Alice's Tulips: A Novel

by Dallas, Sandra

  “But my feet hurt a good deal,” Mrs. Kittie mourns. Her eyes grew big, and she adds, “Look at all the jam pots and jelly cups and the lovely cream cakes. Who will eat them if I don’t?” But I would not be moved, and Mrs. Kittie sighed and said we would take tea elsewhere. Mrs. Kittie sighs a great deal.

  Lucky for me, there was another tea shop just a few doors away, with cake stands stacked upon one another, the tiers piled high with just as many delicacies. Mrs. Kittie clapped her hands and said the extra walk had made her even hungrier, so she ordered enough sweets to feed a regiment. She consumed half a dozen, and I enjoyed my share hugely, thinking this would be our supper. But no, it was only an afternoon repast to tide us over until mealtime. We finished our tea, and Mrs. Kittie ordered more pastries to take along in case of an attack of hunger in the night. Then she said we would stop to buy herself a bonnet and false hair, for she wanted to look her best at dinner.

  “You brought more bonnets with you than you could wear in a month,” I says, wondering how much money she must have if she could squander it so.

  “I should like something new. A gentleman is joining us.”

  “Your banker?”

  “Oh, no.” She thought a moment. “I suppose you’ll know soon enough, so I shall tell you now. I have an admirer. That’s why I’ve come to Hannibal—to meet him. I did not tell you before for fear you would laugh at a foolish old woman.”

  “But that is capital,” I says, and then I did laugh. Mrs. Kittie gave me an angry glance, but I reassured her. “Don’t be offended, Mrs. Kittie. I laugh to think that you have brought me along as chaper-one. It is generally thought in Fort Madison, after an incident with someone named Carter, that I am not to be trusted with men. Now here I am, keeping a watch over another’s virtue.”

  She thought it was a good joke, too.

  “And who is the lucky fellow, Mrs. Kittie?” I inquire.

  She looked at her hands a moment and then out at the river before replying. “He is Henry Howard.”

  The name was familiar, but I could not place him. “From Slatyfork?”

  “Goodness no.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “He’s the soldier boy I wrote to—you know, the Doodle who got the very first Iowa Four-Patch we made, the one with my name on it.”

  “Mrs. Kittie!” I gasp. “Why, he thinks you’re a young girl with blond curls!”

  “And I shall have them when I meet him. I told you I would buy false hair,” she says primly.

  “But does he know—”

  “That I am not a schoolgirl. Yes.”

  “But—”

  “Does he know I am an old fool? Is that what you are asking, Alice? He will know it soon enough. I have told him I was of an age to be his mother—perhaps even his grandmother—and look it. But I mentioned at the same time that I owned a good farm. He wrote to me that age and appearance were not impediments where true love was concerned.”

  “Money, too,” says I before I could stop myself.

  “Of course he is after my money, pet, and why not? I ask. I was a young person myself once, and married a rich old goat for that very reason. Now it’s my turn to purchase a marriage partner. We all set a price on ourselves, and mine is not so cheap. Besides, can you think of a better way for me to spend my money?”

  I admitted I could not.

  “This last-gone April, when he was dispatched to hospital at Quincy, he asked me to join him. But as I am more familiar with Hannibal, I said he could cross the river and join me here. He has agreed.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew a letter, which she held up in proof. Then she asks brightly, “Do you think it will be all the scandal at Slatyfork? Well, I hope so. Things in Slatyfork have been dull of late.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Kittie, how you deceived me.” I giggled. “I thought you were here for your health or your money.”

  “And so I am, pet,” she says as we stood up and linked arms to find a millinery shop. We did not have to go far, for two doors away was Mrs. A. Claridge’s establishment, where Mrs. Kittie bought herself a large blue bonnet, then purchased a yellow one for me. I am glad for it, as the only one I brought along was the red-white-and-blue thing, which is not the fashion here.

  When we returned to our rooms, Mrs. Kittie primped for more than an hour, trying on dress after dress for my inspection. One was a red gown cut so low that I gasped and says, “You are bare to the waist and dressed for show.”

  “Well, what of it? I do not want Mr. Howard to think me unfashionable.”

