She Walks in Beauty (26 page)

“Acquire it?”

“Yes … but also support it. Nurture it. There’s been some talk of sending me back to Europe. In the summer.”

“Why?” The thought of the city without Harry made it feel much less friendly.

“To acquire dusty old antiques for the family’s collections.” He winked.

I blushed. “Would you like to?”

“There’s almost nothing I would like better.”

Almost nothing? It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what it was that he
would
like better when I saw my father on the approach and thought it more prudent to turn my attentions toward Franklin instead.

“I hope they send you then.”

“You do?” He looked as if my words had startled him.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

Father had reached me and offered me his arm.

I smiled at Harry. “It was so good of you to spend your time in conversation with me.”
So good of you … ?
I sounded like Aunt!

Father turned me away from Harry. “Isn’t the heir the other boy?”

“Yes.”

“The one that Lizzie’s been clinging to all evening?”

“She hasn’t been clinging.” And besides, it was her party. And if she held on to him, then I wouldn’t have to talk to him. It would spare me thinking up something to say.

Father looked at me sharply. Grabbing my hand, he placed a finger to my wrist. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Not … exactly.”

“A bit short of breath?”

“Yes.”

“Light-headed?”

“Yes.”

“Anxious?”

I nodded.

“The beginnings of female hysteria. Your mother was prone to it. Take a deep breath.”

I breathed as deeply as my corset allowed.

“And another.”

As I was breathing he passed a vial beneath my nose. My eyes watered at the scent of it. I coughed.

“There. The color’s begun to come back into your cheeks. You’re pretty as a posy once more.” He leaned close. “Introduce me to the De Vries boy. I haven’t properly met him yet.” Father stepped over toward the piano, where Franklin was playing a duet with Lizzie.

I had no choice but to follow.

We came up to them just as they were finishing a song.

Father clapped loudly. “Marvelous. I had not known you to be such an accomplished pianist, Miss Barnes. And at such a young age.”

Lizzie looked a question at me.

I tried to shrug without shrugging. Certainly Father should know how old she was. Hadn’t he delivered her? Lizzie was nearly the exact same age as me.

Franklin had stood at the sound of Father’s clapping. He put out his hand. “Franklin De Vries, sir.”

“Dr. Carter. Aren’t you the fellow who was so kind to help my sister at the opera opening? I assume you’ve been introduced to my daughter since then?”

As Franklin turned toward me, Lizzie slipped away from the piano bench, mouthing a
thank you
as she flitted away.

Father and Franklin talked at length about the different clubs in which they shared membership. I was beginning to feel quite left out when the topic turned to something I knew.

“The Riis book? You mean Mr. Jacob Riis?” I had blurted out the words before I realized I was saying them. I wished I had followed the conversation long enough to know how they had stumbled onto the topic. But since they had, why should I not be a part of the conversation? I turned to Franklin. “Have you read it, Mr. De Vries?”

He frowned at me in such a way that I wished I hadn’t said anything at all. “Isn’t it about immigrants? Filled with lurid details and sensational stories?”

Father answered him. “It is indeed.”

“And isn’t Riis himself an immigrant?”

I spoke before Father could. “He is, but—”

“Then I can’t believe any reasoning person would consider anything he has to say.” Franklin spoke with finality.

Father was nodding in agreement, but I could not keep myself from speaking. “Then you haven’t seen the photographs!”

“Photographs?” Father had raised his brow in a way that made me feel as if I were six years old again.

Franklin cast Father a look before he turned to me. “You may not know this, Miss Carter, but photographs can be staged. They can be … prearranged, so to speak. In advance. And in that case, they’re worse than a lie.”

“But these weren’t.”

“And how can you be sure, dear girl, if you weren’t there?” Father patted my hand as he spoke, but he clearly wanted me to be silent. He turned his back to me and fixed upon Franklin. “The book is clearly Tammany Hall and the Democrats at work. They’re the only ones who seem to care about the immigrants.”

“And it pays them dividends come Election Day.”

But they were wrong. “The book isn’t about politics. It’s about people!” Why couldn’t they understand that? And why didn’t they just read the book for themselves and then form an opinion?

“Forgive her, Mr. De Vries. Women shouldn’t be allowed to discuss politics. They can never hope to understand them.” He turned to me and winked. “My dear Clara, people
are
politics. Even if those poor souls down on the East Side are only fit for prison.”

“But …”

Franklin smiled. “Don’t worry yourself any more about them, Miss Carter. What was it our Lord once said? The poor will always be with us?”

Yes, perhaps. But hadn’t He also said,
“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me”?

Father’s cure for my light-headedness wasn’t wholly successful. By the time the evening drew to an end, my anxiety had reached new levels. And I had a desperate wish to hide myself in some dark corner, sink to my heels, and rock back and forth against the growing pain and pressure in my stomach. Only I couldn’t. And even if I could, my corset wouldn’t have let me.

