A pair of jangle-spurred boots tromped down the hall.
A brown-haired boy of about sixteen stopped in the dining room doorway to take in the scene. He couldn’t have looked less like his slim, smooth-faced brother. He stood about Jemmy’s height but had the shape of a wooden fireplug. His straight hair flopped down the side of his face to partly obscure his beard stubble and acne. He knocked his head back to point at Jemmy and Aunt Tilly with his chin as he sneered. “Damn me, what are they doing here?”
Clomping into the dining room, Meredith Marmaduke Koock stopped short when Aunt Tilly rose and impaled him on her stare. “Young man, only the ill-bred would interrupt the peaceful repast of the members of his home by uttering profanity. Intolerable at any time, but particularly reprehensible when one’s family is entertaining guests. It won’t do.”
The rude boy pulled his lips into a thin line but made no reply.
She surveyed him up and down. “If you’ll forgive the effrontery, I might suggest you see to your toilette since we shall need to leave for the musicale quite soon.”
The boy cocked his head like a pigeon on a ledge. He said, “I’m hungry.”
“If you’ll pardon the presumption, a gentleman must learn to anticipate his needs and arrive in time to satisfy them without discommoding others. Failing such foresight, I fear you shall have to do without dinner.”
Confusion crossed his face, then defiance. “I’m not going to any pantywaist musicale.”
“If you’ll excuse the impertinence, perhaps you are aware your father sets great store by my judgment?”
“So what if he does?”
“If I recommend you be sent to a place which is certain to develop proper comportment and praiseworthy manners, I predict you will find yourself in Lexington at Wentworth Military Academy in less than a week.”
He said nothing more but turned on his heel and walked off—still jingling, but no longer tromping.
Dorothea hung her head. Jemmy tried to think of some word of comfort, some way to soothe—but nothing came.
Burnie broke the silence. “Duke’s not my brother—well, not really. We had different mothers. He and my mother never got along. Maybe that’s why he . . .”
Aunt Tilly was not one to let a boorish boy spoil her digestion. “We shall see whether he responds to persuasion as satisfactorily as young Mr. Lilburn.” She nodded toward Burnie with something akin to a smile.
“If not, other measures might be required. Might I suggest you save eggshells from each morning’s breakfast to give to young Marmaduke. The membrane inside is a capital remedy for facial eruptions. Place them in a container with an egg white and store them in the ice box to keep them cool and soft.”
Dorothea tucked the little girls in bed and left them in the maid’s care. The three ladies, escorted by Master Lilburn Boggs Koock, set off to be entertained at a musicale especially arranged for their visit at the home of another Koock.
Upon arrival, Dorothea blushed and apologized for the absence of her husband. No one said a word about the absence of Duke. In fact, Jemmy noticed Mrs. Charles Koock’s smile became genuine only after she learned that the young hooligan’s boots were wiping mud somewhere other than on her Aubusson carpet.
After installing Aunt Tilly and Jemmy in the place of honor on an ornately carved sofa with three blue brocade tufted ovals in the seat back, the hostess introduced the first performer. A screechy soprano sang an aria from the not-entirely-respectable new opera, La Bohéme. Everyone applauded politely, even Aunt Tilly; though Jemmy could see disapproval lurking behind her chaperone’s pince-nez.
Next came the high point of Jemmy’s evening, a surprisingly delightful rendition of “Listen to the Mockingbird” whistled by a most talented lady whistler. Jemmy envied the woman’s volume of sound, which could undoubtedly summon a cabbie or a cop over any amount of street noise right up to a steam calliope. Of course, a real lady would never do such an outlandish thing—or ever whistle in public. Perhaps Sedalia was more tolerant, or more musical than St. Louis.
Other acts followed—violin, flute, one particularly boring fugue on two cellos. Even Aunt Tilly, the paragon of politeness, stifled a yawn. Each number became more tiresome than the last until the musicale was about to come to a close.
To the surprise of all, Burnie requested permission to sing. Mrs. Charles Koock raised her eyebrows to ask Dorothea for guidance. Dorothea nodded a nearly imperceptible affirmative. Mrs. Charles looked doubtful, but consented. Young Burnie unfolded sheet music from his back pocket and handed it to the pianist at the upright.
