Читать книгу The Bucket Flower - Donald R. Wilson - Страница 8

“What could possibly go wrong with my traveling in the Everglades, Aunt Sarah? This isn’t the wild west.” She still had only a vague idea of where the Big Cypress Swamp was and sensed that it was not near St. Augustine. She had looked at a map of the Florida Peninsula in Papa’s atlas. It showed the lower half of the state as disappointingly blank; there were no roads or cities, only the word Everglades stretching from one coast to the other under a large lake

The thirty-hour train ride had dragged like the lectures in economics and history at Wellesley. There hadn’t been that much to see from their stateroom window. Near the cities, dreary factories and warehouses slid by. The rural areas were a monotonous blur of barren trees with infrequent glimpses of rivers. Farther south there had been an occasional shanty with little Negro children and chickens running about. The meals had been considerably less than haute cuisine, and her sleep had been fitful in the uncomfortable upper berth. To pass the time she read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes while Aunt Sarah relied upon issues of Leslie’s Weekly and the Ladies Home Journal.

When she reached into her valise, she discovered that Mama had slipped in a bottle of styptic balsam. She had never had to use it, but knew the tincture was to quell excessive bleeding during her debilitating periods. She returned the bottle to her valise without showing it to Aunt Sarah. Dear Mama and her going-away present.

When it was dark outside, she could see her reflection in the window. It reminded her of her mother’s still-beautiful face, the blonde hair with wisps of gray swept up in a pompadour. The blue, oval eyes looking back at her from the image pleaded for her not to leave home. The beginnings of crow’s feet and creases around Mama’s mouth were accentuated with worry. People said that the daughter resembled a young Harriet Jackson Sprague, but she hoped she possessed a more determined and less cowed manner than her mother.

Mama was mild-mannered and friendly—too friendly with the servants, according to Papa. Friends were the more-recently arrived matrons of Back Bay, but casual acquaintances were all that had developed with the older families that her mother sorely wished would recognize the Spragues.

With Papa, Mama was wishy-washy and subservient. Mama had confided to her before she had gone away to Dana Hall about women who fought for abolition, for prohibition, and the right to vote. Her mother had admired these women, but never dared to speak out in behalf of their causes. Papa, of course, had forbidden discussion of these subjects or the allegiance to any movement more liberal than the church ladies’ guild.

Inside her book an envelope had been inserted. Her name on the outside was in handwriting unfamiliar to her. The message inside read:

March 20, 1893

Dear Miss Sprague,

It gives me great pleasure to ask for the honor of your hand in marriage. The favor of your reply will be appreciated.

Sincerely,

Edward Lawrence Cushing

Mama must have placed Mr. Cushing’s envelope in the book. The act said more than words could have expressed. Mama had been a party to the continuing nightmare. She handed the note to her aunt.

“I found this letter in my valise, Aunt Sarah.”

Her aunt read the note and then looked up. “He doesn’t waste any words, does he?”

“I’ve received invitations to tea that were more flowery than that.”

“‘The favor of your reply will be appreciated’ sounds like a business letter. Is this the first time you’ve seen this proposal?”

“Yes.”

Aunt Sarah shook her gray head. “Your father has been domineering ever since he was a little boy, but knowing how much he loves you, his lack of understanding in this matter is unbelievable. There’s something I want to say, Elizabeth, before I lose the will to say it, and then I promise you won’t hear of it again.”

She put down Sherlock Holmes, expecting her aunt was about to lecture her about last night’s embarrassing scene in the dining room.

Aunt Sarah set her jaw as if about to address a distasteful subject. “I don’t like Edward Cushing, but I think you should mull over his proposal of marriage for a while before rejecting it out of hand. The Cushings are old Boston money, one of the richest and most well-established families.”

“I don’t care to marry a man for his money, Aunt Sarah.”

“I hope not, but there are other factors to keep in mind,” said her aunt, closing her magazine. It appeared that a long lecture was coming.

“I don’t love Mr. Cushing.”

“Love has many faces, Elizabeth, and it’s much more than that first infatuation with a gentleman’s good looks and gallant style. Love grows from a sense of duty, loyalty, trust, and shared experiences.”

“How does a sense of duty have anything to do with love, Aunt Sarah?” How did Aunt Sarah, who had never married, have knowledge on this subject? Was it possible that her aunt had experienced a secret love affair at one time?

