The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
from her. She intended to converse with her friends as much as possible.
The ten-course dinner proceeded smoothly. Mrs. Faraday was assisted by their two maids, Eileen, the Irish one, and the new Norwegian girl whose name she hadn’t learned. Mrs. Faraday had outdone herself with the lobster sauté and the veal cutlets. Mama had seen to it that the appropriate wine was served with each course. Michael and Mary had their heads together. Fortunately Mama was conversing with Mr. Cushing, leaving her the opportunity to explain her trip to Grace across the table. On Grace’s right, Mr. Muldoon was relating a long story to Mrs. Burroughs. At one point he reached across her for a dinner roll, startling the elderly woman. She was amused to see Cousin Daniel, who was being ignored, attempting to stifle a yawn.
After coffee and liqueurs were served, Papa got to his feet. She expected her father was going to suggest to the ladies that they repair to the parlor while the gentlemen join him in the library for a cigar. Instead, standing stiffly erect as always, he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proposing a toast. As you may have heard, our darling daughter, Elizabeth, has been planning a trip to Florida. I had intended to wish her bon voyage, but instead, I take this opportunity to congratulate Elizabeth Julia Sprague and Mr. Edward Lawrence Cushing II on the announcement of their engagement to be married!”
Amidst the ohs and ahs around the table, she sat stunned, at first not certain she had heard correctly. Looking at Mama she saw a flash of startled ignorance which transformed into a weak smile. Across the table, Grace, who was seldom shocked by anything, sat with her mouth open. Near Papa’s end of the table Aunt Sarah had her napkin to her mouth, but the upper half of her face was whiter than usual. Mr. Cushing nodded at the others, accepting their congratulations.
“Mr. Cushing, say something!” Elizabeth said in his ear, sure he would have to correct his misunderstanding.
Cushing arose, holding his glass in his hand. “I offer a toast to my future mother-in-law, the gracious Mrs. Sprague, and my future father-in-law and partner in—”
“No! No! There’s been a mistake!” She jumped to her feet. “I’m not marrying Mr. Cushing!”
Papa’s face turned beet red. “Sit down, Elizabeth, you are upsetting our guests.”
She looked at Mama for help, but Mama’s expression was pleading for her daughter to comply, mixed with the consternation of knowing she had already made up her mind to rebel.
Papa was still standing at the head of the table, trembling. “There will be no trip to Florida, Elizabeth.”
“I am going if I have to crawl there on my hands and my knees, Papa!” She heard Mama’s gasp, but across the table Grace was grinning at her.
Aunt Sarah interrupted the stunned silence that followed with a calm voice. “A two-month trip to Florida might be just the thing to calm Elizabeth and give her proper time to reconsider such an, ah, um, interesting proposal.”
“Elizabeth,” Papa said through clenched teeth, “you have embarrassed our guests and your mother and have subjected our family to scandal. You owe everyone, and especially Mr. Cushing, an apology.” The humiliation was too great to remain in the room. She ran into the hall and up two flights of stairs and flopped on her bed, sobbing as she had as a child.
The dining room walls had closed in on her as if she were in a torture chamber. Her parents had sold her to Mr. Cushing with the world watching. The scandal of her rebellion would spread all over Boston by tomorrow; Mrs. Burroughs and Mrs. Tremont would see to that. To allow it to appear as if she had accepted Mr. Cushing’s proposal, and then later refute it would have been just as bad. Not only had she defied Papa, but she did it in front of guests. She had violated the social conventions regarding poise, family solidarity, display of temper, and creating a scene. She had brought shame onto her parents, and she did it before non-family—the Burroughses, the Tremonts, and worst of all, her friends.
If a man had to ask for her hand in marriage, why wasn’t it, she asked herself between sobs, someone like Michael Otis and not Edward Cushing? Mama had taught her from an early age that two standards existed, one for men, and the other for women, and that men in general were beasts. Edward Cushing was one of them. She had always promised herself to search for one who was not.
Michael was a real gentleman, handsome, and from a good family. She had known him ever since their third year in college, his at Harvard, hers at Wellesley. At a college-sponsored dance she had met him and introduced him to Mary. From that moment it was obvious that Mary and Michael were meant for each other. She envied Mary but loved her as much as Michael and shared in the happiness of their courtship. She admired Michael’s handsome features, his gentleness, courteousness, and gallantry. He was a churchgoer and an excellent dancer. Where Papa was haughty and arrogant, Michael was dignified and gracious.
Edward Cushing was like Papa and had no sensitivity for her feelings or preferences. Only Mr. Cushing was worse—he lacked the dignity and the handsome features of Michael or Papa. Above all, he had grabbed her hurtfully by the arm and had forced her into a chair in the drawing room, causing her to suspect that cruelty lurked just below the veneer of his gentlemanly behavior.
It seemed as if she had been lying on the bed for hours, but perhaps it had been only minutes before she heard a light tapping on the door frame. She hadn’t closed her door, and someone was hesitating in the doorway. Expecting to see her mother, she buried her head in her pillow.
“Beth?” Mary was the one who had started calling her “Beth” when they met at Dana Hall. Only Mary and Grace called her that. She sat up slowly, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Oh, Mary,” she sobbed, indicating that her best friend should come sit beside her on the bed.
Mary had difficulty climbing up on the high bed in her dinner dress but finally succeeded. She sat close by without saying anything. She had placed a bag at the foot of the bed.
“Oh, Mary, what have I done?”
“Did you accept Mr. Cushing’s proposal of marriage?”
“He never proposed. He started to hand me a ring, and then he offered a letter of proposal, but I refused it.”
“Then you’ve done nothing wrong, Beth. Your father must have misunderstood.”
“I’m not certain of that, Mary. Papa and Mr. Cushing have been planning a marriage without informing me. And you saw how Mr. Cushing went right ahead as if the engagement was a foregone conclusion. Then I embarrassed everyone present with my outburst.”
Mary put her arm around her. “Everyone will understand once they know the truth. Are you still planning to go to Florida tomorrow?”
“I will go tonight if I can—and never come back.”
“I brought you a going-away present.” Mary withdrew a box with a large bow from the bag and handed it to her.
“Oh, Mary! What a thoughtful gift!”she said as she unwrapped the Kodak Brownie and several rolls of film. “I should have thought about using a camera. This will come in handy with strange plants.”
Mary laughed. “Don’t forget to take pictures of the young gentlemen you meet.”
“Where is Aunt Sarah? She’ll never want to go to Florida with me now.”
“I’m right here, dear.” Aunt Sarah was in the doorway. “Tomorrow morning can’t come soon enough for either of us.”
“Aunt Sarah, if Mama and Papa insist on this nightmare of an engagement, then I will never return from Florida. Thank you for helping me escape.”
Chapter
3
St. Augustine, Florida, March 25, 1893
“What could possibly go wrong with my traveling in the Everglades, Aunt Sarah? This isn’t the wild west.” She still had only a