  “Mr. Howard had been in an army hospital, where the smartest woman he has seen is Mother Blickensdorf. What does he know about fashion? At last, she agreed to wear a blue moire with long sleeves. When I had fastened the buttons and snaps, I pinned on the blond hair and she sprayed herself with scent of Araby. At the appointed time, we descended to the lobby of the hotel and found a single soldier seated there. Mr. Howard jumped up and bowed, then presented a nosegay of heartsease—to me.

  “Oh, I am Mrs. Bullock,” I says handing the flowers to Mrs. Kittie. “This is Mrs. Kittie Wales.”

  He only blinked; then with more airs than a French dancing master, he smiled at Mrs. Kittie and says, “Either way, I am a fortunate man.” He clicked his heels as he bowed to her. Well, judge not, I thought. Time enough for him to damn himself without my help.

  Lizzie, you never saw anything so funny in your life, and you would have laughed to see them. Mr. Howard is a tall, crane-legged man. He was wearing an ill-fitting uniform, the pants six inches above his shoes, and a bright pink shirt that Mrs. Kittie had made for him. She had put gingersnaps inside the pockets, then sewed them shut so they would not spill out, but he did not know they were there until the shirt was washed. Both thought that a good joke. Mr. Howard has a nice-enough face, but his hair is pale, and his mustache gives the impression he has forgotten to wipe his lip. He talked all through supper, his mouth flapping like washing on a line. Mrs. Kittie had been so silly prior to meeting him that I thought she might act the part of a simpering young girl. Instead, she joined in the conversation smartly, expressing her opinion on all things, whether it agreed with his or not. No subject was out-of-bounds, and by the time he left us after supper, they were the best of friends.

  “Well, Alice, is he not the most engaging man you have ever seen?” Mrs. Kittie asks when we were back in our rooms.

  “No, I reserve that for Charlie Bullock, but Mr. Howard is better than was expected.”

  “Yes, he is, isn’t he? I don’t mind telling you I was nervous.” She removed her bodice and turned so that I could loosen her corset.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have known,” I says, and we fell into fits of laughter.

  She went to bed then, and in a moment began to snore, but I could not fall asleep and so went to the window to look out over the river to think about Charlie. I wondered if he was near the river and looking out, and thinking of me.

  Mr. Howard called for Mrs. Kittie at noon today, to show her the sights of the city. It was clear neither of them wanted my company, so I claimed the heat and the vapors of the river had got me low and then excused myself. I went to the Melpontian Ice Cream Saloon, where I paid a half dime for a soup bowl of ice cream, after which I went to my room, where I have wrote a letter to Charlie and this one to you. Mrs. Kittie returned a few minutes hence and is resting. She will meet Mr. Howard for supper, and I said that as I was still out of sorts, I would excuse myself and skip the meal.

  “Oh no. You must come. I will not hear otherwise,” she says. “Wear your yellow hat. I have a surprise for you. We will be four for dinner.”

  “But, Mrs. Kittie,” I says. “I already have a lawful husband and am not in the market for another.”

  I laughed at the little sally, but Mrs. Kittie only thought it over. “You never know what can happen. You should always be in the market for another husband,” she says.

  Well, I am not. I am happy enough

  to be Charlie’s wife—and your gadabout sister,


  Alice Bullock

  May 28, 1864

  Dear Lizzie,

  I would have wrote you the minute I got back to Bramble Farm, but I could see in a glance that the work needed to be caught up with. Annie is in the fields sunup to sunset and did the milking and churning while I was gone, but even she couldn’t finish the work of three. Mother Bullock looks gray as a rat now and is not able to work more than fifteen minutes out of an hour. “She has a middling slow get-up, and it’s got worse since you was away,” Annie says. “But don’t never tell her.” Well, I know that.

  Mother Bullock takes the Wistars that I bought in Hannibal, but that’s only because I insist she do so, and, truth to tell, I see no improvement. I prodded her to spend a dollar on a visit to the doctor at Slatyfork, but we might as well have saved the coin, for the man had the shakes so bad, he had to use both hands to keep his britches on. Me and Annie work the fields now, whilst Mother Bullock sees to the house as best she can. Even that taxes her, and often we have only popped corn and buttermilk for supper, which is all right with me. After Hannibal, I don’t care much for pastries. Of an evening, I come in so tired, I can scarce lift my fork, but then after supper, I go to piecing for a few minutes, and the tiredness just goes out my fingers. I don’t know if God or some woman thought up quilting, but it is a blessing to me. I am using the length of Prussian blue from Hannibal for a Kitty Corner quilt, for I think Mrs. Kitty has cornered me.

