“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll bring it up to him.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Mrs. Garner would never allow such a thing.”
Instead, Bebe waited until the tray was ready, then followed the maid upstairs, lugging the stack of books. Horatio was awake but still in bed. “Why are you dressed already, Beatrice? What time is it, anyway?”
She walked over to his dresser to look at his pocket watch. No one had ever cared about the time of day on the farm, following the rhythm of the animals and the sun and the seasons. But Horatio and his family scheduled everything according to the clock. There were several of them scattered throughout the house, including the tall case clock in the foyer that chimed four times every hour. It made Bebe uneasy to hear regular reminders of the passing of time, especially since so far she had not accomplished anything useful.
“It’s ten minutes past eight,” she told him. Horatio groaned and closed his eyes. Bebe waited, wondering what to do. “Your father said he needed you at work this morning.”
“Too bad. Let him wait. I have a pounding headache, and the last thing I need is all that racket at the tannery. . . . What are all those books for?”
“Your mother loaned them to me. She says I need to read them so I can learn proper etiquette and prepare for my social duties. And a seamstress is coming before long to measure me.”
Horatio smiled and stretched out his hand to her. “Come here, my love. Why so glum?” The tears that Bebe had held back all morning spilled over as Horatio pulled her close. “Are you sorry you married me, Beatrice?”
“No! Never! But I wish . . . I wish it could just be the two of us, and that we lived all by ourselves so that I could cook for you and take care of you myself and—”
“It will be that way soon. Didn’t I promise to build you your very own house?” He tried to kiss her, but she freed herself from his embrace. “What’s wrong, dear one?”
“Your breakfast is getting cold, and your father needs you at work, and I need to get ready for the seamstress. She’s coming shortly.”
The woman arrived promptly at nine and made Bebe strip to her chemise and drawers while Mrs. Garner and one of the chambermaids stood right there in the room with her, watching. Then the seamstress measured every inch of Bebe from head to toe, shaking her head and muttering as she bemoaned the fact that Bebe was so small.
“I may have to use children’s patterns,” she told Mrs. Garner, “and even then they may not fit her properly.”
“I’m not a child,” Bebe tried to explain. “I’m seventeen.”
Mrs. Garner and the seamstress exchanged looks. While Bebe put her clothes back on, the two older women paged through pattern books and examined fabric samples and discussed lace and trim. Neither of them bothered to consult Bebe or ask for her opinions as they planned an entire wardrobe for her. If she had tiptoed out the door, she doubted anyone would have noticed.
“The girl doesn’t have a single decent thing to wear,” Mrs. Garner told the seamstress. “I’ll need to take her shopping for shoes and hats and gloves—and undergarments, too, from the look of hers.”
Bebe pressed her lips together and tried not to cry.
Their shopping trip a few days later was an exhausting affair. Back home in New Canaan, Bebe could have purchased everything she needed at Harrison’s General Store, but Roseton had so many stores to choose from that she and Mrs. Garner spent two long days traipsing from one to the next. Mrs. Garner made all of the decisions. When Bebe first arrived in Roseton, all of her belongings had fit inside two modest-sized carpetbags. But by the time she finished shopping and her new dresses had arrived, she needed a bureau, an armoire, and a vanity table to hold everything. It seemed like a sin to own so much.
“Tomorrow you will receive callers for the first time,” Mrs. Garner told her when she and Horatio had lived there for a month. “Be dressed and ready to greet our guests by two o’clock sharp. Wear the blue taffeta gown. My maid will arrange your hair.”
“You’ll do fine, my darling,” Horatio assured her as he kissed her good-bye in the morning. “There’s no reason in the world to be ill at ease. You will win over the other women with your charms in no time, just as you captivated me.”
Horatio’s confidence seemed unfounded to Bebe. But as she gazed at her husband’s handsome face, she decided that she would walk through fire and flood for him. Surely a simple tea party wouldn’t be so difficult.
That afternoon as Bebe sat in front of her looking glass watching the servant arrange her dark hair in an elaborate knot, all of her confidence suddenly evaporated. What had ever made her think she could transform herself from a simple farm girl into a society woman? Laboring like a man alongside her father had been easy compared to facing a roomful of women like Mrs. Garner. What would she say to them? And how would she ever manage to pour tea with shaking hands?
