Читать книгу The Bucket Flower - Donald R. Wilson - Страница 7

Edward Cushing was the least desirable man in the world. The past three days had not helped to lessen the repugnance associated with the idea of an engagement to that man. The thought of marriage to him called up nightmarish images, which she quickly cast aside. Much to her relief, his name had not been brought up again, but she was certain that her parents had invited him to tonight’s dinner party. Somehow she had to get through the evening without appearing to be self-conscious and embarrassed by his presence.

Beth knew no man that she cared to be engaged to at this moment except Michael Otis, but Michael was already married to her best friend, Mary. Both Mary and her husband were expected to arrive for dinner at any moment.

How fortunate it was that she had planned to go away now. Living at home was becoming more and more like prison. Leaving tomorrow morning meant escaping further dominance by Papa and Mama and at least postponing a proposal from Mr. Cushing. For her parents to consider her marriage to Mr. Cushing without even consulting her was beyond belief.

From her rocker she looked around her third-floor bedroom. She would miss this room and its stairway to her hideaway in the turret. The latest issue of McClure’s lay in her lap, unable to hold her interest. The impending dinner party was intended to be a bon voyage celebration for her and Aunt Sarah, but the fact that Edward Cushing might be lurking downstairs destroyed any pleasant anticipation.

The past three days had slipped by in the wink of an eye despite her eagerness to get away. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to leave so soon. Aunt Sarah had obtained the train tickets, but there had been so much preparation for their trip. Which gowns and dresses should she take, and which ones should be left behind? Dresses for traveling, walking, morning, balls, and parties. For sporting events she decided upon long skirts and shirtwaists with leg-of-mutton sleeves. Then there were the hats, the scarves, the shoes, the unmentionables, and her jewelry. She hoped she had made the right decisions. Fortunately Mama had been busy with plans for this evening’s farewell dinner. It had been difficult to limit herself to three Saratogas and the one valise to carry with her on the train. Then, too, there had been arrangements to be made about her trust fund and the train ride out to Wellesley to borrow a microscope from Dr. Adams. Thanks to her mentor, the microscope and other equipment were being shipped separately to St. Augustine.

Voices rose from the second floor. The guests were already arriving. Once the ladies had completed their primping after depositing their cloaks and hats in the master bedroom, Mama planned to have them congregate in the second-floor drawing room, and her presence was required. After all, the hastily arranged dinner was a going-away affair in her honor.

She stood and made one final appraisal before the full-length mirror. Her carefully coiffed, long, blonde tresses were in place. The pearl necklace and matching pearl earrings were appropriate for an unattached lady. She had chosen a simple satin dinner dress, which added modest curves to her slim figure. But no matter how much she tightened her corset or let out the bodice, she still looked like a string bean. She had long known that an hourglass figure like those Gibson Girls she admired in Harper’s Bazaar was beyond her natural capabilities. Unless hoop skirts and bustles came back into vogue, she would need additional padding in the right places.

Mama had insisted on making tonight’s dinner party formal. After reluctantly donning her gloves and picking up her fan, she descended to the second floor and turned toward the drawing room, which was surprisingly quiet. The voices had retreated to the first-floor parlor adjoining the dining room. To her great dismay, instead of the guests she had expected, there stood Mr. Cushing alone before the fire. Mama had set a trap!

If Mr. Cushing hadn’t seen her, she would have slipped past the archway and continued on down the stairs. Instead, she pushed the button beside the door that switched on the electric lights. Mama preferred the gaslight’s gentle glow, but now was no time for a romantic setting. The electric lights gave Mr. Cushing the yellow-gray face of a walking cadaver. Her worst fears were realized: for the first time they were without a chaperone.

The fact that Edward Lawrence Cushing II was the heir to the Oceanic Steamship Lines was of little interest to her. She knew that a year ago his father had died, leaving him in control of the company. Oceanic competed with Papa’s Atlantic and Southern Steamship Company, a smaller firm. That Mr. Cushing desired to absorb Papa’s line into his own was no secret. The merger would make the company the largest trans-Atlantic line on the western side of the Atlantic. It had become evident that Papa also had designs upon combining the two steamship lines into one. He had said in private that it was a matter of becoming a partner or running the risk of being driven out of business.

Marrying Mr. Cushing had never entered her mind until Papa had broached the subject. But now here he was, towering over her, his purpose clear. Was she expected to be Papa’s gift to Cushing to sweeten the transaction, or had her father added her to the merger to land her a husband? She wasn’t sure which reason was more distasteful.

