A Woman so Bold (7 page)

She took off her flower-laden straw hat and seated herself carefully in the swing on the front porch. I was seated in Colleen’s rocker, simultaneously shelling a basin of peas and entertaining Ezra.

“I’m having a spring ball and I’ve come to invite you,” she said, plucking a blossom from the cape jessamine and tucking it behind her ear.

“That’s kind of you, but I
’
m busy. Colleen’s in the family way again and everything is down to me.”

“She can spare you for an evening, Landra. Heavens.”

“I haven’t a stitch to wear.”

“Wear that old white thing you’re always in.”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“I’m only teasing, I’ll lend you something!”

I leaned forward and covered Ezra’s ears. “Then can you lend me a smaller bosom?” I whispered.

“And deny you the chance to catch a husband with that magnificent décolletage?” she laughed. “Never! I’ll give you something I bought off the rack in New York, it’s too large, and I can let it out. You can manage?”

“I’ll draw my laces within an inch of my life and wear a shawl. But first I must ask Colleen if I may go. She truly needs my help.”

“Tell her you’re twenty and the time for finding a husband is approaching!”

“You know that isn’t my prerogative. What about
you
?”

“I shall never marry. Gadding about is too much fun. I must run, darling.”

She kissed my cheek and fluttered her fingers at Ezra.

“Goodbye, cherub!”

Ezra waved a chubby hand at her. Ida was one of the few people he didn’t hide from, possibly because she always kept licorice in her clutch for him. Ida had no patience with children, but she knew they liked candy. She reached into her bag and took a twisted black rope from its wrapping of brown paper. She offered it to him and he clutched at it, his eyes round.

“You’ll rot his teeth,” I moaned.

“He’s rotten to the core already,” she returned. “Goodbye, dearest. I’ll see you at the ball?”

I nodded.

Colleen was never one to deny Lily and me the opportunity for a social gathering. Girls without money were not often invited to soirees, and she knew, as Ida had hinted, that at twenty, I was heading toward spinsterhood. So I went.

When I arrived that evening, I went up the grand staircase and showed myself into Ida’s bedroom. Letty Hamilton, whose father owned the stables and mercantile, was already there getting dressed. She was a dark brunette with large black eyes, soft cheeks, and full lips. She was plump as a mourning dove, and struggling to pull her elbow length gloves up over her fleshy arms.

Ida helped me out of my brown calico and began to draw my laces for her gown.

“You must draw them tighter,” I gasped. “How will I ever get my bosom into that thing otherwise? Tansy, will you do it?”

“You gonna faint,” said Tansy, but she pushed Ida aside and gave the laces a firm tug. I made a high-pitched sound of pain that would have been a shriek if there had been any air left in my lungs.

“If you do faint, make sure it’s into the arms of an eligible gentleman,” said Ida.

“I wish
you
were coming to the ball, Tansy,” I said. “You’re so much kinder than Ida.”

Ida scoffed, unaffected, and went to regard her reflection in the mirror at her dressing table. “Daddy would have a conniption,” she said, powdering her nose.

Letty tittered at this, preening herself in the mirror next to Ida. Tansy was silent as she tied the laces of my corset, and when next I saw her face it had taken on the cold bitterness that grew there when Ida was unkind to her. I regret that my empathy for her only extended so far. I was lost in my own dreams and wants, with little room for anyone else’s.

Letty’s dress was a rose-colored satin with cream lace draped elegantly along the skirt, and short sleeves edged with fringe. The low-cut neckline was trimmed with a darker shade of chiffon, and showed off her heavily powdered décolletage. She was pinning a white hothouse peony in the center, which gave the bodice an air of symmetry I admired.

“That’s a stunning gown,” I said.

“Why, thanks. It’s a Worth.”

Ida shook her head behind Letty’s back, making a face of comical disbelief. Ida was richer than anyone in the county. She herself owned a dress that had been ordered from the House of Worth in Paris, and she knew how unlikely it was that Letty should have one so fine.

“Well,” Letty paused, “it’s not
from
the House of Worth, but I had my seamstress make it up just like one I saw in a magazine.”

“It’s lovely all the same,” I said.

