A Proper Pursuit (6 page)

“I am staying for dinner, Aunt Birdie. I’m staying for a month, in fact.”

“Oh, how nice.”

The tall case clock in the foyer chimed six o’clock as I followed Grandmother upstairs to the guest room. I loved this grand old house. My great-grandfather, the Honorable Judge Porter C. Howell, had built the graceful Greek Revival-style home in 1830 and raised my grandmother and her three sisters here. Grandmother, Aunt Birdie, and Aunt Matt still lived here, while the fourth sister, Aunt Agnes, lived across town with her husband.

According to my father, this house had narrowly escaped the Great Fire that destroyed much of Chicago more than twenty years ago, the flames halting a mere city block away. Great-grandfather Howell had deeded the house to Aunt Matilda, who had never married. Aunt Birdie had moved in after her husband died in the war, and my grandmother joined them when her husband died. It remained a mystery to me why my grandmother hadn’t moved in with Father and me, since my mother had already left us by then.

I was very hungry, so I washed quickly using the pitcher and bowl on my washstand, then tidied my hair. On my way down to the dinner table, I paused to peek into the other bedrooms, glimpsing how very different the Howell sisters were from one another. My grandmother’s room resembled a monk’s cell, with bare wood floors, a simple dresser and mirror, and a plain white spread on the narrow bed. A spare wooden cross was the only wall decoration.

Aunt Birdie’s room across the hall was packed to the ceiling with color and pattern and ornately carved furniture. A scarlet Turkish rug stretched across the floor; pink floral wallpaper clashed with framed botanical prints and lush landscapes; a red floral bedspread and dozens of tapestry pillows covered the bed; and gold brocade curtains hung on the windows. Jammed into the room beside the four-poster bed were two dressers, a wardrobe, a mirrored dressing table, two end tables, two slipper chairs, and a washstand, barely leaving room to walk.

Aunt Matt’s bedroom on the first floor had once been my greatgrandfather’s study—and it still resembled one except for the quiltcovered daybed shoved against one wall. A massive desk, buried beneath piles and piles of papers, took up most of the room. Glassfronted barrister’s shelves filled with my great-grandfather’s books lined two walls. I had no idea where Aunt Matt kept her clothing; the room had neither dresser nor wardrobe. I suppose it didn’t matter because she always looked the same to me and might well have owned only one dress: high collared, ankle length, prim, and black.

The three women had filled the remaining rooms of the house with the accumulated possessions of all their lives, and I had fun trying to guess which items belonged to whom.

I slipped into my place at the mahogany dining table, where the Howell sisters sat waiting for me. We bowed our heads as Grandmother said grace.

“Did Father tell you he’s planning to remarry?” I blurted moments after Grandmother said “Amen.”

“Oh, how nice,” Aunt Birdie said. “I love weddings.”

Aunt Matt huffed in disgust. “I’ll never understand why any woman in this modern era would feel the need to subject herself to a man’s control.”

“Yes, your father told me he’d met someone,” Grandmother said with a sigh. She rested her hand on my arm in a gesture of comfort. My grandmother used her hands more than any person I knew— touching, caressing, or gently laying them on someone’s shoulder or arm. When her hands weren’t soothing they were working: scrubbing, baking, cleaning, cooking. Then when her other work was finished, she would sit in the parlor to do her darning, mending, crocheting, or knitting.
“Idle hands are the devil’s playthings,”
she often insisted.

I took another bite of mashed potatoes and returned to the subject of my father, hoping to win my devout grandmother as an ally. “Have you given his marriage your blessing?” I asked. “I would think that divorce and remarriage are against your religious principles.”

“Your father didn’t ask for my opinion, dear—or my blessing.”

“Well, did you know that he’s been lying to me all these years, telling me that my mother was ill? I learned only this month that she hasn’t been sick at all. And now he has divorced her!”

“I gather you don’t think much of his decision to remarry. Do you know this Mrs. O’Neill very well?”

“I hate Maude O’Neill!” I said, banging my fist on the table and rattling the silverware. There. I’d spoken the truth. Grandmother laid her hand on my arm once again.

“The Bible says we mustn’t hate anyone, Violet Rose.”

“Hatred is what’s causing this terrible War Between the States,” Aunt Birdie added.

