Parlor Games (9 page)

Powers gripped the railing of the jury box and pitched forward. “Is Miss Shaver now trying to take advantage of the Baroness’s station because she has spent herself into penury?”

A collective gasp escaped from the onlookers, followed by whispered commotion.

Alvah Sawyer bolted upright. “Objection, Your Honor, these are insinuations with no basis in fact.”

Judge Flanagan brought down his gavel. “Order, order.”

The courtroom, populated mostly by women, hushed, and the judge directed his attention to Mr. Sawyer. “It’s an opening statement, Counsel. You had yours.” Looking back and forth between Sawyer and Powers, he added, “I trust both of you will adhere to the rules of evidence when examination of witnesses begins.”

Mr. Powers efficiently outlined additional points to shore up our strategy that this suit was a nuisance without basis and thanked the jurors for their time. I breathed a sigh of relief. His argument cut to the core of the matter. He had challenged the very foundation of Frank’s claims. I believe he even bested Sawyer’s opening statement.

The judge leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Sawyer, you may call your first witness.”

Sawyer stood. “Your Honor, I call Miss Frank Shaver to the stand.”

A DELICATE JUNCTURE
CHICAGO—OCTOBER–NOVEMBER 1887

I
hadn’t bargained on Robby’s tracking me down in Chicago, especially at this delicate juncture—so soon after taking up residence at Carrie Watson’s, and with my grand plan just beginning to unfold—but love can lead any of us to commit acts we find foolish in retrospect.

Robby, the very picture of puzzlement, rushed up to me and then halted abruptly, perhaps trying to decide whether to embrace me or shake me. He proceeded to unleash a torrent of questions, right there in the expansive post-office lobby: What was going on? Why didn’t I look six months pregnant? Why hadn’t I written in weeks?

I took his hand. “Please, not here. Come, let’s find some nice place to talk.”

We went to Robby’s hotel, the well-appointed Hotel Davenport, around the corner on Dearborn. (He’d no doubt selected it for its proximity to the post office, which I learned he’d been frequenting for hours on end with the express purpose of intercepting me.) He wanted us to go to his room, but I insisted on the dining room. Hoping to set the tone for a civil conversation, I ordered tea and a plate of cakes, all the time begging Robby to cease his questions until our order arrived.

He pressed his lips together, trying hard to contain what I imagine was months’ worth of frustration now laced with confusion and possibly indignation.

“I do owe you an explanation, I certainly do,” I began as I poured his tea.

He nodded and moistened his lips, clamping the dainty teacup handle between his chunky fingers and thumb.

I could think of no better explanation than that which I had penned in the letter now stuffed in my purse. “Three weeks ago, I lost the child and became quite ill. Helga attended me. On her orders, I have been confined to bed.”

His eyes narrowed. “You look fine to me.”

“Yes, I’m much better now, thank you.”

“I mean you don’t look like someone who’s been ill.”

“Oh, Robby, I don’t know what you expect. I’ve lost the baby. There’s nothing either one of us can do about that.”

“That’s obvious.” He smacked his hands down on the table. “Do you think I’m some numskull?”

I raised my brow and softened my eyes. “No, of course not.”

“Why didn’t you write earlier? Didn’t you think I’d want to know right away?”

“The fact is, I hated the thought of distressing you.”

“You think not telling me makes it easier?”

“No, I’m sure it doesn’t.” I met his gaze straight on. “Robby, there is simply no way to spare your feelings. I’m afraid I must break off our engagement.”

“Why, you …” His face ignited to bright pink. “After all this. How dare you.”

Poor Robby. He took it quite hard, shaming me for subjecting him to months of waiting and torment, for spending his money under the circumstances, and for keeping him in the dark about the baby.

I allowed him his say, and then I told him that he was wrong about being kept in the dark, that I had in my possession the letter which I had intended to mail that very day to prove it.

Unfortunately, that did not placate him. He shoved back from the table, sprang to his feet, and leaned threateningly over me.

“I hope you get what’s coming to you, May Dugas,” he said, and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me to pay the bill.

And that concluded my affair with Robby. I learned that soon afterward he married the most darling girl in Menominee, and I’m certain he’s far happier with her than he ever would have been with me.

Chicago was quite a city in those days—booming, boisterous, and gleaming with newness, as if it’d sprung up overnight on the shores of Lake Michigan. Soaring buildings dominated the streets south of the river, turning Chicago’s downtown into the most modern and imposing of any American city. Fashionably attired pedestrians strutted along the sidewalks and wove their way among stylish carriages and streetcars jammed with workers and shoppers. And the Michigan Avenue district—such shops as I had never before set foot in: Marshall Field’s, The Fair, and Carson & Pirie; dressmakers and tailors from Europe’s capitals; a fur store as big as an auditorium; and apothecaries with every imaginable potion and personal item.

And the jewelry stores! It was in Chicago I first fell in love: with sparkling diamonds; radiant gold; lustrous, graduated pearls; and the pure gleam of platinum. Chicago was where I belonged, with all its commerce, excitement, and entertainment. Why, you could practically see the money changing hands between bankers and builders, shopkeepers and fashionable ladies, and rich men and their consorts. I only wish my memories of it weren’t marred by the man who became the burr in my boot. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My employment at Miss Watson’s enabled me to afford new attire, and the gifts of hair combs, bracelets, and necklaces my admirers showered on me lent the finishing touches to my ensembles. Now I found myself prepared to mingle with Chicago society. In my French class I met two delightful sisters, Melody and Melissa, whose father happened to be a well-to-do carriage manufacturer in Detroit. Against their parents’ wishes, they had moved to Chicago to enjoy its social set and parties, and within weeks of meeting them I found myself whisked along in their adventures.