The reason for certain events of the past few months involving Mr. Cushing now became evident. Mr. Cushing had invited Mama and Papa to a concert, and she was included as an afterthought, or so she had surmised at the time. The bleak, shabby Music Hall, combined with Mr. Cushing’s dreary personality, scuttled an evening that even an excellent program by the Boston Symphony couldn’t salvage. Despite that disaster, Mama had invited Mr. Cushing to join the family at two dinner parties, a lecture, the theater, and an evening of parlor games. The latter turned out to be worse than the Music Hall fiasco. Even “Bulls and Bears” failed to hold his attention. Mr. Cushing had no more interest or aptitude for silly pastimes than Papa had. At first it had been difficult to understand why Mama and Papa were befriending this strange man. But it became clear that Papa shared his business interests, and Mama admired his social standing with Boston’s Old Guard. He was related in some hard-to-follow way to both Oliver Wendell Holmes and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He was also a Harvard graduate and a Presbyterian.

“Good evening, Mr. Cushing,” she said, careful to avoid smiling. This was no occasion for him to get encouragement from her.

“Good evening to you, Miss Sprague.” He bowed slightly. The spasmodic twitch under his left eye was active this evening. His long, thin face and scraggly, drooping moustache depressed her. “Please sit down over here.” He was at least ten years her senior, and in her imagination the washed-out color of his hair and his sallow complexion made him look much older.

Being in the same room with him was always awkward, and now, knowing his plans for her, being forced to be alone and face-to-face like this was even more intolerable. “We’re expected in the parlor downstairs, Mr. Cushing. Dinner will be served shortly.”

“There’s something I wish to say to you,” he said, taking her arm in a viselike grip. “It will only take a moment.” She had little choice but to sit as he guided her to a chair. He sat facing her, squinting through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. “I have a ring,” he said as he reached into his coat pocket and produced a small velvet box.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked, frantic to find a way to prevent this scene from proceeding any further. Since swooning might be misunderstood, she arose from the chair.

“Oh, yes. I have a letter of proposal right here.” He replaced the box and reached inside his coat for an envelope which he held out to her as he stood.

“I don’t wish to accept that, Mr. Cushing.” Accepting the envelope required a reply. A reply involved further embarrassment and hurt feelings. She wished she and Aunt Sarah were already on their way to St. Augustine.

“But why not, Miss Sprague?” His left eye was twitching more than ever. “I have asked your father for your hand in marriage, and he has consented. Aren’t you afraid of becoming a spinster? College graduates aren’t considered to be good homemakers, you know. I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime. Naturally, you will be expected to give up further studies.”

“The few times we have met do not amount to a courtship, Mr. Cushing. You hardly know me.” Good manners prevented her from adding, “and I don’t want to know you.” She added, “I will not give up my graduate studies.” She was also tempted to suggest that his being unmarried at thirty-three raised questions, but only said, “There are worse things than being a spinster, Mr. Cushing.” She whirled toward the archway.

“Miss Sprague.” The sharp edge to his voice made her stop and turn. “There is much riding upon this engagement, you know, much more than merely a young lady’s whims.”

“Come, Mr. Cushing, the other guests are waiting downstairs,” she said, giving him no choice but to follow her down the stairway leading to the main hall.

“Ah, here come Elizabeth and Mr. Cushing!” gushed Mama from the foot of the stairs. The look of joy on her mother’s face grated against her own feelings. The other guests were in the parlor.

“Did he ask you?” Mama whispered in her ear.

“No, Mama.” That was the truth. No question had been asked, and he had returned the envelope to his pocket.

Cousin Daniel stepped forward from the group as they entered the parlor. “Cousin Elizabeth! How good it is to see you.” He was wearing a clawhammer coat and cummerbund along with patent leather oxfords, as were all the gentlemen except one. He kissed her longer and harder than was proper for kissing cousins, but it told her that he and the others had not been made aware of the impending proposal. Mama had invited her stocky nephew to round out the table, always balancing the number of gentlemen and ladies.

Looking past her cousin, she observed the ladies’ long, sweeping dinner gowns of Chantilly, lilac satin, fawn silk, emerald, and black velvet polonaise. Most of the ladies wore their hair pulled into a roll or knot at the back. Mary McKay Otis’ was swept up from the forehead in a pompadour, and Grace Sumner’s hair was piled on top and pinned carelessly in a knot. The ladies, except Grace, decorated their hair with aigrettes, wreaths of silver blossoms, gold net, lace, ribbons, or pearls. Diamonds, broaches, pendants, earrings and bracelets abounded.