  We hope to have good wheat this year, and we need it bad. Out of cussedness, I think, Mrs. Kittie paid me only twenty dollars for going to Hannibal with her, saying she would pay the rest when she had it. She does have it, but I do not think she will ever give it to me, and we are strapped more than we have ever been. Charlie sends us no money, since he hasn’t drawn his pay these four months. Uncle Sam is getting poorer, I guess, just like us.

  Tired as she is, Mother Bullock still clings to Bible reading at night, as if she fears for my soul, and well she might. Sometimes, after she closes the book, she gets to recollecting. This evening, she talked about a strawberry apple tree with sweet little apples that was once beside the door. She had Mr. Bullock build the house beside the tree so that she could smell the blossoms from inside. I never heard her talk with such sentiment before. Her first year here, she planted a flower garden between house and barn and begged starts from her neighbors, but the cares of life took over, and she let the flowers go. All that’s left are weeds and clumps of pieplant, what she calls “Persian apple.” I said I liked flowers about as well as anything, especially tulips, and I would see if I could find the leavings.

  “There were roses grew there, too, bramble roses. That’s why I named the place Bramble Farm,” she says.

  “Why, I thought it was for all the brambles,” I reply.

  Mother Bullock shook her head. “I should have seen to the roses. They pleased me.” She has gone to bed now, but not to rest, because I hear her walking back and forth in the room. She does not sleep much. I think it may be the change of life that has got her down. I would write Mother for information about that, but she would be shocked and not reply.

  I should go to bed myself, but I’ll stay up a few minutes longer. You know how I never could stand to be alone. Well, Lizzie, I am beginning to like the solitude. I enjoy sitting by myself or walking out under the stars at night. So I have taken up the pen for a little while as an excuse to enjoy the evening by myself. Now I’ll tell you how things ended at Hannibal.

  On our second evening, Mrs. Kittie spent as much time on my toilet as she had on hers the night before. I tried on my dresses again and again—I had brought only three, and all sensible—whilst she muttered it was a shame I had not visited a dressmaker that day. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to wear your dove-colored silk. It’s the best of the lot,” she says. The yellow bonnet would do nicely with it, I told her, but she insisted that I go bareheaded, and she fixed my hair in the new way, crimped and put into a long braid with ribbons at top and bottom. She was not entirely satisfied with my appearance, but she sighed and said it was as acceptable as she could make it, and we descended to meet Mr. Howard. He looked something the dandy in new suit of clothes that Mrs. Kittie had purchased for him that afternoon. But I gave him only a glance, because standing beside him, looking very smart indeed, was Mr. Samuel Smead! Oh, how my knees weakened, and I grasped Mrs. Kittie’s arm to steady myself.

  “You see, I knew you would be pleased,” says Mrs. Kittie, who beats all for presumption.

  “I’m not so sure she is pleased,” Mr. Smead says.

  “Of course she is. Tell him, pet,” Mrs. Kittie says, then explains to me, “We ran into Mr. Smead on the street and insisted he join us for supper. Now, did you ever have a finer surprise?”

  It was not a fine surprise at all, but I only smiled and murmured, “A suprise indeed.” I had not seen Mr. Samuel Smead in some weeks, and my feelings were mixed. He was Nealie’s protector, but he was also the brother of an evil man.

  “Mrs. Bullock and I are old friends, but she avoids me now. I do not understand it,” he says to Mrs. Kittie. Then as Mrs. Kittie took Mr. Howard’s arm and started toward the dining room, Mr. Smead says to me, “If I have caused a breach, I hope to repair it, so I am glad your friend invited me here.” Lizzie, Mrs. Kittie said she had met him on the street, but his remark made me wonder if she and he had schemed for him to come from Slatyfork to meet us. It was an outrageous idea, of course. I had no proof and don’t now, for she won’t admit to it, but she is a meddler, and I thought it more than a little strange that she would encounter him so far from home. If she is willing to risk scandal by accepting a suitor less than half her age, what matter to her to risk my reputation, too?

