The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
atlas. It showed the lower half of the state as disappointingly blank; there were no roads or cities, only the word Everglades stretching from one coast to the other under a large lake
The thirty-hour train ride had dragged like the lectures in economics and history at Wellesley. There hadn’t been that much to see from their stateroom window. Near the cities, dreary factories and warehouses slid by. The rural areas were a monotonous blur of barren trees with infrequent glimpses of rivers. Farther south there had been an occasional shanty with little Negro children and chickens running about. The meals had been considerably less than haute cuisine, and her sleep had been fitful in the uncomfortable upper berth. To pass the time she read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes while Aunt Sarah relied upon issues of Leslie’s Weekly and the Ladies Home Journal.
When she reached into her valise, she discovered that Mama had slipped in a bottle of styptic balsam. She had never had to use it, but knew the tincture was to quell excessive bleeding during her debilitating periods. She returned the bottle to her valise without showing it to Aunt Sarah. Dear Mama and her going-away present.
When it was dark outside, she could see her reflection in the window. It reminded her of her mother’s still-beautiful face, the blonde hair with wisps of gray swept up in a pompadour. The blue, oval eyes looking back at her from the image pleaded for her not to leave home. The beginnings of crow’s feet and creases around Mama’s mouth were accentuated with worry. People said that the daughter resembled a young Harriet Jackson Sprague, but she hoped she possessed a more determined and less cowed manner than her mother.
Mama was mild-mannered and friendly—too friendly with the servants, according to Papa. Friends were the more-recently arrived matrons of Back Bay, but casual acquaintances were all that had developed with the older families that her mother sorely wished would recognize the Spragues.
With Papa, Mama was wishy-washy and subservient. Mama had confided to her before she had gone away to Dana Hall about women who fought for abolition, for prohibition, and the right to vote. Her mother had admired these women, but never dared to speak out in behalf of their causes. Papa, of course, had forbidden discussion of these subjects or the allegiance to any movement more liberal than the church ladies’ guild.
Inside her book an envelope had been inserted. Her name on the outside was in handwriting unfamiliar to her. The message inside read:
March 20, 1893
Dear Miss Sprague,
It gives me great pleasure to ask for the honor of your hand in marriage. The favor of your reply will be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Edward Lawrence Cushing
Mama must have placed Mr. Cushing’s envelope in the book. The act said more than words could have expressed. Mama had been a party to the continuing nightmare. She handed the note to her aunt.
“I found this letter in my valise, Aunt Sarah.”
Her aunt read the note and then looked up. “He doesn’t waste any words, does he?”
“I’ve received invitations to tea that were more flowery than that.”
“‘The favor of your reply will be appreciated’ sounds like a business letter. Is this the first time you’ve seen this proposal?”
“Yes.”
Aunt Sarah shook her gray head. “Your father has been domineering ever since he was a little boy, but knowing how much he loves you, his lack of understanding in this matter is unbelievable. There’s something I want to say, Elizabeth, before I lose the will to say it, and then I promise you won’t hear of it again.”
She put down Sherlock Holmes, expecting her aunt was about to lecture her about last night’s embarrassing scene in the dining room.
Aunt Sarah set her jaw as if about to address a distasteful subject. “I don’t like Edward Cushing, but I think you should mull over his proposal of marriage for a while before rejecting it out of hand. The Cushings are old Boston money, one of the richest and most well-established families.”
“I don’t care to marry a man for his money, Aunt Sarah.”
“I hope not, but there are other factors to keep in mind,” said her aunt, closing her magazine. It appeared that a long lecture was coming.
“I don’t love Mr. Cushing.”
“Love has many faces, Elizabeth, and it’s much more than that first infatuation with a gentleman’s good looks and gallant style. Love grows from a sense of duty, loyalty, trust, and shared experiences.”
“How does a sense of duty have anything to do with love, Aunt Sarah?” How did Aunt Sarah, who had never married, have knowledge on this subject? Was it possible that her aunt had experienced a secret love affair at one time?
“Lasting love comes from the caring attention a woman gives a man and a man returns. The woman is the heart and soul of the family. She provides the warmth. The husband provides a home and the necessities of life. He is the protector and has the strength a family requires. Each relies upon the other, and in time love grows, even if it isn’t there at first. I wish I had understood that when I was young.”
Aunt Sarah must have turned down a suitor that she didn’t love. Knowing that there was more to come, she remained silent.
“There are other considerations.” Her aunt paused, looking out the window as if organizing her thoughts. Turning back to her, she said, “Cunard and White Star Lines are taking away business from Atlantic and Southern at the moment. A merging of our company with Mr. Cushing’s Oceanic ought to help them both.”
The mention of “our company” reminded her of her Aunt’s share in Papa’s firm.
“A marriage to Mr. Cushing seals that merger. Then there’s your mother, who has always aspired to be absorbed into the respected Old Guard in Boston. The only way she will ever come close to achieving that goal is if you marry into one of the First Families like the Cushings. Face the fact that the older families consider the Spragues members of the codfish aristocracy. You might want to take into account what obligations you have to your parents and what that will mean to you years from now.” The older woman took her hand.
She was taken aback by the coldness of her aunt’s grasp.
“Against that you must weigh your personal goals, what you are striving for in your education, what you will accomplish by your present actions, and what it will mean to you over the years. As I said, Elizabeth, I don’t like the gentleman, but perhaps Mr. Cushing has some hidden qualities. All I ask is that you promise me you’ll consider his proposal carefully before giving him an answer.”
That had been on the train. Now they were sitting in high-backed wicker chairs in the formal courtyard garden at the Ponce de Leon Hotel. Even in the shade of the palms the warmth was like an early summer day in Boston. It had been snowing the morning they left Back Bay. Strains of music drifted from the vaulted dining room where an ensemble still entertained patrons enjoying a late lunch. Gently falling water from a nearby fountain was the only other sound they heard. The bougainvillea and hibiscus were in bloom, and the heavy fragrance of gardenias was in the air.
“Well, we’ll wait and see what Mr. Flagler has to say about your traveling all about the state,” replied Aunt Sarah. “You know that I am obliged to keep an eye on you, but I’m too old to travel into the wilderness.”
“Then I will hire a guide,” she said boldly, possessed with a restlessness that came from waiting all week. Papa still maintained a certain amount of control over their lives, even at a distance. He had telegraphed Henry Flagler, a business acquaintance of his who owned the hotel, and insisted that they meet him. She was tempted to balk at Papa’s demand except for the fact that Mr. Flagler knew Florida and might be able to guide her to places where she could do her research. The problem was that Mr. Flagler had been at Lake Worth this past week and had been unable to meet with them until this afternoon.
At a quarter