May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (24 page)

Catherine is by the front door and is smiling more than usual when Marcella arrives that evening. One of the temporary servants takes Marcella’s coat, and Catherine leads her into the vast dining room, where the great table is being attended to by three more servants hired just for the day.

“It’s beautiful,” Marcella says to Catherine as they look over the room. “I don’t understand though … why are there so many settings?”

Catherine smiles again but discloses very little, toying with Marcella now the way Marcella had with Pilar.

“Oh, are there more settings than you anticipated?” she asks with exaggerated innocence. “I hadn’t noticed.”

And Marcella probes now for the meaning behind Catherine’s smile, a playful sort of banter not unlike that she had engaged in with Pilar that very morning, though rather than conjecture about imaginary suitors, they are instead counting off the guest list for that evening’s banquet. Marcella names the women of the Abolition Society, the fourteen of them who are regular attendees and the half dozen others who are less involved in the weekly meetings, including the women with spouses who are likely to accompany them. It brings the total to thirty-one, and then thirty-four when she includes herself and Catherine and Mrs. Carlisle, of course. But there are forty-one settings in all, and Catherine mentions a few additions and husbands who will be dragged along for the first time.

“That makes thirty-nine,” Marcella says.

“Oh yes. I suppose that does leave us with two extra
places
 …” Catherine teases.

Marcella says nothing, but smiles, waiting for Catherine to finish with her fun.

“Perhaps they are for two special guests … people who have come from far away … perhaps from all the way up in
Cooperstown
 …”

And she smiles, as Marcella quickly comes to understand. She long ago heard of Mrs. Carlisle’s cousin from there, the woman who assisted on the Underground Railroad, carrying food and clothes to runaways throughout Pennsylvania and central New York and helping them make it all the way to Canada.

“Mrs. Stimson is coming?” Marcella beams.

“And Mr. Stimson as well,” Catherine answers. “Mrs. Carlisle has gone to the station to meet them. They are due any minute.”

And she considers what a joy it will be to meet a woman who has such inspiring stories of the cause, a woman who has not only
met
the great Harriet Tubman on several occasions, but has even had her as an overnight guest in her home! Thankfully, Marcella can share a story of her own with her, and hopes there will be time to tell her about the money she delivered to Reverend Campbell in Savannah.

Mrs. Stimson—Olivia, as she insists on being called—is in fact the
second
cousin of Mrs. Carlisle, and a few years younger than Catherine. And within minutes of meeting her, Marcella wants to hear all the stories she has to tell, finding it easier, now that she sees the small woman with determined features, to imagine her riding through the hills and woods, dashing in and out of harm’s way, to help the cause. Her stories are not quite so fantastical, but they are more than enough to captivate Marcella thoroughly, as the room slowly fills over the ensuing hour.

Mrs. Carlisle has placed Marcella near the head of one table, with Mr. Stimson beside her and Mrs. Stimson directly across from them. It is Mr. Stimson’s turn to entertain those seated around him, as he tells of his days on the other side of the cause, when he was hired out by town constables to help track down runaways in the county. He describes how his heart was always filled with reluctance to do the work, but his belly told him it wanted to eat, so he went along. And then he came across Olivia riding in the woods not far from Otsego Lake carrying enough food and water for half a dozen people …

“Well, that’s when everything changed—for me,” he says.

And there is laughter all around them.

“ ’Liv had me converted to the cause before the end of the afternoon, had me converted to the Quakers before the end of the month, and had me married before the end of the summer.”

“Well, he wasn’t much at first,” she adds, “but he’s a fast learner.”

And Marcella is silent amidst the laughter, trying to imagine such a moment ever occurring in her own home, trying to imagine her father or brothers ever being strong enough to become such a man. The evening ends far too early for Marcella, but she is on her way just before ten o’clock, while there is still vibrant conversation and more than half the guests still present in the front parlor. These are the limitations of her
present
state, she reminds herself when she steps inside the taxi carriage and waves goodnight to Catherine, who stands at the front door. The Stimsons will stay for a week at least, and there will be plenty of chances for Marcella to talk with them more; still, it is difficult for her to depart knowing what she will return to.