I clasped Lizzie’s hand in farewell.

As I did so, she turned us away from her mother and told me to meet her in the hedge the next afternoon. I nodded before rejoining Father.

We had scarcely stepped through the door and shed our cloaks when Aunt began to question us. “What did they serve?”

I recited the menu by heart. “A lobster bisque and salmon with cucumber. Roast of lamb served with mint jelly. And a marrow with lemon salad.” Why was it that food that had tasted so good now seemed to have staled in the remembering? “With kickshaws to start.”

“Kickshaws! They are not kickshaws. They are
quelque chose
. French for … for . . .”

French for kickshaws I imagined, those small dainty morsels that were served before dinner. “And nearly every sort of dessert you can imagine.” The novelty of all of the creams and custards and ices had dimmed in the ensuing hours. What I had eaten with relish had turned sour in the depths of my stomach.

Aunt sniffed. “You’ll have a bellyache for sure.”

I already did.

“And what did Lizzie wear?”

“Spotted tulle.”

“She didn’t! She must have looked like some overgrown child. What color was it?”

“Pink.”

“Well. At least your gown was yellow. It must have shone by gaslight.”

“The Barneses converted to electric lights. Two months ago.”

“Electric! They do so little for the complexion. And change completely the colors of one’s gown. Vulgarity in the extreme!”

I left Aunt clucking in the hall and went upstairs to my room.

Taking to my bed did little to ease my discomfort. And sitting up eased no pain.

I took away all of my pillows only to discover that if I lay on one side, it sent a gurgle through my stomach. If I turned over, it sent the gurgle back to the other side. And if lying on my back pushed the weight of all I had eaten against my backbone, lying on my stomach was simply not an option.

I surrendered, finally, to a fitful sleep. Dreams of Lizzie’s dinner intermingled with visions of roast lamb, puddles of cream, and my own mother. A red lobster began to chase me, and as I was trying to escape, I tripped on a rumple in the carpet. I stretched out my hands into the interminable fathoms of dreams and the skeleton bouquet I was carrying dropped away. It seemed to me then that we were in Mama’s room. That I knew what would happen next.

She had been waiting for me, lying on her bed. And in her illness she was helpless to do anything but observe my approach.

I remember thinking that whatever I did, I must not touch her. Must not harm her. And so, as I stumbled on the carpet, I made one last valiant effort to avoid her body. I threw my arms out, one hand missing her entirely, and the other coming to rest between her legs. I sighed in relief, knowing it had encountered only a pillow.

But as I was congratulating myself on saving her, she suddenly and terrifically paled. And then she fainted dead away. And even in my dream, even though I knew that I was in fact dreaming, I knew what must happen next.

She sickened rapidly.

Her eyes were swallowed by massive bruises. The pastiness of her pale skin became tinged with yellow.

“I’ve killed you, Mama.”

“No.”

“But I hurt you. When I fell on you.”

“I hurt myself long ago. You had nothing to do with it.”

“What will I do? Once you’ve gone?”

She had tried to smile. I could tell by the look in her eyes. And then she began to sing. “‘Just as I am . . .’”

“I don’t—I can’t remember that one!” It had been ages since we had sung it at church. “Sing it to me. So I’ll remember it.”

But, as she had so often done during those last days, she glided off into sleep.

I woke myself with moaning. And I was not the only one I woke. Aunt had come to my bedside, holding a taper. A maid lurked in the doorway behind her.

“What is it?”

“I feel as if . . .” Oh, I hardly had words for it. I felt as if I were suffocating. But if I breathed too deeply, I feared I might stir the nausea once more. It felt as if there were some urgency deep inside that was driving me to stand, to walk. But what I wanted, more than anything, was to sleep. “I feel … ill.”

Aunt thrust a hand from her robe and placed it on my head. “You’re perspiring, but you have no fever.” It was not her words that comforted me, but the fact of her presence. I could count the times she had touched me in kindness on one hand.

“I . . .” Whatever it was I had meant to say was forgotten by the throbbing of my head. And the churning of my stomach.

“Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Something that will cure what ails you.”

I took it from her outstretched hand and drank it all.

She motioned a maid to my side.

I collapsed back against my pillows. But only for a moment, for in the next instant everything I had eaten at dinner the night before came barreling back up my throat in one great heave.

The maid offered up a silver bucket just in time.

Afterward, Aunt sat on the side of my bed and patted my hand. “There now. Don’t you feel better?”

I couldn’t respond. I was still trying to catch my breath.

“Turn.”

I rolled to one side and Aunt loosed the strings of my corset.

“Thank you.”

She patted my hand again. The patting, the closeness, seemed to contribute to an awkwardness between us. I wished she would go back to her bedroom with her dogs.

“Now then. You must be more careful in what you eat. The corset is limiting. Less meat, fewer sauces. No champagne. The corset cannot support it.”