Jemmy was surprised at how pleasant his voice—and how annoying his actions. He sang the lilting “The Band Played On.” He sang it straight to Jemmy. She was not blond. Her hair was upswept, not in curls. But the smirks on audience faces and the cat-in-the-cream-jar expression on Burnie’s face told everyone Jemmy’s hair was strawberry enough to load his poor little brain until “it nearly exploded.”
By the time he reached the line, “Such kissing in the corner and such whisp’ring in the hall,” every set of eyes in the room had sneaked at least two glances at Jemmy.
On the line, “And telling tales of love behind the stairs,” Jemmy hiccuped. This ill-timed infraction of unwritten rules reduced the entire room to telltale tittering and furious fanning. She vowed she would never again drink three different wines at one meal. She hiccoughed again. She vowed she would absolutely never drink a glass of wine ever again—well, no more than one—two at the most.
Giggles of glee broke out from all points of the compass. When she realized what people must be thinking, Jemmy promised herself not to blush. Result—a flush creeping up her face like mercury on a sunporch thermometer. She reddened first with embarrassment, then with anger. She vowed to do something about this smitten boy whom Cupid had so conspicuously skewered on a love arrow.
After the performances, wine betrayed Jemmy yet again. Luckily, this time she didn’t have to pay a price. She waited until Aunt Tilly’s back was turned, then crammed into her mouth a whole petit four with a sugared violet on top. She chomped in Aunt Tilly’s direction as long as Aunt Tilly’s back was turned. Jemmy whirled toward the refreshment table when Aunt Tilly’s head began to come about. Auntie didn’t seem to notice Jemmy’s mutiny against her dessert orders. Jemmy congratulated herself on knowing the old lady was near-sighted.
After chitchat about the multitude of thrilling events to be held in Sedalia over the next week and copious thank-yous to Mrs. Charles Koock, the guests of honor wended their way home.
Jemmy took care to sit by Aunt Tilly—not “Li’l Lil” as she mentally dubbed Lilburn Boggs Koock. His bay rum and Macassar oil fumes made her gag when he leaned near. To his face she continued to call him “Mr. Koock.” He continued to urge her to call him “Burnie.”
On the way home, Li’l Lil panted in Jemmy’s direction. He fawned over her like a newly housebroken puppy itching for a scratch on the belly. Jemmy gave him looks fit to clabber milk.
Dorothea said, “I’m more than pleased, Lilburn, that you offered to sing for the first time in public. I’ve so admired your voice ever since it stopped cracking.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Koock—Stepmother—Mother.” He groped for the right words. “For the first time, I had something to sing about. Isn’t it wonderful to have an important—not to mention beautiful—lady journalist all the way from St. Louis right here in Sedalia?”
Jemmy could see moonlight dancing off his eyes as he turned to her. “Did my singing please you, Miss McBustle?”
Jemmy wanted to scream he was wasting his time and his voice. He had not a snowball’s chance in Baton Rouge on a broiling August day of winning her approval. She said, “Yes, Mr. Koock.”
“Please call me ‘Burnie.’ ” The longing in his voice made Jemmy cringe. A refusal would bring him to the brink of suicide or, at very least, a plunge into an ice-water bath.
“Yes, Burnie.” Jemmy recognized her mistake the instant she let the words slip from her lips. The rest of the way home, he beamed his Cheshire-cat smile at the reluctant object of his affections.
That night, Jemmy set the Li’l Lil Boggs boondoggle aside. She lay in bed trying to tune out Aunt Tilly’s snores and snorts while she considered the best way to get her rewrite printed in the local paper.
She had to find some way to get out from under Aunt Tilly’s thumb. Auntie’s maddening interference could mean the end of every hope Jemmy held dear. My articles simply must sell enough Illuminators to make up for the cost of this trip to Sedalia.
And she had expenses of her own. She still owed Jaccard & Co. a week’s pay on the cut glass and silver decanter she had given Dorothea as hostess gift. Aunt Tilly would surely expect some expensive token of appreciation when they returned to the city.
That familiar trapped feeling returned with a vengeance. The mind-numbing depression she had slogged through while tending her irascible old grandmother gripped her by the throat. The black cloud of her seventeenth year descended on her soul to chill her hopes and shackle her ambitions.