“Lasting love comes from the caring attention a woman gives a man and a man returns. The woman is the heart and soul of the family. She provides the warmth. The husband provides a home and the necessities of life. He is the protector and has the strength a family requires. Each relies upon the other, and in time love grows, even if it isn’t there at first. I wish I had understood that when I was young.”

Aunt Sarah must have turned down a suitor that she didn’t love. Knowing that there was more to come, she remained silent.

“There are other considerations.” Her aunt paused, looking out the window as if organizing her thoughts. Turning back to her, she said, “Cunard and White Star Lines are taking away business from Atlantic and Southern at the moment. A merging of our company with Mr. Cushing’s Oceanic ought to help them both.”

The mention of “our company” reminded her of her Aunt’s share in Papa’s firm.

“A marriage to Mr. Cushing seals that merger. Then there’s your mother, who has always aspired to be absorbed into the respected Old Guard in Boston. The only way she will ever come close to achieving that goal is if you marry into one of the First Families like the Cushings. Face the fact that the older families consider the Spragues members of the codfish aristocracy. You might want to take into account what obligations you have to your parents and what that will mean to you years from now.” The older woman took her hand.

She was taken aback by the coldness of her aunt’s grasp.

“Against that you must weigh your personal goals, what you are striving for in your education, what you will accomplish by your present actions, and what it will mean to you over the years. As I said, Elizabeth, I don’t like the gentleman, but perhaps Mr. Cushing has some hidden qualities. All I ask is that you promise me you’ll consider his proposal carefully before giving him an answer.”

That had been on the train. Now they were sitting in high-backed wicker chairs in the formal courtyard garden at the Ponce de Leon Hotel. Even in the shade of the palms the warmth was like an early summer day in Boston. It had been snowing the morning they left Back Bay. Strains of music drifted from the vaulted dining room where an ensemble still entertained patrons enjoying a late lunch. Gently falling water from a nearby fountain was the only other sound they heard. The bougainvillea and hibiscus were in bloom, and the heavy fragrance of gardenias was in the air.

“Well, we’ll wait and see what Mr. Flagler has to say about your traveling all about the state,” replied Aunt Sarah. “You know that I am obliged to keep an eye on you, but I’m too old to travel into the wilderness.”

“Then I will hire a guide,” she said boldly, possessed with a restlessness that came from waiting all week. Papa still maintained a certain amount of control over their lives, even at a distance. He had telegraphed Henry Flagler, a business acquaintance of his who owned the hotel, and insisted that they meet him. She was tempted to balk at Papa’s demand except for the fact that Mr. Flagler knew Florida and might be able to guide her to places where she could do her research. The problem was that Mr. Flagler had been at Lake Worth this past week and had been unable to meet with them until this afternoon.

At a quarter to three they mounted a victoria drawn by two bays to go to the Flagler home, Kirkside. She was thankful she had brought summer dresses with her, and even these were too warm with their long sleeves. She had already shed one petticoat and hoped Aunt Sarah hadn’t noticed. For this afternoon visit she had chosen a yellow dress with silver brocade and a coordinated flower-trimmed bonnet. Her skirt was short enough to reveal her matching shoes. Hopefully Aunt Sarah wouldn’t be too warm in her light blue dress with darker satin stripes and puffed shoulders and ruffles. At least she had given up wearing a shawl. Sarah’s wide-brimmed hat was wreathed with crimson roses and draped with a blue veil. They both wore gloves and carried parasols the same color as their dresses for protection against the warm afternoon sun.

As they rode, Beth reflected upon the past week. She had been eager to delve into her studies, but the time hadn’t been wasted. Aunt Sarah turned out to be an excellent companion, setting a fast pace and enjoying everything. They had explored old Fort Marion with its cannons, parapets, and dungeon, and visited the alligator farm on Anastasia Island.

“What are you smiling at?” asked her aunt.

“I was remembering how you had to force yourself to look at the ugly alligators, but fell in love with the sea lions, which are just as ugly in their own way.”

They had walked the sea wall and looked in the little curio shops along sandy St. George Street. Narrow streets with overhanging balconies and moss-covered walls had charmed them both. They enjoyed watching artists sketching and painting on many street corners. She had been surprised to learn that St. Augustine was older than Boston.

