Stella smoothed her purple skirt then adjusted the pin at her bodice while Jane wrestled her dark curls into a fashion that, if not pretty, was at least presentable.
“Your uncle Weston’s invited a young man to dinner this evenin’.” Jane lifted a jeweled comb from the dressing table then used it to pin up Stella’s hair.
Not another one.
“I don’t have to be there, do I?” When would her uncle realize she was destined for solitude and end his search for a husband? But the words from yesterday’s letter surfaced, cracking the door of possibility. She might make a concession for a certain someone. If only he didn’t insist on keeping his identity a secret.
Clicking her tongue, Jane shook her head. “You know very well you’re to be there. He wants me taking extra care to make you pretty.”
Stella’s reflection in the mirror slumped her shoulders. She’d never been a beauty. Before Papa’s death, she was the last girl asked to dance at parties and benefits. Of course, word of her inheritance had changed all that. But her headaches had worsened after losing him and stole what little bloom her cheeks once possessed. She studied her folded hands in her lap.
Why were men so shallow? If looks didn’t attract them, money did. And it wasn’t as if the men of her acquaintance were prize catches themselves. Not when they droned on about their horse’s lineage or some man named Ty Cobb. Did none of them read? The world was changing. The English were building unsinkable ships. Scientists were making great medical discoveries. But it seemed men were more interested in baseball than progress.
With her hair marginally tamed, Stella slipped into her shoes and paused for Jane to fasten the buttons. She’d rather forgo shoes altogether, but the dull edges of her headache would not withstand another of Uncle Weston’s admonitions to “act like a lady.” Her fingers brushed the silky coverlet on her bed. “Thank you, Jane.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Stella.” Jane closed the buttonhook into a drawer. “Will you be wanting to take another trip to Rodeo Beach today?” She checked the gold timepiece fastened over her heart. The one Stella had given her three Christmases ago. “If we leave within the hour, we can get there before the crowd gets too heavy.”
Stella toyed with her fingers, shaking her head. “I’d prefer a drive along the coast. Why don’t you take the day off? Give your hip a rest and write your brother. You’ve talked about it for weeks, and I’m sure he would love to hear from you.” A day with Henry would be a welcome relief. He didn’t expect her to keep her shoes on or play the perfect lady.
Jane gave a slight nod. “If that’s really what you be wanting.”
Stella pulled open her bedroom door. The light spilling through the windows overlooking the street resurrected yesterday’s throbbing. “Have Clayton bring the car around at ten o’clock sharp.” She tightened her jaw. Skipping supper last night was the first step on the path to eradicating her beastly headaches once and for all. And a drive without Jane’s incessant reminders of how to carry herself might be the second.
Jane curtsied. A wince pinched her eyes. Stella grasped her arm and helped her right her posture.
“Now, Jane, I remember having this conversation more than once. No more bowing. It makes me uncomfortable.” She patted her maid’s shoulder. “Besides, you’ve taken care of me since I was eight. You’re family.”
The old servant’s eyes glistened. “I thank you for saying it, but if your uncle Weston—”
“Leave Uncle Weston to me. And have a wonderful day.” Stella descended the curved staircase, hand grazing the balustrade.
The aroma of eggs and bacon sent her salivary glands into a tailspin. Her stomach grumbled, but she pressed her hand against it, reminding herself that if Dr. Hazzard’s claims were true, hunger pangs were a small price to pay.
Hartsell, the butler, pulled out her chair, and she sat opposite her uncle and the wall formed by his morning paper. He lowered the paper then shot her a smile as he turned the page. “Feeling better?”
She spread a napkin in her lap. “I am, thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I have some business ideas to discuss. Is now a good time?”
Uncle Weston set his paper beside his breakfast plate. “Stella, darling, there’s no need to—”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought.” Stella straightened her shoulders. “And Father did leave the clothing business to me. Besides, I’d like to think I’m more of an authority on ladies’ fashion than you are.” She lifted a brow.
Her uncle conceded with a tilt of his chin. “I’d love to hear your ideas.” He lifted his cup in Hartsell’s direction, and the butler strode to his chair with the coffeepot.
Stella leaned forward, elbows on the table. A twitch of Uncle Weston’s mustache reminded her to sit up straight, arms at her sides. “The women’s clothing styles we manufacture limit our clientele. The dress samples I saw last week were so frivolous. I’ve never seen middleclass women wear such things, let alone the women in the Mission District.”
Uncle Weston’s cup clattered against the saucer, and his eyes widened. “And how would you know what women in the slums wear?”
Stella lifted her chin. “You can’t shelter me from reality. And getting back to my ideas for the company, I believe we should provide a wider variety of styles at different price points. It feels silly to limit our outreach by catering to only one class.”
“Your father named me as your advisor in matters involving Burke Clothiers until you turn twenty-five. The monthly business meeting is scheduled for Monday morning. I’ll speak with the board on your behalf.” He reached for his paper. “It’s a good idea, but we’ll need to discuss how beneficial it would be for the bottom line.”
A smile tugged Stella’s mouth. “I could go.” She plucked her skirt’s fabric. “I’ll be twenty-five in a month, and it would be good practice to present the expansion idea myself. I’m capable of speaking on my own behalf.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.” The newspaper crinkled. “But wouldn’t you rather spend tomorrow at the beach?”
