The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
twenty-four.”
“I’m not interested in marrying yet, Mama. We’ve talked about that,” she said, trying to keep the sharpness of her tone in check. She had expected this response.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about looking for a position when you’re all finished with your education,” said Papa. “You have no business taking a job away from a man with a family to support. A woman’s place is in the home.” That was his familiar stand when it came to women acquiring a profession. Then came a mystifying statement: “It’s more important that you remain in Boston right now.”
“Why is it necessary for me to stay here, Papa?” Staying at home had never been an issue before, although she had seldom been farther away from home than Duxbury or Newburyport.
“If you insist upon continuing with your pointless studies, there’s always the plant life in the Public Garden.” He had yet to return to eating his soup.
“School children study the flora in the Public Garden, Papa. Botanists search for and examine new species.”
“Then look in the Berkshires or the White Mountains. There’s no need to flounce off to Florida.”
She decided not to be sidetracked by the sting of the word flounce. “The White Mountains have already been scoured by botanists and trampled by hikers and campers.” She was still looking at her father, but sensed Mama and Aunt Sarah watching this exchange with concern. One did not stand up to Papa without experiencing his gruff retorts and eventual subjugation by the force of his anger and determination. “Doctor Adams has suggested Florida’s western Everglades as an excellent area where very little botanical study has taken place. Florida’s swamps are the homes for hundreds of plant species still unnamed, some rare, others yet to be discovered. Mama, remember the lecture you and I attended with Mr. Cushing last fall? Pliny Reasoner’s trek along the Fakahatchee River in 1887 was what inspired me.”
Papa glared the length of the dining room table at Mama as if this whole thing were her fault.
Her mother adjusted her chiffon shawl nervously. “People will gossip, dear. They’ll surmise that you are in confinement. By seeming to go away to avoid a scandal, you will surround the family with embarrassment.”
“I can’t help what your wicked-minded friends will imagine, Mama. The only other places to get a similar experience are Africa or South America.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Aunt Sarah. Perhaps it had been a mistake to start this argument in the presence of Papa’s older sister after all.
“What does this woman—your mentor—know about Florida?” asked Papa. “It’s a distant, uncivilized place where yellow fever and malaria are rampant.”
“Oh,” said Mama softly, raising a hand to her throat. “Surely you don’t want to travel to a place where those diseases exist, dear.”
There had been outbreaks of yellow fever, but none in the past two years. Before she could reply, Papa spoke again.
“This woman sounds like a feather-head to suggest traveling to the wilds of Florida. I assume she plans to accompany you.”
Beth resented his referring to Dr. Adams as “this woman.” She was tempted to defend her mentor, but decided to stay on course and gripped the table again. “I plan to go alone.”
“Unheard of. Young ladies do not travel alone. I forbid it.” His voice reverberated from the dining room’s black walnut paneling, overriding Mama’s gasp. Even Aunt Sarah had looked up in alarm.
She had prepared herself for this. “Papa, this is 1893. Women travel alone all the time. I’ve seen them on the train to Wellesley.”
“Working women, perhaps,” he said disdainfully. “Common people. But not ladies, for long distances, overnight, to strange hotels. Certainly not to Florida’s swamps. This discussion is closed.” He pointed at her. “Dismiss these insane notions from your mind, Elizabeth.” He returned his attention to his soup.
She paused for a moment, knowing what turmoil to expect from what she was about to say. Seldom had she stood up to Papa, and even then it had been about minor issues that Mama had supported and helped her win. Now her mother remained silent. “Papa, I’m twenty-three. An adult. I intend to go whether you approve or not.” The words came out tremulously, but nevertheless they had been said.
Papa lowered his soup spoon slowly. His hand was shaking and his face was as red as she had ever seen it. Aunt Sarah’s presence made him attempt to contain himself. “I am amazed to hear your defiance, Elizabeth, especially in front of your mother and Aunt Sarah. You will not go. I forbid it, and will not advance you one penny for such an outlandish venture.”
She had anticipated this threat. “I have my trust fund from Grandfather Jackson, Papa. I am now of age and intend to draw from it.” Grandfather Jackson’s portrait, hanging above the marble fireplace behind Aunt Sarah, looked down with approval.
Papa’s forehead furrowed. “I’ve always been against women handling money, and tonight you’ve given me a good example why they shouldn’t. You are naïve and see life through rose-colored glasses, Elizabeth. Some no-account will steal your money before you are able to turn around. This is the thanks your mother and I get for sending you to college. You’ve become headstrong and are jeopardizing your main purpose in life—to marry and have children.”
“I see Elizabeth as an independent thinker, Walter, but not headstrong,” said Aunt Sarah, speaking for the first time. “I didn’t realize you considered me a failure because I never married and had children.”
“Elizabeth is smart and can take care of herself, Papa,” added Mama. “She has never embarrassed the family.” Papa had overreached himself and the women were closing ranks. She saw a slight glimmer of hope for their support.
Papa sputtered a few times and pulled at his high wing-tip collar, but held his ground. “I still refuse to allow our daughter to travel alone to the depths of Florida or any other far away place, Harriet,” he said, looking at Mama. Then, turning toward his daughter, “If you are suggesting that I escort you, I cannot. Business is not good right now, and the company requires my attention here in Boston.”
“Well then,” interjected Aunt Sarah, “Elizabeth can accompany me when I go to St. Augustine for the cure.” The suggestion came as a surprise, giving even more support than she had dreamed of. But at what cost? Was Aunt Sarah to be Papa’s surrogate in Florida?
“The cure?” asked Mama. “I hope you’re not ill.” Mama seldom mentioned illness, even to her sister-in-law.
“I’ve had a lingering cough for months and this winter has got me down. I need a change, and Florida’s warm sun will help.” Beth failed to recall ever having heard Aunt Sarah cough.
“No one goes to Florida except those with consumption or those who go there to die,” growled Papa. “It’s a silly idea. Besides, the season is almost over.”
“Nonsense,” replied Aunt Sarah, now sitting ramrod straight like her brother. “We’ll leave this week and have the whole month of April there. We’ll stay at Flagler’s new hotel, the Ponce de Leon, and have a grand time. During the day Elizabeth can search for all the plants her heart desires.”
The tension had subsided, but to tell Aunt Sarah that St. Augustine wasn’t the part of Florida she intended to explore might change all that. “Thank you, Aunt Sarah,” she said before Papa could object, realizing that losing so easily was not acceptable to him. “I’d like to go to St. Augustine with you.”
The conversation had confirmed to her that there were more reasons to get away than just field studies in botany. Here was her chance to break away from Papa’s dominance and Mama’s obsession with the family’s position in Boston society, which was so confining. Her parents’ concern about offending Boston’s “Ancients and Honorables” by breaking the rules of social etiquette was suffocating her.
For