Aunt Sarah had remarked on how there were no tearooms for ladies to stop for refreshment while saloons for the men abounded. It reminded her of the double standards which existed for men and women. The man was dominant and the woman subservient. Men drank and swore, made unreasonable demands, and committed ugly deeds, and yet they looked for respect, trust, and love from their womenfolk. Papa, while demanding, at least behaved like a gentleman.

She marveled at the hotel, an experience in itself, with its great rotunda and the grand parlor. Aunt Sarah studied the Old World murals and paintings adorning the walls and ceilings. Continuing a custom from home, they took afternoon tea on the loggia overlooking the formal gardens. Both enjoyed the excellent cuisine accompanied by an orchestra in the vaulted dining hall. And every evening she had been pleasantly overwhelmed by invitations to dance in the casino ballroom.

Kirkside was two blocks from the hotel. Around the grounds stood a newly constructed four-foot wall which was being painted by two Negro workmen. Once through the gate, they saw a two-story frame structure built in the colonial style. The lawn was neatly trimmed and several workmen were planting shrubs and trees. Other workmen were painting the exterior of the newly completed house. The easygoing architectural style and grounds echoed the relaxed way of life she had found here in Florida.

As a footman helped Aunt Sarah down from the carriage she chuckled. “We could have walked here.”

They were met at the door by a black butler who escorted them into a parlor after they handed him their cards. Mrs. Flagler held court regally from a large, red velvet chair.

“Miss Sarah Sprague and Miss Elizabeth Sprague,” intoned the butler. She wondered if the woman expected them to curtsy.

“How do you do?” said the middle-aged lady without rising. “I am Ida Flagler. Please be seated.”

“I’m Sarah Sprague, and this is my niece, Elizabeth.” They sat opposite on a small sofa.

“Mr. Flagler will be here shortly. He has just returned from Lake Worth where he is building a new hotel. He wants to change the name of the village to Palm Beach. His railroad will go there any day now, you know. He works so hard I hardly ever see him,” Mrs. Flagler said sadly.

The queenly face was a beautiful oval with fair skin. Her hair puffed out in a brown bouffant cloud. It seemed too early in the day for her elaborate emerald gown and diamond-studded tiara. The regal lady’s brown eyes bored through Beth in an unsettling way. “At least we have many colorful guests. Last month the Vanderbilts were here, and in January, the Rockefellers. We expect President Cleveland may come next season.”

“We have been looking forward to meeting you both,” said Aunt Sarah.

“Papa has said so many nice things about you,” Beth added to be polite.

“Yes. I remember meeting Mr. Sprague at the Ponce de Leon in the fall. He was here with your mother. She could pass for your sister, I must say.”

Mrs. Flagler must be confused. Mama hated to travel and had never accompanied Papa on his southern business trips. She was stunned and didn’t dare look at Aunt Sarah.

“Ah, here we are!” In strode a tall, distinguished man in a three-piece suit. “I’m Henry Flagler, and I’m sorry to be late.” His wife let them introduce themselves. He wore his gray hair short, and had blue eyes behind a pince-nez. He stood erect and had a commanding air about him that made one understand how he had become rich in oil and owned railroads and huge hotels. His face and build reminded her of Papa. “Ah, Miss Sprague,” he said to Aunt Sarah, “it’s an honor to meet you.” Then turning to her he asked, “How is your father, Elizabeth?”

“He’s in good health, sir,” she answered.

He sat in a parlor chair and crossed his long limbs. “Are you comfortable at the Ponce de Leon?”

“Oh, yes!” they both answered at once.

“It’s a grand hotel,” added Aunt Sarah.

“Thank you. As you may have heard, I’m now building a new one at Palm Beach. Next year you will be able to ride there on my East Coast Lines. In a few years you will be able to travel all the way to the Miami River and a village there called Fort Dallas.” He changed the subject without warning. “In his telegram your father said you wish to do a little exploring, Miss Sprague.”

“Yes, sir. Actually, I’m a botanist, and I wish to study the flora of south Florida.”

“Very commendable. An excellent hobby. I trust you’ve been admiring the greenery around St. Augustine?”

Irritated by his assumption that botany had to be a hobby, Beth felt the redness creeping up her neck. “Yes. Aunt Sarah and I have been enjoying the sights of the city this first week, but we’d like to see more of the state.”

