Her earliest memory, so she has told me, was of the day she peeked over the upstairs railing when she was supposed to be napping and saw Grandmother Garner’s elegant friends arriving for afternoon tea. Lucy looked down at their flower-strewn hats and swirling satin gowns and thought they looked like the brilliantly colored birds in one of her picture books. When the ladies all disappeared into the parlor, Lucy tiptoed down the stairs to follow them, their voices and laughter drawing her like the sound of gurgling water.
Inside the echoing room, Grandmother’s finest china teacups clinked and tinkled along with the laughter. Silver serving pieces that usually rested on the dining room sideboard shone in all their glory on marble-topped side tables. Parlor maids in black uniforms and starched white aprons flitted around like chickadees, serving the guests. Lucy stared in openmouthed awe at the beautiful spectacle.
Then the nanny, who should have been watching Lucy, caught up with her and snatched her away from the doorway. “You’re supposed to be taking a nap,” she whispered as she carried her toward the stairs. Lucy howled in protest.
Grandmother Garner set down her teacup and strode into the foyer to see what all the fuss was about. “Whatever is the matter, Lucy darling?”
“I don’t want to take a nap, Grandmama. I want to come to your party.”
Mrs. Garner smiled regally, careful not to disturb her calm composure. She reminded Lucy of a queen in a fairy tale, royally elegant with her swishing dresses and straight-backed posture, commanding obeisance from all the household servants and respect from all the society matrons. “You certainly shall attend one day, my dear. But first, we must make certain you are properly attired and instructed. These social gatherings require a great deal of training, you know. Now, toddle along upstairs and I will talk to your father about it tonight—there’s no sense trying to discuss anything important with your mother.”
Lucy wasn’t happy about being left out of the festivities, but she did what she was told. And Grandmother Garner kept her promise. The very next day she gave Lucy a miniature porcelain tea set decorated with red roses and gold trim so she could begin to learn the rituals. The porcelain felt cool and smooth beneath Lucy’s fingers.
“You must be very careful when you play with it, Lucy. You wouldn’t want to break any of the pieces.”
“I would never break it, Grandmama!” She carried the tea set up to her playroom so she could recreate her grandmother’s party, planning to invite her stuffed bear and all of her dolls. She invited Mama the next morning at breakfast. “I’m having a tea party today like Grandmama’s. Will you come?”
“I’m sorry, darling, but I have to go down to the tannery to work.” Mama was always going to the tannery and was seldom home during the day. Every morning after breakfast she would pin on her hat and kiss Lucy good-bye, and she wouldn’t return until suppertime.
Lucy decided to invite Daddy, instead. He slept very late every day, and she wasn’t allowed to see him until he woke up. But when the maid brought him his tray of coffee and toast, Lucy tiptoed into his bedroom along with her as she did nearly every morning.
“I’m having a tea party today, Daddy. Would you like to come?” He squinted at her as if the room were very bright, even though all the curtains were still drawn. Then he smiled.
“Are men allowed to come? Your grandmother never invites men to her tea parties, you know.” He pulled himself upright in bed so the servant could set the tray on his lap, then patted a place beside him, inviting Lucy to sit. She climbed up next to him and held out her hand for a lump of sugar. He gave her two. They both laughed at their familiar ritual as she savored the sugar’s crunchy sweetness.
“It’s
my
party, Daddy, and I can invite whoever I want, and I want you.” He tousled her hair, then leaned over to kiss her forehead. Lucy loved her daddy’s scent, like the rum cakes their cook made at Christmastime. The smell of bay rum aftershave always reminded Lucy of him.
Later that afternoon, when Lucy had everything ready, her father came to her tea party, sitting cross-legged on the playroom floor beside her, wearing his blue silk bathrobe. He held a tiny teacup in his hand and made slurping noises as he pretended to drink. Cook had baked tea cakes with pink frosting for Lucy to serve along with the pretend tea. They laughed and laughed. Lucy loved her carefree, golden-haired daddy—the most handsome daddy in the whole world. When she looked at herself in the mirror on her dressing table, she could see that she had fair hair and blue eyes just like his. She didn’t look at all like Mama, who had dark hair and dark eyes and a dark frown.