“All finished, ma’am.” The maid had secured the last hairpin in place. “You have lovely hair, ma’am. So full and thick.”
Bebe stared at her reflection and saw a stranger.
“Life is always
changing,”
her mother had said,
“always flowing forward like a stream.”
It was time for Bebe to wade into the current and change, as well. She rose from her seat at the dressing table, gracefully lifting her skirts, and went downstairs to the parlor to face her guests.
Mrs. Garner wore a tense smile as she introduced Bebe to the chattering ladies. Bebe hated being on display, scrutinized by a roomful of strangers. Some of the guests boldly questioned her about her age, others commented rudely on how short and girl-like she was. Bebe wished she could retaliate by pointing out how stout and wrinkled they were or by asking their age in return. But according to the etiquette books, she was supposed to answer their questions politely, no matter how inconsiderate they were, and above all to smile.
As the afternoon wore on, Bebe thought she was doing well until one of the younger women approached and asked her a question she hadn’t expected. “Which clubs will you belong to, Beatrice?”
“I-I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Which women’s organizations do you plan to participate in? Which causes have you supported?”
Bebe stuttered to form a reply. “W-well . . . back home, my mother and I worked with the Anti-Slavery Society.”
The woman frowned and waved her hand in dismissal. “That’s all in the past. The war is over. The slaves are free.”
“Yes, but there is still so much work to do. One of our guest speakers, Lucretia Mott, pointed out that since women proved their equality during the war by running their husbands’ farms and businesses, we should be allowed the same civil rights as men, and—”
“Excuse me? You’re not talking about woman suffrage, are you?” The room grew unusually still. Bebe felt everyone’s attention shift to her. She had no idea what the correct response was, so she told the truth.
“Well . . . Mrs. Mott explained that it was compassionate, educated women like ourselves who have worked hard to abolish slavery. And now all of the former male slaves are being granted civil rights, even though many are illiterate, while literate women are still being denied those rights.”
For a long moment, no one seemed to breathe. The room felt as hot as the hayloft on an August afternoon. Bebe had been certain that this gathering of women would agree with Lucretia Mott’s conclusions. Instead, they appeared shocked.
Finally, the woman who had asked Bebe the question mumbled, “I see. Would you excuse me, please?” She scurried away as if Bebe had head lice. Within minutes, everyone seemed to be saying good-bye and leaving. Bebe had no way of knowing if it was because of what she’d said or if afternoon teas always ended this abruptly. She soon found out.
“How could you!” Mrs. Garner roared the moment they were alone. “Didn’t you read the books I gave you?”
“Y-yes. All four of them.”
“Then why did you decide to ignore all of the warnings about never discussing politics?”
“I . . . I . . . she asked me about the clubs I belonged to, and—”
“And you told her you supported woman suffrage? Of all the outrageous things!”
“I didn’t mean . . . I only went to one anti-slavery meeting back home and—”
“You’ve not only embarrassed me in my own home, you’ve also ruined your chances of being invited to any of their homes! No one wants to entertain a woman with such radical views.”
“But don’t women deserve the same rights as—?”
“Certainly not! The public sphere of labor and politics is a man’s domain. Ours is the more exalted sphere of home and family. Motherhood is a woman’s highest goal. Our success can be seen in the character of our children and in the respite we provide for our husbands at home.”
“But—”
“Don’t you
ever
mention woman suffrage in my house or in my presence again! Do you understand?”
Bebe wanted to run down the hill and jump into the wide, cold river that flowed through Roseton. She was still in her room, crying, when Horatio returned home from work. He went to her immediately and folded her in his arms. “Oh, my poor Beatrice. Is it safe to assume that the afternoon didn’t go very well?”
“It was awful,” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry, Horatio. I know how important this event was to your mother, and I embarrassed her, and . . . and I let you down.”
“Beatrice, I love you. Nothing will ever change that. I don’t care what you said or what happened today. It isn’t important to me.”
“But your mother—”
“You don’t have to be part of Mother’s social circle if you don’t want to be,” he said gently.
“That’s good. Because after today, I doubt if she’ll ever allow me to be seen with her in public again.”