  Still, I told myself there was no harm in dining with the relative of my friend Nealie—and that in company of another woman. And since there was nothing to be done about it anyway, I determined to have as good a time as I could. I thought that perhaps I could turn the evening to my advantage by drawing out Mr. Smead about his brother.

  It was a pretty good evening after all, although I could not match Mrs. Kittie’s appetite for fried catfish and creamed cod, waffles and hot bread, and several helpings from the dessert tray. Mr. Smead told funny stories and made us laugh, and I found myself wondering why Nealie had not married him instead of his brother. After supper, Mrs. Kittie and Mr. Howard sat down in the lobby for a game of droughts, while Mr. Smead suggested we stroll about the town.

  “Walk out, Mr. Smead,” says Mrs. Kittie, with a wink at me. “Walk right out.” But I said I had sat in a draft at supper and was chilled. Of course, I was not, but I had seen enough of Mr. Smead, whose presence still made me uneasy.

  “Then we must all meet again tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll be better,” Mrs. Kittie says.

  “You will be my guests,” Mr. Smead tells us. “I’ll arrange a picnic.”

  I protested but was outvoted three to one, and so went to my room, knowing I had been outmaneuvered. Well, in the morning, I would say the chill had become a cold and I would stay behind, but Mrs. Kittie wouldn’t hear of it. “Nonsense, pet. Fresh air is the best thing for a cold. Besides, you mustn’t be rude to dear Mr. Smead, who has gone to much trouble for you. For us, I mean.” She adds, “You must admit Mr. Smead is more amusing and far handsomer than Charlie Bullock.”

  “He is not!” I says.

  She raised her hand. “I have known Charlie longer than you, and he is steady but awful dull. You have plenty of time to be old man and old woman together, so enjoy your fun whilst you can. Now, let us decide what we shall wear.”

  As I was sulking, I said I would wear my plainest outfit and even insisted on putting on the red-white-and-blue-ribboned hat. Mr. Smead rented a carriage at the livery stable to take us to the bluffs outside Hannibal, where he spread a tablecloth and set out a very acceptable dinner. Mrs. Kittie and Mr. Howard fell to. Mrs. Kittie had grown very fond of Mr. Howard, and with her fingers, she fed him buns and deviled eggs. Such lovemakin
g caused me acute embarrassment, and Mr. Smead, too, I thought, because he invited me to walk with him along the bluffs for a better view of the river.

  “I have got myself into a pretty pickle,” I says after we had walked quite some distance and the two lovebirds were well out of view.

  Mr. Smead laughed. “No fool like an old fool, but she serves her purpose, and we are together.”

  “Sir?”

  “I believe you are as pleased to see me as I am you, Alice.” He turned to me and put his hand on my face.

  Lizzie, I thought him as insolent a dog as ever lived, and I stepped backward to get away from him. “You are too familiar. I would like it better if you called me Mrs. Bullock.”

  “You are whatever I choose to call you.” His face took on the dark look that had frightened me before, but his words were those of a lover. “You have skin like moonlight, and your eyes are like fire that’s burned down to coals. I never met a woman who made me say such things.” Then he gripped my arms so hard that the bruises are just now fading. His eyes glittered as he looked into mine and said, “I nearly went to you that morning you stayed with Nealie, only she is such a tiger to protect you. I heard you moving about and knew you wanted me, too. Tell me you did.”

  “I . . .” My throat grew tight, and I could not talk.

  “Tell me, Alice.”

  As he stared at me, waiting for a response, an awful dread came over me, for I realized it was he, not Nealie’s husband, who had been in the kitchen with her. It was Mr. Samuel Smead who had done the evil deeds I had overheard. He was the one who had slapped Nealie. It had never occurred to me a man not her husband would treat a woman with such contempt. The voice I heard had been muffled by the door, and the brothers are of a size and appearance, so I had not even considered that the man might be Mr. Samuel Smead. I felt a terror in my breast that grew and grew, until I almost could not breathe, as I realized the man pressing his fingers into my arms was the man who was guilty of murder and rape, and that I was alone with him on the bluffs of the Mississippi. That lovesick old woman had put me in mortal danger. But, Lizzie, I knew I was to blame for my circumstances, too, for it was my flirting had put me in a thousand times more danger than I had been with the Carter boy. I had trifled with the devil.