I might have known my grandmother would react this way. She was the walking embodiment of the fruit of the Spirit, carrying love, joy, peace, and all the rest around with her as if toting an invisible basket, passing them out freely to everyone she met.

“Please don’t let hatred overtake you, Violet.” Jesus’ eyes must have looked just like my grandmother’s: kind, loving, sorrowful, or sometimes filled with righteous indignation—over the very same things that moved my grandmother. She turned her woeful Jesus eyes on me now until I had to look away in shame.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “But I can’t help disliking Maude. Father gave me no warning at all. I arrived home from boarding school one day, and he announced his engagement the very next evening.”

“Marriage is bondage,” Aunt Matt declared. “This widow ought to think twice before sacrificing her freedom. Did she inherit any property from her late husband?”

“She has a house … and two perfectly wretched children.”

“My husband adores children,” Aunt Birdie said dreamily. “We plan to have a large family once he returns from the war. He has to conquer Richmond and defeat Robert E. Lee first.”

“Maybe I should have a word with this Widow O’Neill,” Aunt Matt said. “Someone needs to tell her how much she stands to lose if she remarries.”

“Oh, I wish you would speak to her, Aunt Matt.” If anyone could frighten Maude into canceling the wedding, it was my militant Aunt Matt.

“Now, Mattie,” Grandmother said, “you know John would never allow you to interfere with his life—”

“Did you know,” Aunt Matt continued, “that when a woman marries, her property, her wages, and her inheritance all become the property of her husband?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said in surprise. “I think someone had better warn Maude right away before—”

“There are poor women in this city who labor for twelve hours a day in sweatshops and factories, yet by law, their drunken husbands can take their wages straight to the saloon and indulge themselves with what she’s earned by the sweat of her brow, leaving her and her children to starve.”

I had never heard Aunt Matt express her views so strongly. Perhaps it was because I’d never visited my grandmother’s house alone before. My father always accompanied me. He was probably the reason my aunts never talked about my mother. I decided to steer the conversation back to her.

“I think I deserve to know something about my mother.”

“She was ravishingly beautiful,” Aunt Birdie said, gazing into the air above our heads. “She was Juliet to Johnny’s Romeo.” I waited to hear more, but Aunt Birdie seemed to have lost her train of thought. My grandmother and Aunt Matt fell silent, eating their food without looking up.

“Is that true?” I finally asked. “Were my parents like Romeo and Juliet, living in feuding households?”

“I never met your mother’s parents,” Grandmother said quietly. “There was no feud… . Listen, Violet. I know you’re upset with all this secrecy, and I don’t blame you. But asking about your mother will only lead to more grief in the end. Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past—and this is one of those times. Besides, we’re all tired tonight. Supper was later than usual, thanks to the station mixup. And right now it’s time for our evening devotions.”

She rose to fetch her Bible from the buffet and rustled through the fading, onionskin pages until she found her place. I didn’t comprehend a single word that she read as I battled tears of anger and frustration. I would learn nothing more about my mother tonight.

Ten minutes later Grandmother ended with a lengthy prayer, thanking the Almighty “for safely delivering our Violet Rose” and finishing with “Amen.”

“Amen,” Aunt Birdie echoed. Grandmother rose quickly again.

“I believe we’ve lingered here long enough for one evening. Mattie, it’s our turn to do the dishes. Violet, why don’t you go upstairs and unpack?”

She didn’t wait for a reply but gathered up as many dishes as she could carry and headed to the kitchen, her steps brisk and purposeful as if unwilling to waste a single one of them. My grandmother believed that waste of any kind offended God, especially wasting time.

I lacked enthusiasm for the task of unpacking, but I dutifully went upstairs and removed my dresses from the trunk and hung them in the empty wardrobe, which smelled of mothballs. I arranged my comb and brush and other toiletries on the dresser top and tossed my stockings and undergarments into the empty drawers. I spent the longest amount of time searching for a place to hide my journal, finally deciding to stuff it underneath my mattress, as usual.

Grandmother and Aunt Matt were still in the kitchen when I went downstairs again. Aunt Birdie sat alone in the parlor, gazing into space with a contented smile, her hands folded loosely in her lap. She had soft, limp hands, like aging goose-down pillows with nearly all of the stuffing gone. I sat beside her on the horsehair sofa, hoping for a few minutes alone with her before the others joined us.