Once Lucy began to learn proper social skills, Grandmother Garner planned a glorious party for her fifth birthday in May of 1874. Grandmother’s friends filled the parlor, wearing their colorful afternoon gowns and bringing their little daughters and granddaughters along with them. It was a real grown-up tea party—Lucy’s first. Her dress was the prettiest one, hand-sewn by Grandmother’s seamstress and decorated with imported lace and embroidered smocking. Lucy stood in the front foyer to properly greet her guests, saying “Welcome” and “So glad you could come” just as Grandmama had taught her. She loved the envious looks the other girls gave her when they saw her dress and the satin bows that Nanny had tied in her shining golden ringlets.
Everyone brought Lucy a beautifully wrapped present, and she gave each child a little present to take home. The dining room table overflowed with food and candy and other treats, and Lucy ate and ate until her stomach ached. Then Cook brought in a towering cake with birthday candles. “Make a wish and blow them out, dear,” Grandmama said.
Lucy closed her eyes and silently wished that Mother and Daddy could be there for her party. She must have closed her eyes too tightly, because when she opened them again, the candles seemed to waver behind a curtain of tears. It took her two tries to blow out all five candles.
A few minutes later, part of Lucy’s wish came true when her mother rushed home from the tannery in time to eat a piece of birthday cake. She wasn’t dressed as elegantly as the other women were, and she looked small and plain and out of place among the guests with their glittering necklaces and earrings. Lucy was sorry she had wasted her birthday wish.
“Where’s Daddy? Why didn’t he come?” she asked.
“I wish he could be here, Lucy. He loves you so much.” Mother quickly finished her cake and swallowed her tea, then took Lucy aside. “I need to go back to work now,” she whispered. “I love you, sweetheart.”
Daddy didn’t return home until very late that night after Lucy was already asleep. He tiptoed into her room carrying a candle and sat down on the edge of her bed, softly calling her name and stroking her fair hair until she woke up. She recognized his sweet scent. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, my darling girl. I’m so sorry I had to miss your birthday party. Something important came up, and I couldn’t get away.” Even in the middle of the night Daddy seemed happy, his face glowing with pleasure—unlike Mama, who always looked vexed and worried.
“That’s okay, Daddy,” she said sleepily. “Grandma didn’t invite any men. You would have been the only one there.”
“But I didn’t forget your birthday, sweetheart. Here. I brought you a present.” He held out a small box, and Lucy scrambled to sit up so she could unwrap it. Inside was a fine golden chain with a dark green gemstone dangling from it, shaped like a teardrop. “It’s an emerald, sweetheart. Your birthstone. Here, let me put it on you.” He fumbled to fasten the clasp around her neck. When he finished, Lucy hugged him tightly.
“I’ll never, ever take it off! I love you, Daddy, more than anyone in the whole world.”
“And I love you, too. Now, make a wish and blow out the candle, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Lucy didn’t know what to wish for. She had everything she could ever want, except . . . maybe . . . a pony of her very own. She closed her eyes and wished for one, then blew out her father’s candle.
Most of Lucy’s days were spent with her nanny, but sometimes Grandmama would invite Lucy into her bedroom suite to read to her from etiquette books or look at fashion magazines. “I’m going to teach you how to be a proper young woman so you can attend society events someday,” she told her. “You should be very proud of your high standing in this town. Our family owns one of the largest businesses. You can marry anyone you choose.” At age five, Lucy imagined that getting married would be like kissing the handsome prince in the fairy tales Mother used to read to her—the end of the story, not the beginning.
Lucy admired her austere grandmother but was a little in awe of her. She especially loved the stately way her grandmother walked and the swishing sound her skirts made. “You can learn how to walk the same way, Lucy, by balancing a book on top of your head for practice.” Grandmama showed her how, and Lucy practiced and practiced with Nanny, but no matter how hard she tried, Lucy couldn’t get her dresses to make the swishing sound.
“I want more petticoats so my dresses sound like Grandmama’s,” she told her mother one morning at breakfast.
Mother laid down her newspaper and frowned. “You have enough petticoats. You’re a little girl, Lucy. How can you run around and play in such stiff clothing?”
“I don’t want to run, I want petticoats! Buy me some right now!” She stamped her foot for emphasis. Mother’s frown deepened.