Grace’s fiancé, Patrick Muldoon, was the only gentleman not wearing a formal dinner suit. A shabby coat several sizes too large hung from his bony frame. And Grace and Patrick were not wearing gloves. Grace knew the custom for formal dinners and wore none, she guessed, because Patrick didn’t own any. Grace had been known in college for her daring social gaffes. Mr. Muldoon was a fisherman and very likely the first Irishman to enter the Sprague mansion by the front door. It would be intriguing to know what Grace’s family thought of this redheaded young man.

Eleven guests were there for dinner. Other invited couples had made their apologies. The short notice, Mama said, was the problem, but she knew that most Bunker Hill and Back Bay families never intended to be seen in the Sprague home.

Stepping past her cousin to greet the other guests, she spoke to the Tremonts and the Burroughses, friends of her parents, then to Aunt Sarah. Her college friends, Mary and Grace, were next. With them were Patrick, and at last, Mary’s husband, dear Michael.

“That’s a lovely gown, Elizabeth,” he said.

She hoped that the redness she felt creeping up her neck went unnoticed as she talked with Michael.

Mrs. Faraday opened the sliding doors to the dining room and announced dinner, and the procession began. As was the custom, Papa escorted the senior lady, Aunt Sarah, followed by the Tremonts, then the Burroughses. Next came Mary and Michael and then Grace and Patrick.

“My arm, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Cushing, more in the tone of a command than an invitation. But she ignored his proffered arm and walked beside him without touching. Mama, the hostess, accompanied by Cousin Daniel, brought up the rear. She endured the formality of each gentleman seating his lady to his left. Cushing took off his gloves and sat beside her. Like the other ladies, she then removed her gloves and placed them in her lap, resisting the wild inclination to stuff them into Mr. Cushing’s water glass. Across the table Grace and Mr. Muldoon seemed oblivious to the formalities.

She dreaded having to sit through dinner beside Mr. Cushing, but Michael sat on her left, and Grace and Mr. Muldoon were across from her. She intended to converse with her friends as much as possible.

The ten-course dinner proceeded smoothly. Mrs. Faraday was assisted by their two maids, Eileen, the Irish one, and the new Norwegian girl whose name she hadn’t learned. Mrs. Faraday had outdone herself with the lobster sauté and the veal cutlets. Mama had seen to it that the appropriate wine was served with each course. Michael and Mary had their heads together. Fortunately Mama was conversing with Mr. Cushing, leaving her the opportunity to explain her trip to Grace across the table. On Grace’s right, Mr. Muldoon was relating a long story to Mrs. Burroughs. At one point he reached across her for a dinner roll, startling the elderly woman. She was amused to see Cousin Daniel, who was being ignored, attempting to stifle a yawn.

After coffee and liqueurs were served, Papa got to his feet. She expected her father was going to suggest to the ladies that they repair to the parlor while the gentlemen join him in the library for a cigar. Instead, standing stiffly erect as always, he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proposing a toast. As you may have heard, our darling daughter, Elizabeth, has been planning a trip to Florida. I had intended to wish her bon voyage, but instead, I take this opportunity to congratulate Elizabeth Julia Sprague and Mr. Edward Lawrence Cushing II on the announcement of their engagement to be married!”

Amidst the ohs and ahs around the table, she sat stunned, at first not certain she had heard correctly. Looking at Mama she saw a flash of startled ignorance which transformed into a weak smile. Across the table, Grace, who was seldom shocked by anything, sat with her mouth open. Near Papa’s end of the table Aunt Sarah had her napkin to her mouth, but the upper half of her face was whiter than usual. Mr. Cushing nodded at the others, accepting their congratulations.

“Mr. Cushing, say something!” Elizabeth said in his ear, sure he would have to correct his misunderstanding.

Cushing arose, holding his glass in his hand. “I offer a toast to my future mother-in-law, the gracious Mrs. Sprague, and my future father-in-law and partner in—”

“No! No! There’s been a mistake!” She jumped to her feet. “I’m not marrying Mr. Cushing!”

Papa’s face turned beet red. “Sit down, Elizabeth, you are upsetting our guests.”

She looked at Mama for help, but Mama’s expression was pleading for her daughter to comply, mixed with the consternation of knowing she had already made up her mind to rebel.