Once again she felt her precious youth ebbing away in the great ocean of society’s expectations. The specters of her grandmother—her mother—Aunt Delilah—appeared like giant parasites to suck away her spirit.
Yes, she loved her family and would never deliberately hurt them; but why would they not understand? Her desperate need to be her own person—to live the life she chose—ached in the pit of her heart like a leech growing fat on her blood and thinning it to water at the same time.
In the depths of her own personal Slough of Despond, she heard echoes from another soul in misery.
A sound from the nursery pierced through Jemmy’s woe and Aunt Tilly’s snoring. Was it weeping? She slipped out of bed and put her good ear against the wall. Sounds of sobbing convinced her something was amiss.
She pulled on her wrapper and opened the bedroom door. Moonlight through the round stairwell window gave light enough to see by.
In the hall, a creaky board betrayed her presence. In seconds, Dorothea appeared in the nursery door. She asked in a hushed voice, “Miss McBustle, what’s wrong? You’re not even wearing slippers. Is Miss Snodderly unwell?”
“Everything’s fine—at least with Miss Snodderly and me.”
Dorothea paused, then whispered, “Come in.” She closed the nursery door and led Jemmy to her own room with its clean smell of geraniums and lemon verbena.
Inside, she turned up a gas jet and motioned for Jemmy to sit on the settee. She brought a shawl to warm her visitor’s feet.
She dabbed her eyes with a substantial man’s handkerchief. “I usually bear up better than this. I know I shouldn’t burden you, but I have the feeling you might be the one person I could trust to understand.”
Jemmy made no reply, just offered a wan smile.
Dorothea looked down. “I can’t think why you should be kindly disposed toward a stranger, but I am desperately unhappy. I have no one close to my own age to confide in.”
Jemmy nodded a bit of encouragement.
“Perhaps I feel close to you because you’re from St. Louis. I had many friends in St. Louis, but I can’t seem to find a single one here. Oh, I suppose it’s my own fault. I’m embarrassed by . . . Well, I’m afraid the girls will misbehave or the boys will be rude.”
Dorothea shook her head as she mopped away a few more tears. She sat on the settee and spoke in a quiet voice.
“When I saw you today—so lovely, so self-assured—I grew miserable enough to consider doing away with myself. That frightened me, Miss McBustle—frightened me to the marrow of my bones.”
Dorothea looked straight into Jemmy’s eyes. “I fear if things stay as they are, I shall surely die. I do not wish to die, Miss McBustle. I don’t want to be just another of Mr. Koock’s wives who was too frail for this world.”
Dorothea leaned closer. “You seem so full of life, so daring and so confident of success. Perhaps you can help me see the way of things. Why, you’ve already accomplished more with Lilburn in five hours than I have in five years. I need someone to give me courage, Miss McBustle. Without it, I don’t see how I can go on.”
Jemmy took Dorothea’s hand in hers and squeezed it. They sat just so for some time while Dorothea filled two more handkerchiefs with tears of self-pity.
At length, Dorothea seemed ready to talk again. Jemmy prompted, “Tell me how I can help.”
“I don’t know, Miss McBustle.”
“Jemmy.”
“Jemmy. I can’t seem to make friends here, and the children are a cross to bear instead of a joy. Lilburn is going the way of Marmaduke. Marmaduke frightens me. He will speak of nothing except his idols, the outlaws Frank and Jessie James. Even my own daughters don’t obey me.”
“And Mr. Koock?”
“Mr. Koock is hardly ever here. When he is, he is in such ill humor no one can please him.”
“Doesn’t he insist the boys respect you?”
Dorothea’s answer caught a sob in her throat. “He does—when he is here. And that makes everything worse. He whips the boys; then they hate me even more.”
“Does he also strike the girls?”
Dorothea shook her head in the negative.
“Or—I know I’ve no right to ask you this, but has he ever struck you?”
“No, he never has. Perhaps that’s why he stays away—so he won’t be tempted.”
“If you think you and your daughters are in danger in any way . . .”
“Not from Mr. Koock, never from him. Perhaps from Marmaduke, but Obadiah’s not rough. In fact, in many ways he’s generous. When Pélagie arrived and brought along a husband and a sister I didn’t even know existed, Obadiah welcomed them as if he’d known they were coming all along. He never objects to the money I spend or tells me whom to see or what to do with my time.”
“What then?”