“Lucy, you may not talk to me that way.”
Lucy had learned how to throw a temper tantrum to make Nanny do her bidding, and she decided to throw one now for her mother, kicking her feet and making as much racket as she could. Nanny ran into the dining room in alarm, but Mother calmly returned to her newspaper. “Carry Lucy to her room until she can control herself,” she ordered. But as soon as Mother left for the tannery, Grandmother Garner came to Lucy’s rescue.
“There, there, don’t cry, darling. If you want more petticoats, we’ll go shopping today and buy you some.”
Lucy loved to shop. The carriage driver took them down to Central Avenue and Lucy held Grandmother’s hand as they went from store to store, buying three of the prettiest, noisiest petticoats they could find. When Mother came home at suppertime, Lucy twirled in happy circles to show them to her—and to let her know that she had won the contest. Mama sighed and frowned and looked unhappy. Mother always gazed at Lucy as if she were aboard a ship that was slowly sailing away. She wondered why Mother didn’t jump on board with her.
Then one day her mother didn’t leave to go to the tannery after breakfast. Lucy found her sitting at the little writing desk in the morning room, instead. “What are you doing, Mama?”
“I’m writing letters to some very important people, dear.” She didn’t look up.
“Why?”
“Because I need to convince them to make some changes in our community, and—” She paused, finally looking up from her work. “It’s hard to explain, Lucy.”
“Are you going to the tannery after you finish writing the letters?”
When Mother’s eyes filled with tears, Lucy feared she had said something wrong. “I won’t be working there anymore,” she said softly.
Lucy thought it was going to be wonderful to have her mother home again, but nothing changed very much in the months that followed. Mother’s new work always occupied her: writing letters, reading pamphlets, organizing meetings. She never attended Grandmama’s tea parties even though she was at home, nor she did she go calling in the afternoon like all of the other women did. But nearly every evening after dinner, Mother gathered up her picket signs and banners and left the house, staying out until long after Lucy fell asleep. Daddy seemed very angry with her and Lucy overheard him shouting at her one morning after the maid brought him his coffee. Lucy stood outside his bedroom door, listening.
“Where are my friends and I supposed to go now that you’ve closed down the place?”
“That’s the point,” Mother said. “You’re not supposed to go anywhere. You’re supposed to stop drinking every night and stay home with us.” Her voice sounded very calm even though Daddy was angry. “I’m doing this for Lucy’s sake. She loves you so much, you know. But how will she feel in a few years when she learns the truth about where you spend all your time?”
“You wouldn’t tell her!”
“No, of course not. But other people here in town know the truth, and someday she’ll find out, too, and it will destroy her love for you. Please, Horatio. I’m begging you to stop.”
“Go away and leave me alone.”
Lucy had no idea what they were fighting about, but everyone she loved seemed angry and sad all the time, even Grandmama. The tension made Lucy feel sad, too. And frightened. Her nanny tried to keep her occupied during the day and always closed the door to Lucy’s playroom or bedroom or took her for a walk when her parents began to argue. But one morning on Nanny’s day off, Lucy overheard her mother and grandmother fighting as she tiptoed downstairs for breakfast.
“I insist that you stop these crazy campaigns of yours,” Grandmama said. “They are an embarrassment to me, to our family, and to yourself. You should be ashamed of such behavior.” Lucy could tell by the sound of Grandmama’s voice that her face was turning very red.
Mother’s voice sounded as hard and tight as a fist when she replied. “Your son is the one who should be ashamed and embarrassed, not me. Why don’t you ask him how he spends his evenings?”
“Because it’s none of my business. Besides, his actions aren’t described in vivid detail on the front pages of the newspaper every morning the way yours are.”
“I spend my evenings praying and singing hymns—how is that disgraceful?”
“Because you do it on street corners in the most disreputable parts of town and in the company of the most disreputable sort of people. Don’t you care at all about Lucy’s future?”
Lucy’s cheeks started growing warm when she heard her name. She worried that she had caused the argument somehow, but she didn’t know what she had done. She wanted to run into the dining room and tell them to stop fighting, but every time in the past that she had come between the two women, she always felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war, pulled in opposite directions.