The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (7 page)

Howkin Beardslee had no friends at Blandin’s. The editor of the
Herald
had appointed himself the conscience of the town, and something or someone was always leading it to ruin. Beardslee’s worst bile was saved for Francis Penniman, editor of the rival
Democrat
. Almost weekly, Beardslee would accuse Penniman of doing the Devil’s work—catering to special circles like the “godless Literary Society,” which was now, somehow, according to Beardslee, in league with the saloon owners.

The door to the back room swung open, and Blandin and four men came out—saloon owners every one. A broad-shouldered fellow was in a rolling boil. “Daniel,” he said, grabbing Blandin’s sleeve, “if we let that bastard push us around now, there’ll be no end to it.”

Blandin shook his head. “Heath, sometimes you just got to let the fire burn out.”

The others nodded, and the man let go of Blandin’s shirt. “I’ll fight him by myself if I have to.”

“So would I,” said Blandin. “Let’s just see if we have to.”

The men left, and Blandin drew a beer and came over to where I was now sitting with Damon. My curiosity gnawed. “So you’re going to stay closed on Sundays?”

Blandin looked at me like I was a child in short pants. “No, we’re just going to do things when it’s time. Now where do you think all those fellows—I’m talking about the wharf rats—where do you think they’ll go on Sunday if they can’t go to the saloons?”

I gave a shrug.

“They’ll go up to the square! They’ll stand around and stare like lost dogs at all the fine people out for their parade. We’ll give it another Sunday and then start opening earlier in the day. Won’t nobody say nothin’.”

T
HE SPEAKER WALKED to the head of Cornell Hall. He gave no greeting. He didn’t smile. Instead, he took out a newspaper and held it up:
The Charleston Mercury
. He opened it and began to calmly read notices for lost property.

Run away, a Negro woman and her child. A few days before she left, I burned her face to make the letter T.

One hundred dollars reward for my man Achilles. He has both ears notched at the top and is well scarred from the whip.

Lost property seemed to be a common problem in Charleston as the notices went on and on. When the list of horrors had been recited, the speaker put down the newspaper and broke into a spirited denunciation of something called the Slave Act. It had to do with runaways. I had never seen a slave, yoked or runaway, and had never heard of this law. But those around me seemed to have heard of it, and by the time the speaker was done, Cornell Hall was a sea of indignation. Everyone had something to say to the person next to him, except me who was there alone and thinking about a warm bowl of stew. I was looking for an open path to the door when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Mr. Burton and I took the same table at the Hotel Wayne, this time just the two of us. I was expecting to see the mischievous eyes of our first meeting, but those eyes seemed troubled now. “They are preparing themselves for war,” he said, referring to the evening’s meeting.

I was surprised and my words came out on their own. “I don’t think that speaking of injustice is the same as making for war.” It was an unintended challenge—what did I know of these affairs? Burton looked down, and I braced for his certain withering response.

“You are right, of course,” he said, looking up and meeting my eye. “If I might rephrase, I suppose what I find repugnant is the comfort taken in moral outrage.”

“But you believe it’s leading to war?”

Burton refolded his napkin. “Of course it is. Why, just last Saturday they staged a battle on the meadow at Indian Orchard.”

“Who did?”

“The militias of Honesdale and Hawley—in parade uniform, complete with hats and feathers.”

Burton’s review of the battle dress was delivered in a light Virginia accent that to my ear gave it a courtly charm. And beyond that, despite the clothes I was wearing or who I was supposed to be, I found him to be a handsome man. His brown hair lay loosely on his head, and his eyes, the same color, didn’t dart about, but moved slowly and settled upon one thing. And when they settled on me, I could feel it. There were moments when I thought I might blush as though he could know that I liked the way he looked.

Beef was the featured fare that night at the Wayne. After we ordered, I thought to ask about the start of the Literary Society. What authors had been the subject of meetings?

“We began with Irving,” Burton answered, as though I should join him in some frustration. “He’s the patron saint of Honesdale, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I thought he was from New York.”

“Yes,” said Burton, trying to be patient, “but he visited here some years ago—they won’t let you forget it. He stood in the park and declared Honesdale to be the epitome of American industry and beauty. Everyone was there.” Burton raised his eyes as if some sympathy might come from above. When it didn’t he leaned forward as though to tell a secret. “But in close company, I am told, our Mr. Irving referred to the town as
commonplace
. His work then grew in my esteem.”