“I’ll smooth things over with her. Now, please don’t cry anymore. It breaks my heart to see you so upset.”
She drew a breath and tried to pull herself together, but her tears wouldn’t stop falling. “But what will I do all day, Horatio? The house is cleaned for us, all of our meals are prepared, our clothes are all sewn and laundered and pressed. The chores that I used to do back home are all done for me, and I have nothing to do. Your mother doesn’t like me and never talks to me. You told me I mustn’t talk to the servants, and I don’t have any friends . . .”
He smoothed her hair off her face. “You’ll make new friends soon. The first day of any new venture is always the most difficult one. I’m certain that when you try again, you’ll find someone in Mother’s crowd or among their daughters who will be a friend to you.”
Bebe wanted to believe him but couldn’t. She longed to be honest with him, to tell him that she really wasn’t graceful and refined, to confess that she had been playacting ever since the day they’d met. But the only certainty in her life right now was that she loved him—more and more each day, if that was possible. And she would do anything in the world for him. She dried her eyes with her new linen handkerchief and smiled up at him.
“Forgive me for complaining, Horatio. I’m so sorry. I’ll do better the next time. I promise.”
When Tommy O’Reilly arrested me last night, he’d had the audacity to ask if I was married. I stuck out my chin, looked him square in the eye, and said, “No, I am not, Tommy—are you?”
He took a step backward, holding up his hands as if I might take a swing at him. It wouldn’t have been the first time. “I meant no offense, Harriet. I just thought that if you were, I could call your husband to—”
“To do what? Come and rescue me? Talk some sense into me? Take control of me?”
“Sorry I asked,” he said, shaking his head. He was careful to keep his hands in a defensive position. “And the answer is no, I’m not.”
“Not what?” I was too angry to keep track of the conversation.
“Not married. I’m single. Like you.” He smiled, and if I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I would have thought he was being flirtatious. But I was immune to men’s advances in general—and to Tommy’s in particular.
Grandma Bebe may not realize it, but she had played a huge part in forming my opinions of men and marriage. To be honest, I couldn’t see why I needed either one. She no longer had a husband and she fared just fine without one. She went wherever she pleased and did whatever she pleased, and I planned to do the same. I knew how to start an automobile, how to drive it down the road, and how to take care of it when it rattled to a halt. What did I need a husband for?
My parents’ marriage had also contributed to my opinions— but not in a positive way. Mind you, I never heard them arguing, and our house was, for the most part, a peaceful, happy place. But that was largely because my mother treated my father like a maharajah in his palace:
“Yes, dear. No, dear. Whatever you say, dear.”
On the odd occasion when my father became unreasonable she resorted to tears, which nearly always worked in her favor. I was much too proud to weep, so how could I have a marriage like theirs? I planned to navigate my own path through life, and I had no intention of handing the rudder over to anyone else.
My low regard for marriage had solidified into rock-solid aversion when my sister Alice became engaged. Where should I begin to describe that turn of events? After breaking hundreds of hearts, Alice finally made up her mind and settled on one beau. If her decision surprised me, imagine the astonishment of her innumerable spurned suitors. The fact that she’d made up her mind at all was shocking. My empty-headed sister had trouble deciding which hat to wear for a stroll down the block, let alone choosing something as momentous as a mate. Alice insisted on seeing the good in everyone, so she had been forced to rely on Mother’s skills at dissecting people and analyzing their pedigrees. It was the only way Alice ever could have narrowed her choice down to one.
I was thirteen that spring of 1912 when Alice got engaged. She was twenty. The lucky winner of Alice’s heart was a banker’s son named Gordon Shaw, grandson of one of Roseton’s founding fathers. I had absolutely no idea what Alice saw in him. Gordon was a bore. His favorite topics of conversations were himself and his bank full of money.
But before the marriage could occur I had to endure . . .
The
Wedding
. When General Pershing and his troops set off for France in 1917, they didn’t go through nearly as much rigmarole as Mother and Alice did as they prepared for
The Wedding
. Digging the Panama Canal was simple in comparison. One afternoon, when they were trying to narrow down the guest list to slightly less than circus-like proportions, the hullabaloo became so unbearable that I fled to Grandma Bebe’s house for refuge. I found her seated at her desk, writing a speech for a temperance rally.