Dr. Forsythe was answering a man who had asked a question about Inuit trade. “He is most likely hunting the bearded seal down the coast a bit. What I mean by easy commerce is that the spirit life for the Inuit was as alive and vital as their temporal life. The borders between these two worlds were easily traversed, crossed over.”
“Did they only fish in the summer?” someone else asked.
“Really, there were two basic seasons for the Inuit — Ice and No Ice. They went in their boats when the ice was clear or nearly clear. And when it wasn’t, they went in their sleds and found the blow-holes for seals or walrus.”
Lucy was mesmerized by the model maker’s replica of the sea. She raised her hand shyly. “Did they ever cross the sea in those boats?”
“Ah, a very interesting question, miss!” Dr. Forsythe, a tall man of perhaps fifty, with very pale blue eyes behind his thick bifocal spectacles, leaned forward to see her better. He had a trim beard and sported a thick set of muttonchop sideburns, but his domed head had nary a hair and seemed like a perfect vessel for all the fascinating knowledge he had collected over his years of Arctic travel.
“Curiously enough, because of the strong westerly winds and currents, some of those Inuit in their sealskin boats were pulled out to sea and fetched up on the western coasts of Ireland and on Scotland’s outermost islands.” Dr. Forsythe’s pale eyes sparkled with a new light behind the thick lenses. “And what would the Scottish lass walking on the beach with her beau find?” A hush had fallen on the small group. “What would they think at the sight of a man sitting upright and rigid in his umiak? The boat in perfect condition and the man seemingly perfect as well. For he was flawlessly preserved, that is, in death.”
There was a gasp from the small audience. “Yes, amazing, isn’t it? A man in a sealskin boat, enshrouded in his sealskin parka. A ‘seal man,’ as they began to call these people who died in the icy embrace of the winter sea when blown from their course. His ship had become his coffin. And thus indeed, there was a confluence of two worlds — that of the spirit and that of the temporal, or corporeal.” Dr. Forsythe was looking right at Lucy now. It was almost as if no one else was in the gallery.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Selkies? Do you know the word?”
Lucy shook her head. She waited almost breathlessly for his answer.
“The mythological shape-shifting creatures, seal folk, who are said to be seals in the sea but humans upon the land. The origins of these legends were based upon these Inuit fishermen who got caught out at sea in their sealskin boats.”
“Legend?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, legend.” Dr. Forsythe rocked back on his heels. “Or maybe it’s just a spirit revealed.” The doctor blinked, and a quiet seemed suddenly to engulf them. Everyone else had moved on to another display.
“OH, LUCY! LUCY! The grandest news! You’ll never believe it!” Marjorie squealed as Lucy stepped into the foyer.
Lucy was shocked that the first words out of her mother’s mouth were not about the reception. She usually bombarded Lucy with questions upon her return from any gathering. Whom did she see? Whom did she talk to? What did she talk about? The irony was that although Lucy often struggled to think of conversation topics on the spot, after the fact she was very good at thinking up all sorts of things she could have or should have said.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Mrs. Simpson is coming soon,” she said, glancing at the hallway mirror and smoothing her hair.
“That’s your news?” Lucy tried not to sound too deflated, although she didn’t understand why the arrival of the seamstress would be newsworthy.
Mrs. Simpson usually made two visits a year to prepare their dresses. Much to Marjorie Snow’s regret, they could not afford the thrice-yearly visits that were the norm for wealthier families. It seemed unfair since being the wife of a cleric in the high Episcopal Church demanded that the family constantly be on display, not only at church on Sundays but also at the numerous other ecclesiastical occasions including funerals, weddings, and the ladies’ altar guild meetings.
“Yes, I know we’ve already had her, but we need new clothes, and we’ll just have to somehow cover the costs.” She paused and inhaled deeply as if she required more air to accommodate this next announcement. “Lucy darling, your father has been asked to become the summer minister in Bar Harbor, Maine, at the Episcopal church. The Little Chapel by the Sea, they call it. Doesn’t that sound quaint?”