Back home there is nothing like the atmosphere there had been at
Mrs. Carlisle’s. Papa has already retired for the evening, thanks to the brandy, but Miguel, Bartolomé, Varrick, Septon, and two others she has not met all linger in the parlor.

“Marcie,” Bartolomé whispers to her as she makes her way upstairs.

Marcella stops and walks back a few steps.

“We going to play cards … you wan’ …?”

“I think he meant to say,” Varrick interjects, “that we were just about to start a little card game, Marcella dear …”

How many brandies did it take for you to call me that?
she thinks.

“… and it would be entirely more memorable if you graced us with your presence.”

Oh, you
have
had a few, Varrick … dear
.

Given the circumstances and the presence of two unsuspecting newcomers, Marcella could probably add at least a hundred dollars to her coffers. But there is more important business she feels compelled to get to, and quickly, unimaginatively declines.

Pilar calls to her from behind the opened door of her room as Marcella passes.

“How was the recital, Marcie?” she asks, sounding more like a little girl than she had just hours before, given where Marcella has spent the evening.

“It was good, Pila,” she responds.
It’s not her fault
, she reminds herself.
Be nice to her, poor thing
. “How was the dinner?”

Pilar shakes her head and then rolls her eyes the way Marcella had that afternoon before the onslaught, and Marcella can’t help but laugh.

“Do you want to talk for a while?” Pilar asks.

And she doesn’t have to think of an excuse, as their mother is soon in the hallway turning down the lamps.

“In the morning, Pila,” Marcella says. “You can tell me all about it then.”

A few minutes later, once she’s changed into her nightclothes and glanced into the hallway to make sure that Pilar and Mama have turned their lamps all the way down, she returns to the dressing table where the day began. Uncovering the key once again, she takes out the top notebook this time and folds back its already-filled pages. The ink bottle will
have to be filled again, but there is enough to at least begin to tell Abuela about this magnificent evening.

Two well-dressed women arrived at the front door and opened it, allowing the noise from the street to invade the relative quiet of the shop. But the ladies did not step inside, hesitating for a moment as they noticed two other women behind them being led by a finely dressed livery slave. They stepped aside, curtseying slightly and allowing the far more prominent Mrs. Simms and her granddaughter Anna to enter the shop first. Mary and Mrs. Kittredge had been waiting for this moment and met the Simms ladies at the door.

“Bonjour, madame,”
Mary said, and curtseyed deeply before Mrs. Simms.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,”
she added with similar enthusiasm and a curtsey only slightly less reverent directed toward Miss Anna.

Mrs. Simms nodded politely in keeping with the propriety of the situation, but Anna’s response was almost as enthusiastic as Mary’s had been.

“Bonjour, Mary,”
she said in an accent that would have met with Miss Randall’s approval.
“Il me fait plaisir de vous voir. C’est une très jolie robe.”

“Oh, merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle Anna,”
Mary replied with equal proficiency.
“Vous êtes tellement gentil de votre part dire donc, mais la vôtre est beaucoup plus jolie.”

The two young ladies smiled broadly, the compliments on each other’s dresses taking on an aristocratic air when spoken in French. Mary
curtseyed again, and Anna returned the gesture, bending her right leg behind her left and lowering herself two or three inches. The two ladies who had walked in behind the Simmses looked at each other with raised eyebrows, silently commenting on the sight of a society girl like Miss Anna Simms curtseying to a colored girl, free or not. But these women were new to the store, and such reactions were to be expected after all. Mary had been playing this game for several years by now, and her artistry with a needle and thread, her impeccable manners, and her often upper-class diction made it nearly impossible for patrons to see her in the same light as a common slave. And any of the women who frequented the shop naturally treated her in the manner her elegance seemed to demand.

