The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
Mr. Cushing the yellow-gray face of a walking cadaver. Her worst fears were realized: for the first time they were without a chaperone.
The fact that Edward Lawrence Cushing II was the heir to the Oceanic Steamship Lines was of little interest to her. She knew that a year ago his father had died, leaving him in control of the company. Oceanic competed with Papa’s Atlantic and Southern Steamship Company, a smaller firm. That Mr. Cushing desired to absorb Papa’s line into his own was no secret. The merger would make the company the largest trans-Atlantic line on the western side of the Atlantic. It had become evident that Papa also had designs upon combining the two steamship lines into one. He had said in private that it was a matter of becoming a partner or running the risk of being driven out of business.
Marrying Mr. Cushing had never entered her mind until Papa had broached the subject. But now here he was, towering over her, his purpose clear. Was she expected to be Papa’s gift to Cushing to sweeten the transaction, or had her father added her to the merger to land her a husband? She wasn’t sure which reason was more distasteful.
The reason for certain events of the past few months involving Mr. Cushing now became evident. Mr. Cushing had invited Mama and Papa to a concert, and she was included as an afterthought, or so she had surmised at the time. The bleak, shabby Music Hall, combined with Mr. Cushing’s dreary personality, scuttled an evening that even an excellent program by the Boston Symphony couldn’t salvage. Despite that disaster, Mama had invited Mr. Cushing to join the family at two dinner parties, a lecture, the theater, and an evening of parlor games. The latter turned out to be worse than the Music Hall fiasco. Even “Bulls and Bears” failed to hold his attention. Mr. Cushing had no more interest or aptitude for silly pastimes than Papa had. At first it had been difficult to understand why Mama and Papa were befriending this strange man. But it became clear that Papa shared his business interests, and Mama admired his social standing with Boston’s Old Guard. He was related in some hard-to-follow way to both Oliver Wendell Holmes and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He was also a Harvard graduate and a Presbyterian.
“Good evening, Mr. Cushing,” she said, careful to avoid smiling. This was no occasion for him to get encouragement from her.
“Good evening to you, Miss Sprague.” He bowed slightly. The spasmodic twitch under his left eye was active this evening. His long, thin face and scraggly, drooping moustache depressed her. “Please sit down over here.” He was at least ten years her senior, and in her imagination the washed-out color of his hair and his sallow complexion made him look much older.
Being in the same room with him was always awkward, and now, knowing his plans for her, being forced to be alone and face-to-face like this was even more intolerable. “We’re expected in the parlor downstairs, Mr. Cushing. Dinner will be served shortly.”
“There’s something I wish to say to you,” he said, taking her arm in a viselike grip. “It will only take a moment.” She had little choice but to sit as he guided her to a chair. He sat facing her, squinting through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. “I have a ring,” he said as he reached into his coat pocket and produced a small velvet box.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked, frantic to find a way to prevent this scene from proceeding any further. Since swooning might be misunderstood, she arose from the chair.
“Oh, yes. I have a letter of proposal right here.” He replaced the box and reached inside his coat for an envelope which he held out to her as he stood.
“I don’t wish to accept that, Mr. Cushing.” Accepting the envelope required a reply. A reply involved further embarrassment and hurt feelings. She wished she and Aunt Sarah were already on their way to St. Augustine.
“But why not, Miss Sprague?” His left eye was twitching more than ever. “I have asked your father for your hand in marriage, and he has consented. Aren’t you afraid of becoming a spinster? College graduates aren’t considered to be good homemakers, you know. I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime. Naturally, you will be expected to give up further studies.”
“The few times we have met do not amount to a courtship, Mr. Cushing. You hardly know me.” Good manners prevented her from adding, “and I don’t want to know you.” She added, “I will not give up my graduate studies.” She was also tempted to suggest that his being unmarried at thirty-three raised questions, but only said, “There are worse things than being a spinster, Mr. Cushing.” She whirled toward the archway.
“Miss Sprague.” The sharp edge to his voice made her stop and turn. “There is much riding upon this engagement, you know, much more than merely a young lady’s whims.”
“Come, Mr. Cushing, the other guests are waiting downstairs,” she said, giving him no choice but to follow her down the stairway leading to the main hall.
“Ah, here come Elizabeth and Mr. Cushing!” gushed Mama from the foot of the stairs. The look of joy on her mother’s face grated against her own feelings. The other guests were in the parlor.
“Did he ask you?” Mama whispered in her ear.
“No, Mama.” That was the truth. No question had been asked, and he had returned the envelope to his pocket.
Cousin Daniel stepped forward from the group as they entered the parlor. “Cousin Elizabeth! How good it is to see you.” He was wearing a clawhammer coat and cummerbund along with patent leather oxfords, as were all the gentlemen except one. He kissed her longer and harder than was proper for kissing cousins, but it told her that he and the others had not been made aware of the impending proposal. Mama had invited her stocky nephew to round out the table, always balancing the number of gentlemen and ladies.
Looking past her cousin, she observed the ladies’ long, sweeping dinner gowns of Chantilly, lilac satin, fawn silk, emerald, and black velvet polonaise. Most of the ladies wore their hair pulled into a roll or knot at the back. Mary McKay Otis’ was swept up from the forehead in a pompadour, and Grace Sumner’s hair was piled on top and pinned carelessly in a knot. The ladies, except Grace, decorated their hair with aigrettes, wreaths of silver blossoms, gold net, lace, ribbons, or pearls. Diamonds, broaches, pendants, earrings and bracelets abounded.
Grace’s fiancé, Patrick Muldoon, was the only gentleman not wearing a formal dinner suit. A shabby coat several sizes too large hung from his bony frame. And Grace and Patrick were not wearing gloves. Grace knew the custom for formal dinners and wore none, she guessed, because Patrick didn’t own any. Grace had been known in college for her daring social gaffes. Mr. Muldoon was a fisherman and very likely the first Irishman to enter the Sprague mansion by the front door. It would be intriguing to know what Grace’s family thought of this redheaded young man.
Eleven guests were there for dinner. Other invited couples had made their apologies. The short notice, Mama said, was the problem, but she knew that most Bunker Hill and Back Bay families never intended to be seen in the Sprague home.
Stepping past her cousin to greet the other guests, she spoke to the Tremonts and the Burroughses, friends of her parents, then to Aunt Sarah. Her college friends, Mary and Grace, were next. With them were Patrick, and at last, Mary’s husband, dear Michael.
“That’s a lovely gown, Elizabeth,” he said.
She hoped that the redness she felt creeping up her neck went unnoticed as she talked with Michael.
Mrs. Faraday opened the sliding doors to the dining room and announced dinner, and the procession began. As was the custom, Papa escorted the senior lady, Aunt Sarah, followed by the Tremonts, then the Burroughses. Next came Mary and Michael and then Grace and Patrick.
“My arm, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Cushing, more in the tone of a command than an invitation. But she ignored his proffered arm and walked beside him without touching. Mama, the hostess, accompanied by Cousin Daniel, brought up the rear. She endured the formality of each gentleman seating his lady to his left. Cushing took off his gloves and sat beside her. Like the other ladies, she then removed her gloves and placed them in her lap, resisting the wild inclination to stuff them into Mr. Cushing’s water glass. Across the table Grace and Mr. Muldoon seemed oblivious to the formalities.