I call him Uncle Willem, just like Alfred.
Once we stepped inside the front door, I looked around for Mrs. DuMay. Uncle Willem’s good humor dropped a notch when I asked when we might meet her.
“I am sorry she’s not here to greet you,” Uncle Willem answered. “The great writer is too busy at her work.”
“Uncle, you know that my dear Anna can’t wait to meet our English family,” Henry Vandermeer said amiably. “But we must leave these creative types to their rituals and routines. Anna says that’s where inspiration lies.”
Uncle Willem laughed. “Of course, Henry. I wouldn’t wish your dear fiancée to be anything other than inspired.”
Then he swept us upstairs to our rooms while a group of servants came to help Essie and Papa’s valet with our trunks.
Elizabeth and I had connecting rooms, just like we did at Chatswood Manor, only what connected them here was a shared bathroom and not a dressing closet. I was overwhelmed with gratitude to learn that Uncle Willem had checked with Papa about some of our favorite things, including our favorite colors. He had decorated our rooms perfectly to suit us.
My bedroom had blue silk on the walls, with a lovely crisp white coverlet under a white canopy on the bed. Blue silk drapes and chairs matched the walls. And there was a lovely little dressing table and mirror where I could sit while Essie did my hair. Elizabeth’s bedchamber was nearly identical, except that the blue was replaced with red.
The most stunning feature in both of our rooms was the view. The windows on either side of our beds were nearly floor to ceiling, and there was a charming balcony that stretched from one room to the other. It overlooked the manor’s grounds and the Atlantic.
Now that I was off the ship and my stomach had mostly settled, I enjoyed watching the waves roll in and out. The sound was soothing, and I knew I would sleep well here, on a bed that didn’t roll and lurch, listening to the ocean’s rhythms and breathing in the salty air.
Papa’s and Maxwell’s rooms were just across the hall. They were handsome, too, but rather more masculine. They looked out over the fountain in front of Vandermeer Manor and at the dense woods across the road.
Once we had admired the view, I hoped we would bathe and dress for dinner and then finally meet the bride-to-be, but Uncle Willem and Cousin Henry both thought we might want to rest up after our voyage and our long coach ride. They let us know that dinner would be brought to our rooms.
Essie bustled about, drawing baths, unpacking, and chatting about how pleased she was with her room. “The servants are on the top floor,” she said. “And I’ve got my very own view of the ocean through a small window—imagine that!”
Most of our trunk was unpacked by Uncle Willem’s housemaids as soon as we arrived, but we decided to keep some things in there. They were items for which we had no other pla
ce to safely store them—like Elizabeth’s art supplies, my journal and inks, and two large sunhats that didn’t fit in the closets.
Once we were bathed and dressed, Cousin Maxwell and Papa joined Elizabeth and me on our balcony. A housemaid had laid a lovely small table for four, and she and Essie brought up trays of what the cook had described as light supper food. There was tomato soup followed by steamed lobster, corn, and a cold potato salad.
The cook followed up her wonderful dinner with apple pie. She had even cranked out ice cream as a special treat to go along with it. I learned something new about Cousin Maxwell—ice cream was his most favorite dessert in the whole world. We’d have to be sure Mrs. Fields, Chatswood Manor’s cook, learned how to churn ice cream before Maxwell’s next visit.
Afterward, Papa and Maxwell left us, and Essie helped Elizabeth and me get ready for bed. I was much too overwhelmed with excitement to sleep. So was my sister. Elizabeth brought her sketches and paints into my room and began a dolphin painting while I set to work in my journal, trying to write a poem to go with it, one worthy of showing to Mrs. DuMay.
“Our informal dinner was perfect,” I said. “But I did want to meet Mrs. DuMay and find out more about the story she’s working on.”
“I’m sure we’ll meet her at breakfast tomorrow,” Elizabeth answered.
I had a sudden thought that made me gasp. “What if she expects us to already know some of her stories?” I asked. “I wish we would have thought to get some, to read on the voyage over.”
“Do you want me to ring for a maid?” Elizabeth asked, eyeing the blue silk bellpull next to my bed. It would ring a bell in the servants’ hall, alerting them that the young lady in the blue guest room was in need of attention. “There must be copies in the library here.”
I shook my head. “It’s too late. I don’t want to wake anyone.”
“Since Mrs. DuMay’s stories have been published only in America, I’m sure she’ll understand if we haven’t read them yet,” Elizabeth said.