“Well, someday soon you must take the train inland to Palatka and go for a cruise on the St. Johns River down to the Oklawaha. There you will see what the real Florida is like. Not only will you satisfy your curiosity about the plant life, but the wildlife as well. It will make a grand overnight trip if you take the early train.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, sir, but actually, I was hoping you might suggest a guide to show me the Everglades.”

“The Everglades! Oh, my. Well, they present a challenge, especially for a young lady. Very few men have traversed the Everglades. My engineers have scouted the area and tell me it’s too dangerous to lay tracks across the southern section of the peninsula.”

“I was expecting to record the plant life in the cypress swamp,” she said, her hopes diminishing rapidly.

“What you are suggesting men must do thoroughly and soon. Otherwise there will be no record of what Florida was once like. No portion of the western sections of our country is so unknown to us as southwest Florida. It’s a worthless jungle with nothing in it but flies, mosquitoes, and Indians. Someday soon the Everglades will be drained. Henry Disston started the project more than ten years ago.” His voice rose in both pitch and volume, and he used his arms to demonstrate Florida’s expanse. “When it’s done, millions of acres of new farmland will stretch from the Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico, all the way from Lake Okeechobee to Cape Sable. Along both coasts there will be railroads and magnificent hotels, and the cypress and pine forests will be cut to provide the lumber. Florida will become the nation’s breadbasket, and a mecca not only for consumptives, but also for tourists.”

What he was saying was difficult to imagine. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Flagler.” She wanted to ask how all this was to be done if his engineers felt it was impossible to build a railroad across the Everglades. But instead, she asked, “How does one get to the Everglades from here?”

“Well, one can take a steamer to Key West or a train to Tampa. Another way is to take a train inland to Kissimmee and then a riverboat south to Lake Okeechobee. From the lake southward the Everglades spreads all the way to Cape Sable. A man must walk with water up to his armpits and sawgrass higher than his reach for a distance of fifty miles. Once you’ve seen one part of it, you’ve seen it all.”

“How can I get to the cypress swamps?”

“The riverboats continue on through the lake and westward down the Caloosahatchee River, which has been dredged by Henry Disston. From there one has to hike twenty miles or so through pine forests before getting to the swamps. But those swamps are dangerous. They tell of bears, wild boars, alligators, panthers, millions of mosquitoes, and poisonous snakes. My engineers brought back a rumor that a swamp ape bigger than a man roams in those bogs. But even if no predatory animals existed, the swamp miasmas—the poisonous gases that rise from the stagnant waters—will kill a man.”

She happened to glance at Mrs. Flagler, who was staring at her—or more accurately, staring through her. The lady’s eyes were wide and wild.

“What about yellow fever and malaria?” asked Aunt Sarah.

Mr. Flagler nodded. “There have been outbreaks of yellow fever in past years, and malaria can be contracted in any tropical area.”

Each bit of discouraging information had made her spirits sink lower, but to turn around and go back meant defeat. Papa would be proven right if she returned to the oppressive life that awaited her in Back Bay. And there lurked the horrible Edward Cushing, waiting for her to accept his proposal of marriage backed by the insistence of both of her parents.

“I want to go,” she said.

Mr. Flagler shook his head and smiled condescendingly. “I’m sorry, but such a trip for two ladies would be unthinkable. I have failed to mention that the trains and riverboats are frequented by gamblers and ruffians, and the swamps are known to be hideouts for murderers and thieves.”

Aunt Sarah shook as if casting off a chill. “Oh, I refuse to go to a place like that! St. Augustine is rustic enough for me.”

She was relieved to hear her aunt’s reaction and said, “I’ll hire a guide or a Pinkerton detective, then.”

Aunt Sarah patted her on the knee. “We’ll talk about that when we return to the hotel.”

“If you are determined to go, I happen to know a botanist who lives in Fort Myers.” He turned to his wife. “What is his name, Ida?”

“The Duke of Marlborough,” Mrs. Flagler said, still staring at her. “My side of the family is related, you know.”

“Worthington. That’s it. Doctor Worthington. He’s an excellent man to give you information about the interior of south Florida. I will telegraph him.”

Her hopes began to rise slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Flagler. I’d appreciate that.”

“I can’t let Elizabeth go,” said Aunt Sarah. “I promised Walter to keep her under my wing.”