Papa was still standing at the head of the table, trembling. “There will be no trip to Florida, Elizabeth.”

“I am going if I have to crawl there on my hands and my knees, Papa!” She heard Mama’s gasp, but across the table Grace was grinning at her.

Aunt Sarah interrupted the stunned silence that followed with a calm voice. “A two-month trip to Florida might be just the thing to calm Elizabeth and give her proper time to reconsider such an, ah, um, interesting proposal.”

“Elizabeth,” Papa said through clenched teeth, “you have embarrassed our guests and your mother and have subjected our family to scandal. You owe everyone, and especially Mr. Cushing, an apology.” The humiliation was too great to remain in the room. She ran into the hall and up two flights of stairs and flopped on her bed, sobbing as she had as a child.

The dining room walls had closed in on her as if she were in a torture chamber. Her parents had sold her to Mr. Cushing with the world watching. The scandal of her rebellion would spread all over Boston by tomorrow; Mrs. Burroughs and Mrs. Tremont would see to that. To allow it to appear as if she had accepted Mr. Cushing’s proposal, and then later refute it would have been just as bad. Not only had she defied Papa, but she did it in front of guests. She had violated the social conventions regarding poise, family solidarity, display of temper, and creating a scene. She had brought shame onto her parents, and she did it before non-family—the Burroughses, the Tremonts, and worst of all, her friends.

If a man had to ask for her hand in marriage, why wasn’t it, she asked herself between sobs, someone like Michael Otis and not Edward Cushing? Mama had taught her from an early age that two standards existed, one for men, and the other for women, and that men in general were beasts. Edward Cushing was one of them. She had always promised herself to search for one who was not.

Michael was a real gentleman, handsome, and from a good family. She had known him ever since their third year in college, his at Harvard, hers at Wellesley. At a college-sponsored dance she had met him and introduced him to Mary. From that moment it was obvious that Mary and Michael were meant for each other. She envied Mary but loved her as much as Michael and shared in the happiness of their courtship. She admired Michael’s handsome features, his gentleness, courteousness, and gallantry. He was a churchgoer and an excellent dancer. Where Papa was haughty and arrogant, Michael was dignified and gracious.

Edward Cushing was like Papa and had no sensitivity for her feelings or preferences. Only Mr. Cushing was worse—he lacked the dignity and the handsome features of Michael or Papa. Above all, he had grabbed her hurtfully by the arm and had forced her into a chair in the drawing room, causing her to suspect that cruelty lurked just below the veneer of his gentlemanly behavior.

It seemed as if she had been lying on the bed for hours, but perhaps it had been only minutes before she heard a light tapping on the door frame. She hadn’t closed her door, and someone was hesitating in the doorway. Expecting to see her mother, she buried her head in her pillow.

“Beth?” Mary was the one who had started calling her “Beth” when they met at Dana Hall. Only Mary and Grace called her that. She sat up slowly, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Oh, Mary,” she sobbed, indicating that her best friend should come sit beside her on the bed.

Mary had difficulty climbing up on the high bed in her dinner dress but finally succeeded. She sat close by without saying anything. She had placed a bag at the foot of the bed.

“Oh, Mary, what have I done?”

“Did you accept Mr. Cushing’s proposal of marriage?”

“He never proposed. He started to hand me a ring, and then he offered a letter of proposal, but I refused it.”

“Then you’ve done nothing wrong, Beth. Your father must have misunderstood.”

“I’m not certain of that, Mary. Papa and Mr. Cushing have been planning a marriage without informing me. And you saw how Mr. Cushing went right ahead as if the engagement was a foregone conclusion. Then I embarrassed everyone present with my outburst.”

Mary put her arm around her. “Everyone will understand once they know the truth. Are you still planning to go to Florida tomorrow?”

“I will go tonight if I can—and never come back.”

“I brought you a going-away present.” Mary withdrew a box with a large bow from the bag and handed it to her.

“Oh, Mary! What a thoughtful gift!”she said as she unwrapped the Kodak Brownie and several rolls of film. “I should have thought about using a camera. This will come in handy with strange plants.”

Mary laughed. “Don’t forget to take pictures of the young gentlemen you meet.”

“Where is Aunt Sarah? She’ll never want to go to Florida with me now.”

“I’m right here, dear.” Aunt Sarah was in the doorway. “Tomorrow morning can’t come soon enough for either of us.”

“Aunt Sarah, if Mama and Papa insist on this nightmare of an engagement, then I will never return from Florida. Thank you for helping me escape.”