She watched as Tansy buttoned me into the evening gown Ida had lent me. It was a robin’s egg blue silk, with elbow length sleeves trimmed in lace. I was relieved to find that the dress fit. Ida and I were the same height, but she was built like a child in comparison to me—I was petite, but curvaceous.

At my first ball, I similarly had owned nothing appropriate to wear, and she had allowed me to borrow a dress, but unlike the blue silk, it had not fit. In the year between my fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays, my small breasts, not more than a handful each, had grown to what Ida called “melons” and I’d been forced to start wearing stays and let out all of my frocks. Corseted and laced into Ida’s tiny ball gown, much of my bosom spilled out of the neckline. After several gentleman had ogled me by the punch bowl, I spent the entire evening hiding behind a large fern in mortification.

“Did you bring that?” Letty asked.

“Oh no, Ida is letting me borrow it. I’ve never owned anything so fine.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Ida threw Letty a sour look, and said, “Don’t be rude, Letitia, honestly, or I shall never invite you to another of our private parties. Tansy, do Miss Landra’s hair. She’s going to look divine.”

“There’s no need,” I interrupted. “I did my hair before I came.”

Tansy scoffed at this, dismissing the plain Gibson tuck, from which tendrils were already escaping, with a wave of her hand. She pushed me into the seat before Ida’s vanity. Tansy was a natural talent when it came to hair. Ida’s was always perfectly coiffed. I sat still as she curled mine with a hot iron and arranged it in a fashionable pompadour. Ida came to peer over my shoulder in the looking glass and as I saw all three of our faces juxtaposed together, it struck me, not for the first time, how like Ida and Tansy were. Except for the difference in their hair and skin, they bore a striking resemblance to one another; the same delicate, upturned nose, the shape of their lips, even their bone structure. I frowned, wondering how Ida could be unaware of something right under her nose.

I had brought a nosegay of pear blossoms and we placed a few of them among my ruddy tresses where they would be most becoming. The last week of March and second week of April were when everything bloomed in Willowbend, creating a riot of color, and endless flowers for young girls to choose for their hair and clothing.

Ida, Letty, and I entered the downstairs hall together. Ida went first, her head thrown back and her face sparkling with the smile that entrapped every man on whom she chose to bestow it. I was next, my hand in Ida’s. I was conscious of myself and trying not to show it—aware of my exposed bosom (although every woman there was just as pinched and pushed up as I was), conscious that the fingers of the elbow-length gloves I had borrowed were too long, thinking that the slippers I wore were old and didn’t match my dress. I attempted a deep breath, recalling the years I had spent among high society as a ward, but it was caught midway by my unforgiving corset. Letty came behind me, fanning herself. Her stays were laced too tightly as well, and her round cheeks were already pink with exertion.

“Oh, it’s hot in here,” she panted, “thank goodness I brought my salts.”

She’ll faint before the night is
over,
I thought,
but I won’t, by gosh.

I danced with a couple of gentleman, one whom I had never met and another whom Eric had gone to school with who looked like a wall-eyed goat with a bad complexion. I did not consider myself a brilliant dancer, but he trod on my toes so that I made up my mind to dodge him the rest of the evening. After that I rested for a bit, fanning myself and drinking cool water. I knew better than to sample the punch so early on. Ida was surrounded by gentlemen on the other end of the hall, but she soon grew tired of them and sought me out.

“Did you
see
what Olive Sanders is wearing?” she asked, squeezing my arm and giggling. “She’s been dropping petals all evening!”

Olive’s father was a farmer. Her folks had eleven children and six acres of sandy soil. She often didn’t wear shoes until November. She’d been invited to the ball by Ida, when she saw in her passing at the post office, and without the benefit of my connections to cast-off ball gowns, had worn her Sunday dress. It was a lavender-hued gingham trimmed with hand-crocheted lace, and no bustle or frills. She had done her hair as a milkmaid might have, plaited and pinned across her head, and dressed it with two long sprigs of purple wisteria. She carried another bunch draped across one arm. I thought she looked sweet, wild, and wholesome, as a country girl ought to, but Ida did not share my view. In her white mousseline and lace summer gown, with large puffed sleeves and diamonds round her throat and wrists, she looked the height of fashion.