I smiled but didn’t dare laugh, glancing about to see if anyone had overheard. Then, thinking it best to move on, I asked about the more recent authors.

“Dickens and Poe,” he said. “But it’s Thackeray now. Everything’s Thackeray, at least in New York City it is. If I can find enough people to forgo political debate long enough to read a book, then we shall have a meeting on him in a month or so. Would you care to borrow
Vanity Fair?
”

I was delighted by the offer and agreed to walk to his house after dinner.

In the last light of evening, Burton and I crossed the bridge to the upper village and walked up North Main, the boulevard that boasted the grand houses of Honesdale. We turned onto Dyberry Place, where the homes were more modest, Burton’s cottage among them. Once inside, Burton ushered me into a sitting room that held a fireplace and two large chairs. One was clearly where my host spent his solitary hours; the other held a stack of newspapers. Burton moved them to a small table and invited me to sit. He seemed unaccustomed to visitors.

“You subscribe to the
Tribune
,” I said, looking at the newspapers. It was a well-known New York City journal, one I had come to know when I lived in Coxsackie.

“I don’t,” said Burton. “Greeley came last year and spoke to the society. Now they just come.”

“But you read them.”

“Yes,” he said, taking his chair, “for Bayard Taylor if for no other reason. After his last journey, he came here and lectured on the mysteries of the Arab world. Of course, after Beardslee got done with his slander, several windows at Cornell Hall were smashed. Still, were I given another life, I would come back as Mr. Taylor himself.”

Burton stared at the dark window across the room as though it looked out on some foreign land. He seemed to know something about everything, and I liked that about him. But why, I wondered as I eyed his profile, did he favor me? I had been nowhere and knew no one, including Mr. Taylor. And what had brought him to Honesdale? It seemed an odd pairing. Then suddenly Burton turned, and our eyes met. What did he want?

“So is Mr. Taylor your only interest in the
Tribune
?” I asked, my voice unsteady.

Burton acted like he didn’t hear the tremor. “No. After Mr. Taylor—that is, if I am not paralyzed with envy—I move on to Mr. Ripley’s reviews of books.”

“They please you as well?”

“Sometimes,” he said, tapping a finger on the arm of his chair. “But often our Mr. Ripley will praise good intention and overlook defects in craft—an idealist of some repute. You know that he founded Brook Farm.”

I shook my head, unable to hide my ignorance.

“A noble experiment,” Burton said in mock reverence. “Men of learning were to plow the fields, and men of labor to go to lectures. The sexes would partner freely—the more base emotions, such as jealousy, to wither away in the sunlight of reason. It failed, of course.”

Burton said these words like he drew comfort from them. Then he gave his head a little shake. “But I brought you here to get a book.”

* * *

The sun streamed past Lydia and sparkled in the dust I had set adrift with my broom. She had her face buried in the
Herald
, and when I joined her, she began to read a notice:

A Beautiful Head of Hair is the grandest ornament belonging to the human frame. How strangely the loss of it changes the manly countenance, causing many to hear jests and sneers. To avert such unpleasantness, OLDRIDGE’S BALM OF COLUMBIA stops the hair from falling off and a few bottles restores it again. It likewise makes the hair curl beautifully and frees it from scurf.

Lydia looked up. “Joseph, do you live in terror of losing your hair?”

“I don’t,” I said, swallowing a smile. “This is not one of my fears.”

“Then what is one of your fears?”

I held my face steady while I reviewed the choices. To be found out? Pilloried? Tarred and feathered? I had a lot to choose from, but I needed an answer that would die where it was.

“I have a great dread,” I said, “that more of my students will seek lessons on the violin. What about you?”

Lydia rolled her eyes but let it go. “I fear,” she said, “that I shall be trapped, stuffed, and placed in a museum. I fear I shall spend my life in this place and never have an adventure. Never find love.”