“Mary,” Mrs. Simms said after barely acknowledging Mrs. Kittredge’s presence, “I would like to talk a little about Miss Anna’s wedding dress. It’s only a few months away, you know, and I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

“Certainly, ma’am, Miss Anna, I am
right
pleased and honored that you would trust me in this most important matter,” Mary responded with another curtsey.

Then she took Anna’s hand and led her to the counter with almost as much familiarity as if it were Miss Justinia beside her. Anna beamed in anticipation, and Mrs. Simms followed them, all propriety temporarily lost in the rush of excitement. The two other ladies were left to Lilly the seamstress, with Mrs. Kittredge watching both interactions but mostly Mary and the Simmses.

Miss Anna Simms was the daughter of Mr. Horatio Simms and his wife, Annabelle Curtiss, both of whom could trace their family trees back two hundred years or so to the first aristocratic settlers in the Virginia colony. When his wife died soon after Anna’s birth, Mr. Simms had entrusted his mother with the care and upbringing of his daughter while he went about his business in the House of Delegates. And Anna had been raised to be as prim and proper as her grandmother was, though it only
took
most of the way.

“Well anything Miss Anna wears she makes just pretty as can be, but maybe we can come up with some ideas that’ll make all the ladies positively
falling over
with envy,” Mary said, sounding now like a perfect Southern Belle.

“Merci, Mary,”
Miss Anna replied in the tone of one who was accustomed to such compliments but never seemed to grow tired of them.
“Je suis sûr que votre robe sera la plus belle dans Richmond. J’ai dit à ma grand-mere que je n’aurai aucun autre couturière. Il doit être vous, ou je me marierai portant seulement mes jupons!”

“Oh, Mademoiselle Anna, vous êtes trop choquants! Mais je vous remercie si beaucoup!”

Mrs. Simms spoke no French at all but beamed to hear her granddaughter speaking it so well to Mary, whom all the ladies assumed was a native speaker. The ladies were soon seated in two comfortable armchairs, watching Mary mix and match fabrics on the counter, holding court as she created the dress for the bride of one of the following year’s biggest social events. And Mary was perfectly at home through it all, as if she were the native French speaker, the elegant
couturière
, the
artiste
. She had played this game, or a variation of it, almost from the moment she was brought to Richmond. And though it could be quite tricky at times, she managed to straddle a delicate social high wire without much stumbling.

Mary was just twenty years old, but had as firm an understanding of the world and how things worked as people two or three times her age. She was well aware that what made Parisian lace and dresses better was the fact that they came from Paris, that in some shop over there, a poor girl embroidered her designs just like Mary did. And based on what Mary could see of the French dresses that used to come in to the store, Gertie had been every bit the seamstress that that French gal was, and Mary was pretty sure that by now she’d become at least as good as Gertie was. But Gertie’s designs were
stitchin’s
, not embroideries, and Mary quickly learned that the difference between the two—once you reached the talent level of that French gal, or Gertie, or even Mrs. Fenton—had everything to do with the
presentation
. That French gal and Mrs. Fenton were white, which made their work better than Gertie’s by nature, the way folks—colored and white alike—saw it. And that French gal spoke French, of course, and when she was finished with a dress it was put in a big box with a fancy ribbon and carried clear across the Atlantic just so some society lady could spend a great deal of money on it and tell everyone how much it cost without coming right out and
saying so, just letting it slip somewhere in the conversation with one friend and letting gossip take over from there. Mrs. Fenton’s dresses might be just as nice, but she didn’t speak French, and when her work was finished it was put in a carriage and brought to the store and didn’t cost nearly as much, so it couldn’t be as good as the one that came all the way from Paris, and it certainly wouldn’t be as much fun for the lady who bought it to talk about and accidentally let slip how much it cost.