The Bucket Flower. Donald R. Wilson
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The Bucket Flower
The Bucket Flower
Donald Robert Wilson
Copyright © 2006 by Donald Robert Wilson
First paperback edition 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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ISBN 978-1-56164-369-1 (hb)
ISBN 978-1-56164-617-3 (pb)
ISBN 978-1-56164-576-3 (e-book)
The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:
Wilson, Donald Robert,
The bucket flower / Donald Robert Wilson.-- 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-56164-369-1 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-56164-369-6 (alk. paper)
1. Women botanists--Fiction. 2. Florida--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I5786B83 2006
813’.6--dc22
2006004356
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
To Regina
Contents
Chapter
1
Boston, Massachusetts, March 18, 1893
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the tablecloth. “Papa,” Beth said, “I’ve decided to go to Florida.”
Walter Sprague put down his soup spoon and touched his napkin to the corners of his moustache before speaking. “What has brought forth this sudden declaration, Elizabeth?” he asked. He looked at Mama accusingly.
Mama’s eyes widened with her soup spoon suspended halfway to her lips. Had it been a mistake not to include Mama in her plans? No. Between Mama’s fear of upsetting Papa and her adherence to custom, she would have invented reasons to support him.
“It’s . . . it’s about my graduate study,” she replied, having practiced her words over and over. At that moment the gaslights flickered, reflecting her own fear of awakening the fire-breathing dragon. Her graduate study alone was a sore spot, let alone mentioning a long trip. “My mentor, Alice Katherine Adams, has suggested the Everglades as an excellent resource for my thesis. I’m required to complete a field study before I receive my master’s degree.”
She looked across at Aunt Sarah for support, having waited for Sunday evening when her aunt customarily came to dinner. With his sister present, Papa might react less vehemently. Aunt Sarah was concentrating on adjusting the forks beside her soup plate.
“I allowed your mother to talk me into sending you to Wellesley to become a better conversationalist at dinner parties, not to become a scientific bluestocking. I must say, Elizabeth, I cannot see much change. You’re not very clever with witty repartee. Now you’re involved in this ridiculous master’s degree when there’s no place for female scientists. A college degree, much less a master’s degree,