“It’s just—he’s distant, not here even when he’s here.”
At last, Dorothea seemed to be all cried out. She sighed as she recalled the early days. “I had such high hopes in the beginning. We had the loveliest honeymoon in Chicago. We spent more than a month in the summer of ninety-three during the Columbian Exposition.”
“Yes, the big World’s Fair to honor Columbus’s discovery of America. I would give anything to have been there. What did you like best?”
“The gigantic Ferris wheel—the first one ever built—thirty-six cars—each one big as a day coach on a train.”
“I’ve heard the ride makes you giddy.”
“The lightheadedness of floating into the sky could drive a person quite insane.” Dorothea warmed to her story. “In fact, while we were riding up with our stomachs queasy from the height, a fellow named Wherritt went completely berserk. He started throwing himself at the walls hard enough to crack the heavy glass. He even bent the iron.”
“Heavens in a handbag, weren’t you scared?”
“The car swayed until I thought it would break and send us all crashing to the earth more than two hundred feet. When we were on the way down—and still alive, he became himself again. He even talked quite sensibly—said he had fought the beast and slain the dragon. We thought everything would be fine.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No, we started to go up again and he went crazy—even wilder than before. How could we possibly bear another ten minutes of his hurling himself against the walls? No matter how hard the men tried to hold him, he would break away and fling himself against the opposite end of the car.”
“How did you make it down alive?”
“Finally, a woman unfastened her skirt, stepped out of it, and stood in her petticoats. Can you believe it? Undressed right there in public. She threw her skirt over his head and held it tight around him. Until the wheel stopped, she kept stroking his head through the skirt and saying, ‘There, there. Nothing to be afraid of any more. I’ll take care of you.’ The fellow became quiet as an ostrich with his head in the sand.”
“Who was she?”
“I never knew her name, but she saved a man’s life—perhaps the lives of everyone in the Ferris wheel car.”
“What a story.”
“You should have seen the way Mr. Koock looked at her—admired her. How I wished he would look that way at me. I still wish it.” Dorothea’s eyelids batted back her tears. She sniffed and put on a resolutely cheerful face.
Jemmy hurried the conversation back to the fair. “I heard you could see amazing things everywhere at the Chicago World’s Fair. What else did you see?”
“Such wonders—a map of the United States all done in pickles, a knight on horseback made entirely out of prunes, real cannibals with sharpened teeth from Dahomey in Africa.”
“Weren’t you scared of ending up in a cannibal pot?”
Dorothea shook her head. “I had Obadiah to protect me.”
“Tell me more.”
“The buildings in the grand Court of Honor made us feel the size of fleas. Immense structures—hundreds of feet tall—covering acres. We had to wear glasses with blue lenses so our eyes could stand the glare from the white staff—a sort of plaster surface on the buildings. The Lady of the Republic statue was completely covered in gold leaf. Blinding—like looking at the sun itself.”
Memories of magic from the past slipped onto Dorothea’s face to crinkle her eyes. “The Fourth of July fireworks lit up the lake with a portrait of George Washington in colors of fire. Thousands sang ‘Home Sweet Home’ and wept. I felt so close to Obadiah then, so wanted, so beautiful.”
“You make me feel as if I had been there myself.”
Dorothea sniffled and then giggled. “We did naughty things, too. He took me to the Ball of the Midway Freaks. Its official name was the ‘Midway Ball.’ I had never seen anything like it in my life. I don’t think anyone else had, either.
“ ‘Citizen’ Train played the grand host at the head of the receiving line. But he wouldn’t shake hands with anybody.”
She fluttered her fingers in front of Jemmy’s face to imitate a snobbish wave. Her eyes grew wide as she mocked the fabled George Francis Train. “Shaking hands might let some of his psychic electricity ooze away. You should have seen him all decked out in a white suit with red sash and Turkish fez.”
“Citizen Train—I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he the one Jules Verne used as his model for Phileas Fogg in Around the World in Eighty Days?”
Dorothea laughed out loud as she nodded. “You’ll never believe the menu—‘roast missionary à la Dahomey,’ ‘monkey stew à la Hagenbeck,’ fried snowballs, sandwiches prepared by the leather exhibit. I have no idea what was actually in the food. I hope the Methodists didn’t find themselves short a few missionaries.”