“Aunt Birdie, did you know my mother?”

“Of course. I knew her very well.”

My hopes soared. “Would you tell me something about her, please?”

“I’d be happy to. Let’s see now …” Her pause lasted a very long time. I waited, thinking that she was searching for a place to begin. But finally she looked up at me and asked, “Who are you again?”

“I’m Violet Rose Hayes. Your nephew, John Hayes, is my father.” When Birdie still seemed puzzled, I added, “I’m Florence’s granddaughter.”

“Why, what a coincidence! I’m Florence’s sister.”

“Yes, I know. Aunt Birdie, you said that my parents were like Romeo and Juliet. Do you remember when they got married?”

“Like it was yesterday. I even have a picture. Would you like to see it?”

“I would love to!”

She rose gracefully to her feet and removed a framed photograph from the curio cabinet in the corner, wiping a layer of dust from it with her sleeve, then blowing on it to remove the rest. I held my breath in anticipation as she handed the photo to me. My hopes plummeted quickly when I saw that the bride in the photograph was Aunt Birdie.

“I think this is you, Aunt Birdie. You and your husband.”

“Gilbert is off fighting in the war, you know. He’s with General McClellan in Virginia on the Peninsula Campaign. I miss him terribly.” Tears filled her gray eyes.

I fumbled for something to say. “He’s … he’s a fine-looking man.”

“Yes, isn’t he, though? Is there someone special in your life, dear?”

“Not really. Herman Beckett from back home asked my father for permission to court me, but he’s my only suitor so far.” Unless I wanted to count Silas McClure, the traveling salesman—which I didn’t.

“Do you love this Mr. Beckett?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, then. That says it all, doesn’t it? Make sure you marry for love, dear.”

“I really don’t know much about love, Aunt Birdie. My friend Ruth and I used to read
True Romance Stories
and they made falling in love sound like a bad case of influenza. Your stomach goes all aflutter and your palms sweat and your head starts spinning. I’m not sure I would like the sensation, to tell you the truth. Does love really feel that way?”

“My husband fell in love with me the moment he first laid eyes on me. He saw me across the room and he said to his brother, ‘Look! Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?’ He couldn’t take his eyes off of me. ‘I’m going to marry her,’ he vowed, ‘if it’s the last thing I ever do.’ He begged my father for permission to court me, but it wasn’t enough for Gilbert to win Father’s permission or even my consent to marry him. He was determined to win my love. And so he did.” She sighed and wiped away the tear that had rolled down her soft cheek. “Then this terrible war started, and we’ve been apart ever since.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, gently squeezing her hand. “I hope I meet a gentleman who loves me that much.”

“Make certain you marry for love. My sister Agnes married for money, and Florence married so she could serve God, and poor Mattie never married at all. But I was the fortunate one. I married for love.”

“Do you know why my father and mother got married? Their names are John and Angeline Hayes.”

“Oh yes. That was true love. Deep and passionate. Like my husband’s and mine.”

“Won’t you please tell me their story?”

“Their passion was ignited the night of the Great Fire, and the fervor of their love was as all-consuming as the flames.”

Wow! Aunt Birdie could write
True Romance
stories!
But was it the truth? I knew that the Great Fire had occurred in October of 1871. I was born in April of 1873. Allowing a few months for courtship and marriage, and nine months for pregnancy, the timing did seem to make sense.

“What happened then, Aunt Birdie?”

“It began to rain early on Tuesday morning and the fire finally stopped. If it hadn’t been for the rain, this house would have burned up with all the others.”

“I mean what happened with my parents? Do you have a photograph of their wedding?”

“Yes. Would you like to see it?” She lifted her wedding photo from her lap and showed it to me again. I was disappointed but not surprised.

“I think this is you, Aunt Birdie.”

“Darling Gilbert. He’s the love of my life. He’s fighting in Virginia to help free the slaves, you know. Make sure you marry for love, dear.”

I gave up. Trying to get information from Aunt Birdie was probably a lost cause. A few minutes later, Grandmother and Aunt Matt finished the dishes and joined us in the parlor.