“Are you a descendant of Queen Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Flagler.

“Perhaps I can get my son, Harry, to escort you to Fort Myers,” said Mr. Flagler, ignoring his wife. “It’s at least a three-day trip depending which route you take.” He described the three different routes in more detail, and the riverboat seemed to travel closest to where she wanted to be.

“Harry has gone back to New York, dear,” said Mrs. Flagler, returning to reality. “You know how he hates Florida.”

He scowled for the first time and said nothing.

Aunt Sarah rose to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Flagler. We must be going. I know you’re a busy man. You’ve been most helpful in showing us how impossible travel through the Everglades would be.”

“Invest in Florida, Miss Sprague,” he said to Aunt Sarah as he stood. “The state is growing rapidly and is already becoming the nation’s vacation paradise.”

As they were escorted to the front door by Mr. Flagler, she expressed her appreciation and promised to take the trip to the Oklawaha River.

As the carriage carried them back to the hotel, Aunt Sarah prattled on about Mrs. Flagler’s gown and regal fantasies and Mr. Flagler’s commanding but cordial manner. It was evident that all possibilities of traveling through the Everglades had been dismissed.

Mrs. Flagler’s comment about meeting Papa with Mama last fall weighed as heavily on her head as one of the flat irons in Mrs. Faraday’s kitchen might have. She struggled to dismiss the remark as the chatter of an unstable woman. Mrs. Flagler’s stare had been frightening, and some of her comments wild. Surely the lady was mad. Aunt Sarah had overlooked the statement about Mama like a true lady should, and was determined to see no evil, speak no evil, and hear no evil. That Papa could have taken up with a loose woman seemed unthinkable. Proud, churchgoing Papa, who stood as stiff as a ramrod, was always proper at home, insisting upon the strictest decorum from his wife and daughter.

But then she recalled the summer day she had wandered from home in search of her father. She had been eleven or twelve and had walked all the way from Dartmouth Street, past the Commons, down State Street to Atlantic Avenue, expecting Papa to be pleasantly surprised by her appearance at his office. Although frightened to be alone on the city streets and eyed by strangers seeing a little girl without an escort, she pressed on. The saloons, drunken sailors, loud waterfront noises, and the smells from the fishing boats and the harbor itself kept her and Mama closer to home most of the time. The company’s outer office was empty. When she opened the door to Papa’s office that she and Mama had visited on rare occasions, she saw no one at first. Then a slight noise made her look behind Papa’s huge, mahogany desk where she saw him lying on top of a young woman.

On the way home in his carriage, Papa explained how he had tripped and fallen and how he and Miss Murchison, his secretary, had landed on the floor. He seemed much more concerned that Mama would be furious about their daughter having wandered so far from home, and insisted for her protection that her jaunt would be their little secret. Nothing more was ever said about her excursion to the waterfront, and she had put aside the incident until now.

She felt her face grow hot as the image of Papa on top of Miss Murchison eleven years ago came roaring back. Had her naïveté clouded her vision of Papa’s true nature? Her social life had been as innocent as Sunday school. The ladies and gentlemen she had associated with at college dances and parties had always followed strict rules of propriety. Well, Grace was different of course, but her friend had behaved acceptably in their group. Those who didn’t had been ostracized. One time Grace was nearly expelled for some undisclosed reason until the intervention by powerful connections her parents had at Wellesley. She was aware that not all men and women were as pure in thought and deed as her close group of friends. For Papa to be one of those other people had been impossible to accept—until now.

The Flaglers’ behavior was not too different from her own parents. Mr. Flagler boasted about his plans for the development of Florida, oblivious to Mrs. Flagler’s sitting there imagining that she was of royal lineage. Papa was absorbed by expanding his steamship line while Mama dreamed of the Sprague family being included in the higher circles of Bostonian society. Mama blamed the legends surrounding Grandfather Sprague, a rowdy sea captain, for holding them back. These stories, she claimed, were still whispered around the upper class.

Mr. Flagler’s description of the Everglades was depressing, and his none-too-subtle inferences about the inabilities of women hadn’t been lost on her. There had to be a way for her to get to the Big Cypress Swamp and the Fakahatchee River. Among the young gentlemen guests at the hotel there must be one willing to escort her to Fort Myers and beyond. A plan was starting to form.