The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
was still red and his mustache bristled, but his voice was much softer as he spoke. “If you two insist upon this foolish venture, then I will make arrangements for the two of you to have a first-class stateroom aboard the City of Providence, which sails on the thirtieth for Jacksonville and Key West. A sea voyage will be healthful and invigorating.” This was Papa’s way of maintaining control in defeat. The Providence was one of his ships, and the crew answered to him; she was doomed to be under his influence.
“Oh, no,” said Aunt Sarah, raising her hands. “I will never go anywhere by ship again. When I went to Europe I was deathly sick during both crossings. I would have walked home if I had that choice. We’ll take the train, Walter. It goes all the way to St. Augustine now.”
Papa glared at Aunt Sarah. “A stateroom is a much more civilized way to travel. You never know what common people you will encounter on a train, mostly drummers. They don’t just sell their wares, they’re a wanton lot. The cars are dirty, noisy, too hot or too cold, and the food, when available, is inedible.”
“We’ll get reservations for a stateroom in a hotel car,” said Aunt Sarah bravely. “They have all the modern conveniences at hand, including meals, all in one car, and we won’t have to move about the train once we leave Jersey City.” Aunt Sarah had traveled before, but it mattered little to Elizabeth whether they went by Papa’s steamer or by train as long as they were able to go.
Sunday was the maid’s night off, and Mrs. Faraday, the cook, had cleared the soup dishes. The dinner had continued without further upset. Papa was unusually quiet while Mama and Aunt Sarah engaged in small talk. Their conversation gave her the opportunity to absorb what had taken place. That she was accompanying Aunt Sarah to Florida in a few days was hard to believe. She hadn’t won, exactly, but she hadn’t lost, either. Aunt Sarah, in her mid-sixties, had certain limitations as a traveling companion. Once they were in Florida she planned to find out how close to the Everglades they were. How to arrange a few days away from Aunt Sarah for exploration was a problem, but this evening was not the time to worry about that.
“You know, Sarah,” said Papa, ending the quiet moment while Mrs. Faraday had served the Indian pudding, “I expect you to be the perfect chaperone and never let Elizabeth out of your sight. Louts will be attracted to her like bears to honey.” He pointed that threatening finger again. “If anything happens to her, anything at all, I will hold you responsible.”
“Papa, I know how to deal with untoward gentlemen. You forget all the Harvard men I’ve had to fend off at cotillions.”
“These men will not be from Harvard, Elizabeth, and they will not be gentlemen requesting a place on your dance card. If you insist upon going, you will encounter all kinds of riffraff, and you will not be treated like a lady. If you ever need help, don’t expect to receive any. Distrust any man who attempts to be friendly. They’ll be after your money—or worse.” This was the closest her father ever came to admitting that sexual drives existed. “At best, you’ll be ignored. You will find the train schedules to be unreliable. You’ll have to change trains frequently, stay over in questionable hotels, and often take a ferry or cross a city to reach the next railway line. And these are unsettled times. Grover Cleveland will be inaugurated within a few days, and who knows what vermin that will bring into office. I predict that you will return to Boston within a week—if you get back at all.”
“It’s a man’s world out there, dear,” said Mama vaguely.
“We’ll be able to take care of ourselves,” said Aunt Sarah. “You’d think I have never traveled before.”
As they rose from the table, Papa asked, “Elizabeth, have you told Edward Cushing about your travel plans?” The thought of Mr. Cushing caused her to shudder. He competed with Papa in the shipping business. Mama had included the obnoxious man in their social plans more frequently as of late.
She paused, puzzled. “Why need I discuss anything with Mr. Cushing, Papa?”
“He might be slighted by your leaving Boston just now.”
“Why is that?”
“I believe he will be making a proposal of marriage to you very soon.”
Chapter
2
Edward Cushing was the least desirable man in the world. The past three days had not helped to lessen the repugnance associated with the idea of an engagement to that man. The thought of marriage to him called up nightmarish images, which she quickly cast aside. Much to her relief, his name had not been brought up again, but she was certain that her parents had invited him to tonight’s dinner party. Somehow she had to get through the evening without appearing to be self-conscious and embarrassed by his presence.
Beth knew no man that she cared to be engaged to at this moment except Michael Otis, but Michael was already married to her best friend, Mary. Both Mary and her husband were expected to arrive for dinner at any moment.
How fortunate it was that she had planned to go away now. Living at home was becoming more and more like prison. Leaving tomorrow morning meant escaping further dominance by Papa and Mama and at least postponing a proposal from Mr. Cushing. For her parents to consider her marriage to Mr. Cushing without even consulting her was beyond belief.
From her rocker she looked around her third-floor bedroom. She would miss this room and its stairway to her hideaway in the turret. The latest issue of McClure’s lay in her lap, unable to hold her interest. The impending dinner party was intended to be a bon voyage celebration for her and Aunt Sarah, but the fact that Edward Cushing might be lurking downstairs destroyed any pleasant anticipation.
The past three days had slipped by in the wink of an eye despite her eagerness to get away. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to leave so soon. Aunt Sarah had obtained the train tickets, but there had been so much preparation for their trip. Which gowns and dresses should she take, and which ones should be left behind? Dresses for traveling, walking, morning, balls, and parties. For sporting events she decided upon long skirts and shirtwaists with leg-of-mutton sleeves. Then there were the hats, the scarves, the shoes, the unmentionables, and her jewelry. She hoped she had made the right decisions. Fortunately Mama had been busy with plans for this evening’s farewell dinner. It had been difficult to limit herself to three Saratogas and the one valise to carry with her on the train. Then, too, there had been arrangements to be made about her trust fund and the train ride out to Wellesley to borrow a microscope from Dr. Adams. Thanks to her mentor, the microscope and other equipment were being shipped separately to St. Augustine.
Voices rose from the second floor. The guests were already arriving. Once the ladies had completed their primping after depositing their cloaks and hats in the master bedroom, Mama planned to have them congregate in the second-floor drawing room, and her presence was required. After all, the hastily arranged dinner was a going-away affair in her honor.
She stood and made one final appraisal before the full-length mirror. Her carefully coiffed, long, blonde tresses were in place. The pearl necklace and matching pearl earrings were appropriate for an unattached lady. She had chosen a simple satin dinner dress, which added modest curves to her slim figure. But no matter how much she tightened her corset or let out the bodice, she still looked like a string bean. She had long known that an hourglass figure like those Gibson Girls she admired in Harper’s Bazaar was beyond her natural capabilities. Unless hoop skirts and bustles came back into vogue, she would need additional padding in the right places.
Mama had insisted on making tonight’s dinner party formal. After reluctantly donning her gloves and picking up her fan, she descended to the second floor and turned toward the drawing room, which was surprisingly quiet. The voices had retreated to the first-floor parlor adjoining the dining room. To her great dismay, instead of the guests she had expected, there stood Mr. Cushing alone before the fire. Mama had set a trap!
If Mr. Cushing hadn’t seen her, she would have slipped past the archway and continued on down the stairs. Instead, she pushed the button beside