“By the sea,” Lucy murmured. She closed her eyes for just a moment and once more tried to recall the Arctic sea and that enigmatic, luminous greenish light. Was the water green or was it the light or both? she thought.
“Yes, darling, Bar Harbor is on the island of Mount Desert. Next to Newport, there is not a better summer resort. It’s where all the best people go. Newport really borders on the garish. You know, new-money types.” Marjorie’s nostrils pinched together as if she had picked up the whiff of something slightly rancid. “But Bar Harbor — you can’t beat it. Rockefellers and Astors from New York, Hawleys and Peabodys and Cabots from Boston. Oh, the very finest. Do you realize what this means, Lucy?”
“It means we’ll live close to the ocean!”
“Well, yes, dear, that, too. But it also means that you’ll have many opportunities to meet lovely young people and go to dances and teas and yachting. And your father will be rubbing shoulders with many of the gentlemen who influence the nominations for the bishop of New York. We all know that Bishop Vanderwaker is literally on his last leg since the amputation. Diabetes, poor thing.” She paused and clicked her tongue, producing a fretting sound suggesting deep concern, or at least the semblance of deep concern. “He usually takes the pulpit in Bar Harbor, but not this year.”
Her mother gave a tight little smile and then seemed to think better and arranged her face to suggest a more sympathetic sensibility.
Lucy, too, could hardly suppress her own elation. To live by the sea, not in a city hemmed in by two rather dirty old rivers that seemed far from the open ocean, was a dream come true.
“Oh, this is wonderful, Mother, just wonderful!”
Marjorie seldom saw her normally sedate daughter given to such exuberant displays. She embraced her warmly and pressed her cheek to Lucy’s face. She almost had to stand on tiptoes now to do so, since her daughter had shot up several inches over the past year.
“I’m so happy you’re happy, Lucy dear.” She then took a step away, still holding her daughter’s hands, and spoke. “There are so many nice young people there. So high class. And you’re growing into such a beauty! Just look at you. Why, only the other day at church Mrs. Morton commented on it.”
“Oh, Mother, really,” Lucy said, pulling away. If her mother or anyone else had heard that stupid exchange with Eldon Drexel, or her remark about Charles Worth, they would not think of her as anything but a very awkward girl.
“Don’t ‘oh, Mother’ me, dear. You’re a prize.”
A prize, Lucy thought. It sounded like a cheap toy given for knocking down all the pins at a carnival game. But she said nothing and merely smiled.
“So,” her mother continued, “Mrs. Simpson is coming to make up some summer frocks for us.”
“But, Mother, she already came to make our summer frocks. I have enough.”
“No, dear, not just afternoon dresses and things like that. You know how dead New York is in the summer. There is no season to speak of. No parties, dances, not anything. It’s absolutely stultifying. But in Bar Harbor, it’s a different story entirely. All the fine families have ballrooms in their cottages. We need summer gowns.”
As her mother prattled on, Lucy wondered how many occasions she’d have to appear like an absolute fool on this island. After all, a ball by the sea was still a ball. Though the notion of cottages with ballrooms seemed odd. “Mother, how can a cottage have space enough for a ballroom?”
“They call them ‘cottages,’ but they are very large.”<
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“Then why don’t they call them mansions?” She suppressed a sigh. Sometimes, it felt like New York society spoke an entirely different language.
“Well, you know, it’s a summer place, a resort. They don’t want to show off, not like those people in Newport. They are a little more subdued in Bar Harbor, less formal.”
Lucy said nothing. She was thrilled that she would be going so close to the sea, but all this talk of balls and parties had triggered a welter of anxiety that burbled up inside her. She felt almost queasy.
At that moment a bell rang. “Mercy, it’s Mrs. Simpson.” There was the patter of feet as Mary Ann, their maid, hurried to the door. “Now go upstairs, darling, and get down to your petticoats. Then come to my bedroom, and Mrs. Simpson will be in to measure you. We’ll look at the fabrics she’s brought.”
“Yes, Mother.” But she headed to her father’s study first.
“Where are you going, dear?”
“Just to Father’s study. I want to fetch something. He’s not meeting with anyone, is he?”