“Don’t be so unkind,” I said, touching my fingers to the few blossoms in my hair and the spare pieces of jewelry I wore: a necklace of freshwater pearls borrowed from Colleen and a garnet ring that had been my mother’s. “Not everyone has jewels like you. Colleen says flowers are the most tasteful adornment for a lady who has no finery.”

“I never meant to offend!” cried Ida, piqued. “But, my dear, admit she looks silly,
do
admit it!”

“She looks like a farmer’s daughter who has never seen a fashion plate, and that’s no insult to her. I love wisteria.”

“Yes, but I wager you’ve never thought of wearing it to a ball. And you might not have many gems but those you do have are fine. They’re
heirlooms
.”

I did not reply, certain that Ida would leave off her meanness if ignored long enough. We sat in silence for a bit until we were approached by a gentleman. He wore a light gray sack coat and waistcoat with dark gray trousers, and his golden blond hair was parted on the side and neatly combed with pomade so that it shone in the gaslight. It took me a moment to recognize him.

“Mr. Cavendish!” I exclaimed.

He bowed. “Miss Andrews.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t know you for a moment. This is my friend, Miss Ida Monday.”

Ida gave him her hand and her most dazzling smile. I felt suddenly crestfallen. She would sink her teeth in momentarily. However, he appeared unmoved.

“A pleasure,” he said. “I believe you are the hostess?”

“My mother is, really, but I am the daughter of the house,” Ida replied.

“Well, this is a lovely party. My compliments to her.”

He turned to me. “Miss Andrews, are you engaged for the quadrille?”

I inspected my dance card. “No, I am free.” I handed him the card and he opened it, reaching into his pocket for a pencil.

Ida snorted next to me, trying not to laugh. I elbowed her firmly as Mr. Cavendish was looking at my dance card.

“Very pretty,” he said, closing it and handing it back. “I’ll see you in a moment.”

He made off and Ida collapsed into giggles on my shoulder. I felt breathless.

“You never said he was so handsome!”

“Why would I? So you could be after him before I’ve half a chance?”

“I’d
never.
I know how terribly you need a good match. Besides, his manners are rather too reserved for me.”

I gave her a sideways glance. “You’ll be on him like a snake after a rabbit if I look away for a moment.”

“Don’t think so ill of me. I have Arnold.”

“The minister’s son? You’ll be rid of
him
in a fortnight.”

“Hardly, minister’s sons make the wildest lovers.” She winked at me and sidled off.

Mr. Cavendish’s manners were anything but reserved when we danced the quadrille. He was good-humored, keeping eye contact with me and smiling as we moved throughout the other dancers. He didn’t speak much, but when he did his conversation was friendly and light.
Far more of a Bingley than a
Darcy,
I thought.

I sat out the next two dances, then danced a polka, and a minuet with Ida’s elder brother, Clyde. He was tall and thin as a rail, with a well-kept goatee, and a terribly handsome face. In addition to this, in my private opinion, he was mad as a hatter. Ida had once tried to make a match of us, but neither was interested. He was a wild and jolly man, but I personally wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole, prone as he was to gambling and bouts of violence. He gamboled and hee-hawed through much of our minuet, and flirted shamelessly with other girls when we switched partners, but I merely laughed and shook my head at him.

The next two dances were waltzes. I sat the first out, fanning myself and drinking a glass of punch Ida had abandoned in order to dance with Arnold, the Baptist minister’s handsome son. She hung on his arm, gazing at him, as he walked her back to the bench we’d been sharing. A moment later, Mr. Cavendish was at my elbow.

“I believe I’ve engaged you for the next waltz,” he said.

I gasped, inspecting my dance card. “Oh, dear! It seems you have. I always seem to forget these things.”

He smiled, holding out his hand. “No matter. Shall we?”

I felt Ida pushing me. “Go! It’s beginning!” she hissed.

A moment later, I was dancing with him again. The waltz was far more intimate than the quadrille. A woman was face to face with her partner, looking into his eyes, clasped in his arms. For the first time in some years, I felt the exhilaration of mutual attraction blended with physical contact. It was a heady sensation, and I basked in it.

Then I fainted.

One moment, I was whirling around in blissful oblivion, and the next I was hot all over, watching the room fade into darkness. I came to on the balcony. Someone was slapping my wrists and cheeks, and Mr. Cavendish was fanning me. I tried to sit up.