“But have you not already found love? I heard one of the girls say something about you and a young man named Horton—that you would be betrothed.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Really? I find it interesting, Joseph, that people have news about me of which I am ignorant. Would you say it was relevant that David Horton has never had a conversation on this subject with me? I would. And what’s more, if he were to have one, he might be surprised to learn a few of my thoughts.” Lydia seemed more annoyed than angry, as though she had never held expectations of this young man.

“Have you known him long?”

“Most of my life. We grew up in the same church. He was older but still chased me about after service. Now he’s started his own timber business, and I’m the envy of every girl in Honesdale.”

“Except yourself, it seems.”

Lydia let out a small laugh. “Dorothy thinks I’ve gone mad. If there was a simple way to do it, I’d give him to her. I would. Evelyn understands, though—plain, old nutcake Evelyn. She is the least comely of all my friends, yet she has her Walter. Did you know they promised themselves to each other on Evelyn’s seventh birthday?”

“So you want something like Evelyn has?”

She shook her head. “No, I want what my cousin Jason has. Land and horses. I want the life of no woman I know.”

I chased any true feelings from my face. “Why is that?”

“Because there’s nothing for us,” she said, a piece of her accusation aimed at me. “Do you think that if paid work existed for women, we would abandon men altogether? Is that what you all fear? How would you like it, Joseph, if your only choice was between a distasteful marriage and the hell of spinsterhood?”

Lydia’s fierce green eyes searched the room, while I wondered what Joseph, the dance teacher, would say about all this. Perhaps something encouraging. “I believe,” I said, “a day will come when this will not be so.”

Lydia wasn’t comforted. “What day, Joseph? When will this come? How will this come?”

My failure to answer hung in the air. Lydia broke the silence.

“Dance with me.”

I hesitated, not sure that I had heard her right. “I want to dance the waltz with you, Joseph. We do it every week.”

“Well, yes, of course,” I said, oddly off balance. “Would you like me to first play the violin?”

“That would be nice.”

I picked up the instrument and played “Laura’s Waltz.” The bow seemed to have a will of its own, and the melody took on a sweetness I had forgotten with its classroom repetition. When done, I took her hand, and we arranged ourselves. We started to dance, our movements stiff at first. Soon, however, we began to turn in ever-tighter circles, more vigorous than any we had done in class.

“You know,” I said as we whirled about, “where I was taught, a woman who leaned back so in the turns was thought unseemly, the posture a demonstration of abandon.”

“What a strange idea,” said Lydia. “I should think abandon is why we dance. Why do
you
dance?”

I gave her my best smile. “I’m told it has a good affect upon the organs.”

“Nonsense. Joseph, stop teasing and tell me something true. Why are men never accused of showing abandon? Why a crime at all?”

“Perhaps because you are the frail sex, and we don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Oh, really?” she said as the room continued to turn. “Well, I think it’s the other way. I think most men are stuffed and sewn together none too well. And you would restrict our movements so you don’t split and spill the sawdust.” And with that, she closed her eyes and leaned out even more.

I
ENJOYED THE noise and the banter at Blandin’s, but an entire evening of it, every night, was a lot to do. The meetings at Cornell Hall and the dinners at the Wayne were welcome changes. On those occasions, I could come back to the tavern at a later hour and play the violin when everyone was some distance down his path and ready to be amused.

Prayer meeting on Wednesday night provided another haven. It took place in the small hall behind the Methodist Church, the dusty smell of the hymnals bringing me back to when I was a girl and sitting in the pew in Westerlo. The people at prayer meeting were dressed in everyday clothes, and all who attended were welcomed like family—the warmth of family was something I greatly missed. And beyond that, I didn’t feel like the deceiver when I was there. I was dressed as a man, yes, but surely God could see under my shirt, so I wasn’t fooling Him. And what difference did it make to the others? Man or woman, we were there to worship our Lord.

Reverend Albright presided over these meetings, reading the scripture and leading us in prayer. After the meeting, most of the parishioners would head back to the upper village while Albright and I would go the other way, he to the parsonage on Second Street and I to Blandin’s. My minister knew where I slept, but he never asked me a thing about the tavern, as though only unspeakable things happened there. I thought it a little strange, but I didn’t take this reluctance as a warning. I didn’t know what evils he had attached to the place, but I didn’t think they had attached themselves to me in his mind. I didn’t want to explain myself and was comfortable when we instead talked about his vexations.