“No, he’s still at church, meeting with some committee. But, Lucy, don’t get lost in some book. I know how that happens to you.”
But of course she did get lost in a book. Lucy took an atlas to her bedroom upstairs and had only half undressed when she found the map she wanted. Taking a ruler first, she calculated the distance in inches — which she realized was rather stupid — between Greenland and the islands called the Hebrides that Dr. Forsythe had spoken of. From Cape Farewell to the Outer Hebrides was about four inches on the map. From Maine, it was at least six.
“Lucy! Lucy!” Her mother’s fluting voice carried down the hallway. “Lucy, Mrs. Simpson is here.”
“Just a minute. I’ll be there.” The map in the atlas did not show Bar Harbor. All she knew was that the island was on the coast north of Portland, not too far from the Canadian border. She would have to go to the public library for better maps. She heard the footsteps coming down the hall.
“Really, Lucy! Mrs. Simpson is here. It’s rude to keep her waiting. She’s made a special trip and brought so many fabrics.”
“All right! All right! I’m coming.”
Lucy shut the atlas and followed her mother down the hall into the master bedroom. The bed was all but obliterated as a tidal wave of fabric surged across it.
“It’s such a shame that we don’t have a larger space for you to spread these out, Mrs. Simpson, but you know we’re church people. We’re not like one of your uptown clients, say, Mrs. Bannister. I’m sure she has an expansive boudoir in her Fifth Avenue mansion.”
“Now, don’t you fret, Mrs. Snow.” Mrs. Simpson, a stout woman, was holding a swath of fabric up to the tip of her nose and extending her arm. “I must have at least five yards of this lawn cotton. That’ll do you for the tea dances. Lawn fabric — nothing like it. Liberty’s the department store in London. They sell it. I have my sources over here, you know.” She winked. Mrs. Simpson was a great one for winking. “And it’s the perfect thing to wear in Bar Harbor. You don’t want to be too fancy, you know, for a tea dance.”
“They have tea dances, then, on the island?” Marjorie Snow asked.
“Oh, you betcha. They got themselves a pavilion for it. The dances go from four to six in the afternoon. That gives you a couple of hours after the tennis games.” She nodded knowingly at Lucy.
Lucy doubted that she would be much good at tennis, but her mother seemed so happy, and she did not want to spoil her anticipation.
“You know so much, Mrs. Simpson, about Bar Harbor and the life there,” Marjorie Snow said with a sigh.
“Well, I got more than a dozen clients that go every summer.” She had finished measuring the lawn cotton fabric and was folding it. “Let’s see — the Van Wycks, the Benedicts, the Bellamys, the Astors.”
“The Astors!”
“Oh, yes. Been sewing for Mrs. A for almost five years now.”
“My goodness!” Marjorie exclaimed as if she had just glimpsed one of the seven wonders of the world. “Oh, and, Mrs. Simpson, I nearly forgot. I think Lucy needs some combinations.”
“But, Mother, I have so many chemises and drawers.”
“Now, Lucy.” Mrs. Simpson shook her finger. “You want to have the slimmest silhouette possible. Separate chemises and drawers are a thing of the past. You must let me whip up some combis for you. I have the prettiest pink pearl — mind you, not real pearl — for the chemise top buttons. You’ll love them. And I can run a little ribbon through for decoration. You’ll look slim as a reed. No bunching up of the drawers and chemise. So figure hugging. And that’s what we’re after, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Lucy murmured.
Mrs. Simpson continued. “Now, for the evening affairs, it’s a bit fancier. A bit of a show, but nothing gaudy like them Newport families. All these folks come up from Boston and they got a bit of the Puritan in them. Matter of fact, I just made Mrs. Astor a dress inspired — mind you inspired, not copied — from a Charles Frederick Worth design. Gorgeous green chiffon with a cascading back. Looks like waves from the sea.”
“Oh, I’d like that!” Lucy said.
“Well, dearie, ’fraid I can’t make you one. Wouldn’t do for you to show up in something like Mrs. Astor’s gown. But I’ve got plenty of ideas. Plenty of fabrics. So let’s get to work. When did you say you leave?”