“Not really.”
“The company’s in good hands. I’ll present your ideas. No need for a young lady to involve herself in matters of business.” The black-and-white barrier rose to hide his face.
Stella shook her head. That was the end of it? She trusted Uncle Weston, of course, but the yearning to play an active role in the company her father had built ached in her chest. Surely she could do more than select fabric swatches.
Hartsell stepped beside her with a sterling silver serving dish of scrambled eggs. Steam curled its tempting finger in the air, but Stella shook her head. “Just tea this morning, Hartsell, thank you.”
The butler’s eyes narrowed, his bushy black brows nearly blocking them from view. “This isn’t another one of your wellness endeavors, is it, Miss Burke?” His rich voice wrapped her in an auditory embrace.
“What if it is?” She nudged the china cup painted with violets to the edge of the lace tablecloth.
His gaze softened. “Then I hope it helps.” He poured tea into the cup with a smile.
“How’s Greta feeling?” Stella waved away the cream and sugar Hartsell offered. His wife suffered from consumption, and the last news Stella received had been bleak.
Hartsell’s smile faded. “Nothing to worry you about, miss.” He cast a glance at Uncle Weston, who answered with a stern glare over his paper.
Stella’s heart sank. An answer like the one Hartsell had given couldn’t be the harbinger of good news. She rested her hand on the butler’s then gave it a squeeze. “I haven’t stopped praying.”
His unsteady smile bespoke gratitude.
She pulled her shoulders back, sitting like the proper lady her uncle wished her to be while sipping her tea. The headline of her uncle’s paper caught her gaze.
SUFFRAGETTES PUSH GOVERNOR JOHNSON FOR RIGHT TO VOTE
“May I see the front page if you’re finished with it?” The right to vote. How wonderful that would be.
Uncle Weston lowered the printed pages full of happenings in parts of the world she might never see. His graying mustache twitched. “You don’t want to be bothered with this boring folderol.” He jerked his chin, indicating the latest issue of Vogue. “That might interest you.” He returned to his paper.
Stella flipped through the fashion magazine, blood simmering. Why did he assume the latest styles would be more enticing than California giving women the right to vote? Perhaps she should join the suffragettes. She grinned. That would show him she was more than ribbons and bows. Her gaze caught on a hat modeled by a woman who shared her light complexion and dark eyes. How pretty. Her fingers traced the sweeping brim and the garland of roses. Maybe she didn’t despise ribbons as much as she wanted to. She dog-eared the corner of the page for later inspection.
Hartsell cleared his throat, drawing her attention from the magazine. The butler held a silver tray bearing an envelope with familiar handwriting. Her chest fluttered as she took the letter. She checked the time on the grandfather clock in the corner. If she hurried, she could read the letter before meeting Henry for her drive.
“Please excuse me.” She sprang out of her chair, tipping her teacup on the table. Her uncle glanced over the paper, his eyes a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. She’d never live up to his expectations. She grabbed her napkin off the floor where it had landed and began mopping up her spilled tea.
“Let Hartsell take care of the mess.” Her uncle’s voice was firm.
Stella righted her teacup, thankful it hadn’t chipped. “It’s no trouble.”
Uncle Weston cleared his throat and pinned her with an unrelenting gaze that reminded her of her place. “You’re a lady, and it’s high time you started acting like one. I invited a young man to dinner tonight, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. Don’t embarrass me.” He shook the paper. “And Hartsell can clean up the tea.”
Her cheeks warmed, and tears smarted her eyes.
She cast an apologetic glance at Hartsell, nearly bursting into tears at the sight of his knowing smile. He didn’t mind her scattered ways like Uncle Weston did, and he’d never say such crushing words. Though she strived to please her uncle, somehow she always fell short.
Letter in hand, Stella climbed the staircase, the joy of reading its contents dashed. Still, she opened the drapes, flopped on the bed, and tore the envelope’s seal. After Papa’s funeral, a stranger had sent his condolences. She’d read his letter at her life’s lowest point, and the genuine care and encouragement his words had provided left her a little less woebegone. After writing back her thanks, the correspondence between them had continued.
She slid her hand under her pillow and pulled out a crinkled envelope. Every letter he’d sent her since had contained a pressed flower. She shook the packet’s contents onto the bed. Cherry blossoms, daisies, pansies, and violas. Their scent had long expired, but the simple, heartfelt gifts stirred longing in Stella’s chest. The person who may be her best friend on earth never signed his name to the messages he sent. If his haphazard handwriting was any indication, the writer was a man. But that was all she could make out. She shook her head. What kind of ninny didn’t even know the name of such a close friend?
When she pulled the folded paper from the envelope, a pressed violet dropped into her hand, its petals vibrant. God had really created something beautiful when He spoke violets into existence. The intricate purple channels, carved through a creamy center, pointed to the golden-yellow fuzz that held everything in place. She sighed and raised it to her nose. Her imagination provided the delicate scent of the flower Henry had given her yesterday at the beach. How had her unnamed friend known she’d need his words of encouragement today? But he always knew. His replies to her letters never failed to bring relief. How could he know they would coincide with her headaches and frustrations?
With violet in one hand and letter in the other, Stella rested her head on her pillow, reading the pointy, jagged handwriting she’d grown to love.
Henry could wait a few minutes.