On my day off from Miss Watson’s, one November evening, I convinced Melody and Melissa to attend a widely publicized lecture on psychophysics by Dr. Joseph Jastrow. We took the roundabout route to Athenaeum Hall, driving down Michigan Avenue at sunset in a handsome carriage. I wore my newest dress, an emerald-colored gown with scalloped patterns on the sleeves, and Melody and Melissa—no strangers to high fashion—complimented me on it and the new citrine and gold brooch I had recently acquired from Mr. Hall, one of my regulars.

Athenaeum Hall held an audience of well over a hundred, but it
still felt intimate with its fan-shaped seating arrangement and the delicate swan-necked lamp sconces gracing the walls. Dr. Jastrow, a slim-shouldered man with a coarse gray beard, opened the lecture, which was billed as a demonstration of his new automatic-writing technique, by inviting three people to come up to the stage. (Melody, Melissa, and I raised our hands from the third row, but he passed us over.) “Please take your writing stations,” he said, directing the two women and one man to chairs behind desks with pencils and paper.

He instructed them to close their eyes and then intoned, “Pay attention to my voice, only my voice. You are entering a state of calm and relaxation. All your focus is on my voice. Let all other sounds and sensations drop away. Relax; let your shoulders drop. Release any tension in your face. Now find the pencil on the desk. Take it up; lower it to your paper. Turn your thoughts inward. Write, write whatever comes—perhaps words, or pictures, or maybe squiggles. Let your hand take over.”

He turned to the audience and, placing a finger to his lips and sweeping an open palm before us, signaled for quiet. For several minutes he stood stock-still before us. Just as I began to wonder if he was hypnotizing us, too, he silently twirled around and said to his volunteers, “You may put your pencils down now.”

One by one his volunteers surrendered their writing implements.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Now I will count from five to one, and when I reach one you will open your eyes. Five … four … three … two … one.”

He snapped his fingers, and his three charges popped their eyes open and gazed at him with the placid, wide-eyed expressions of surprised cows.

“Thank you, you’ve all done well. Now, if I may see your work.” He walked to his first volunteer, a gangly woman of about thirty dressed in a peach-colored gingham dress that served her lean figure as well as could be expected. Picking up her paper, he studied it for a moment, and then, offering his hand, invited her to stand. “And you are?”

“Emily Shapiro.” Her complexion colored, and the stiffness of her physique betrayed nervousness.

“Miss Shapiro,” he said with the slightest bow of his head. “It is miss, I assume?”

Some in the audience tittered, but I had already observed that she wore no wedding ring. Her nails were trimmed to blunt squares. She was obviously dedicated to pragmatism, to the point where she had subjugated any matrimonial aspirations. Perhaps she lived with a sole surviving parent and worked to help out the household.

“Yes,” she said and, apparently mustering her mettle, added, “Did you gather that from my writing, Dr. Jastrow?”

Melody, Melissa, and I chuckled at the prospect of some sport.

Dr. Jastrow grinned. “No, Miss Shapiro, politeness dictated that I ask. But I can see from your writing that you are a competent person. Other people depend on you. You have little time for nonsense. I imagine you hold a position of some importance, though you may not get the recognition you deserve. Does that accord with your circumstances, Miss Shapiro?”

“Yes, I suppose it does. I assist my father in his jewelry business.”

It dawned on me at that moment that I could just as easily have accomplished what Dr. Jastrow was doing—reading people’s personalities by the way they dress, carry themselves, respond to challenges, and, with some training, perhaps even how they write. It wasn’t so much an education I experienced that night as an awakening—an awakening to my own innate talents in the art of influence. Like Dr. Jastrow, I possessed the ability to peer into people’s minds and glean their fears and dreams. I’d been selling myself short; truly, I possessed my father’s cunning and only needed to apply my talents.

And with problems brewing in my own place of employment, I needed all the cunning I could conjure. Two days earlier, Miss Watson had summoned me to her parlor for a meeting with her and Rose.

“Pauline,” Miss Watson began, “Rose has requested that the three of us have a talk, and from what I can gather, such a meeting is long overdue.”

Taking my cue from Miss Watson’s stern pose, I asked, “Have I offended someone?”

“Yes, I should say quite a few people.” Miss Watson leaned over her desk and steepled her fingers. “Rose says you’ve been standoffish with the other girls. That you put on airs around them.”

“I mean no offense.” I had kept my distance from the other girls,
it was true, but not, as she insinuated, out of a sense of superiority. The fact is, I pitied them—and feared that any tender feelings toward them would lead to attachments and interfere with my plans. “I am new to this way of life. I never had a sister. I guess I don’t know how to behave like one.”

“Well, you’ve got a whole houseful of girls to show you.” Miss Watson smoothed a hand over her brow, as if to slacken its strain. “Not that I expect you to be a sister to all of them. But I do expect you to treat them with respect.”

“Of course,” I said, bowing my head.

Miss Watson plunked her hands down on the desk. “Can I count on you, then, to mend your ways?”

“Yes, I will be more attentive to my conduct.” All this time I had not ventured a glimpse at Rose, though I discerned her fidgeting in the chair next to me. Poor Rose. I had quickly mastered the art of seeking sponsorship for my departure from Carrie Watson’s, but she and most of the other girls were doomed to spend their youthful years there. And Rose had already seen a good number of those pass.