“Three weeks. First of June,” Marjorie answered. “They want us there early, unfashionably early, I suppose. Most likely the important people don’t get there until later.”
“Yes, that’s so. First big round of parties begins late June.”
“Oh, I do hope we’ll get invited.” Marjorie pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows as if she dared not say more.
“Of course you’ll get invited. You’re the parson’s wife.” Mrs. Simpson turned to Lucy. “And the parson’s daughter.”
Lucy saw her mother wince. Marjorie Snow loathed the term parson. It made them all sound like country bumpkins. Or, worse yet, confirmed her secret terror of living on the edges of society instead of in its midst. She did not want to be included merely because she was a minister’s wife, but for her own merits. She was from Baltimore after all, and although Prissy was perhaps not a true blood relative, they were as close as any sisters, despite the differences in their backgrounds. Their lives in fact had fallen into an odd synchronism, for they had been born within a month of each other, and each had lost a parent shortly after her birth. After Marjorie’s father died, Marjorie and her mother, Rose, were invited to move into a cottage on the Bancroft estate, seeing as Rose had been Prissy’s mother Adelia’s best friend. The two girls seemed destined also to become best friends and were inseparable until their respective marriages at twenty-one.
Neither Marjorie nor Prissy had been blessed with conceiving a child. Marjorie and Stephen had decided to adopt, but Priscilla could not, owing to certain legal entailments from the Bancroft estate. Marjorie and Priscilla remained fast friends throughout the years, and Priscilla often bestowed upon them modest sums of money and never missed sending presents for Lucy.
Yet Marjorie was pleased when they moved to New York for Stephen to take the pulpit of St. Luke’s. Despite her friendship with Priscilla, they really weren’t anybody in Baltimore, for Southerners had long memories, and as the old families went, she and her widowed mother, Rose, had been little more than “dependents.” Slightly above servants but still charity cases with no real background.
So when Marjorie and Stephen moved to New York five years after their marriage, it was as if the slate were wiped clean. She could talk about her dear friend Priscilla Bancroft Devries, but people didn’t know the details and she need not inform them — although she was inclined sometimes to elaborate a bit. New Yorkers weren’t quite so passionate about genealogy as Southerners were.
When Stephen had told her of the opportunity to adopt Lucy, Marjorie had one stipulation — no one must know that she was adopted. Not eve
n Priscilla. She did not want any “entailments” interfering with her daughter’s chance for a brilliant marriage. And now there was this chance, the wonderful opportunity to be on an island with some of America’s richest families. It wouldn’t be like New York. The parish of St. Luke’s was respectable enough, but its standing was somewhat diluted because of its location so far downtown. Nevertheless, it was a springboard to the office of the bishop, just as Bar Harbor would serve as a springboard for Lucy’s marital prospects. And then there would be no more teetering on the terrifying edges. They would be in the thick of it, or “the thick,” as Marjorie Snow sometimes thought of it.
UNTIL BRIDGEPORT, the glimpses of water had been brief, but now the views became more expansive, especially as they entered Rhode Island. Lucy kept her face pressed to the window. A sensation had begun to build in her. This was no mere train ride. When she looked out the window, it was not simply a coastline that unspooled before her but an edge, and she was being drawn close to that edge. It dared her in a sense — or was it beckoning her?
Lucy sat across from her mother and father in a private compartment on the New York–New Haven–Hartford railroad. The click of her mother’s knitting needles occasionally surfaced amidst the cacophony of the train’s wheezes, groans, and clanking wheels. Her father was browsing through old sermons, or so she supposed, until she heard him say, “Marjorie, the Althorps apparently have a cottage on Bar Harbor.”
“Really, dear? The downtown Althorps or the uptown ones?”
“The downtown ones. Edward and Felicity of our congregation.”
“Well, I never thought they had the means.”
“Nor did I, but here they are listed as members of the tennis club.”
“Oh, Lucy, I do hope you’ll take some tennis lessons.” Marjorie dropped her knitting in her lap. “Lucy, did you hear me?”
“Huh?” Her eyes were fastened on the expanse of gray-green water of a deep bay.
Lucy Page 2