Dorothea’s gusto as she relished her glad memories sparked gaiety in Jemmy. “How wondrous it must have been to attend the great fair.”
Dorothea turned coy. “The costumes at the Midway Ball were bizarre and scandalous. Even my costume was—well, I’d never let my mother see me in it.”
“Tell me.”
“Obadiah first. He dressed as an Arab sheik in a flowing white robe and turban with egret feathers and a huge paste ruby in front. He wore dark greasepaint and sandals. When a fellow bumped into him on the dance floor, he would flash his eyes and put his hand on his dagger hilt.”
“And you, what costume did you wear?”
“I’ll show you if you promise not to report me for public indecency.”
“Trust me. As a female journalist I’ve been places I wouldn’t tell my mother—and I’ve worn clothes in front of strangers I wouldn’t care to have her see.”
Dorothea placed a chair by the armoire and climbed up. From the top she took down a parcel wrapped in brown paper tied with purple ribbon. She knelt before the settee as she untied the bow and spread the paper. The costume spilled out in whispers of silk chiffon. Golden coins winked in the gaslight.
Dorothea giggled as she held a veil trimmed with gold spangles over her nose. “Can you imagine me in this?” She picked up harem trousers and spun in a circle. The red silk ballooned as the bells tinkled like icicles falling off a roof in a thaw.
Jemmy picked up a bit of purple silk and said, “Where does this go?”
“That’s the blouse.”
Jemmy held it up to the light. It had the shape of a blouse, but with very short sleeves and a much-too-short torso. “Why this would only come down to . . .” Her eyes opened wider. “This bodice wouldn’t even cover your stomach.”
“Remember your promise not to report me.”
“It would show your corset.”
“I didn’t wear a corset.”
Jemmy fell back on the bed muffling her laughter with one hand while she draped the blouse over her own upper body to see where it would fall.
Dorothea clicked together the bottoms of soft red leather shoes with an odd curl at the toes. “We even went to see Little Egypt—the original hoochie-coochie dancer. I’ve been practicing ever since.”
“You haven’t.”
Dorothea nodded. “I have. Want to see?”
Jemmy nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world—not even the World’s Fair.”
Dorothea snatched up the costume and ducked behind a screen painted with a pastoral scene of sheep and dancing shepherdesses. As she changed, she asked, “What did you mean when you said you’d been places you wouldn’t tell your mother?”
Jemmy thought for a moment. Was it wise to entrust a secret to a stranger, even one who’d shared so many of her own?
“Of course, if you don’t want to . . .”
“No, no. I’m trying to think how to tell you without giving the wrong impression. I worked as an errand boy in a house for ladies of the evening.”
“You did what?”
“I mean that literally. I worked as an errand boy. I dressed like a boy. I ran errands, nothing else.” Jemmy hoped she wouldn’t regret telling a stranger a secret of such a shameful nature.
“You do astound me, Jemmy. And I am grateful for your confidence.” Dorothea jingled as she emerged from behind the screen, “I’m ready now. Will you supply the music?”
“I have a bad ear, but I’ll try. What tune would you like?”
“There’s only one for the danse du ventre—the snake charmer song.”
Jemmy lah-dahed the tune as best she could. Dorothea twirled to the center of the room. She kept the beat with metallic clashes on miniature cymbals, which she wore on thumb and forefinger of both hands.
Dorothea swayed a few steps to each side then stopped for the centerpiece of the dance. She heaved her bare midriff in rapid waves like the undulation of choppy seas.
To her amazement, Jemmy found herself delighted and not a bit embarrassed. Mrs. Nanny had considered this dance too ribald for her girls to perform at her middle-class bordello in St. Louis. But to Jemmy, the scandalous belly dance looked like no more than healthy exercise for the tummy.
Dorothea positively glowed in the soft gaslight. Despite two daughters and a French cook, she had a fine figure. What’s more, the veil did a splendid job of hiding her horrid proboscis. Dorothea looked downright attractive.
Suddenly, she stopped and pulled off her veil. Jemmy said, “Don’t stop. You dance wonderfully.”
“This is silly. I’m silly. I keep practicing in hopes someday I will have the courage to dance for him. I saw how Obadiah watched Little Egypt when she danced. That selfsame moment told me I could never measure up—never be the kind of wife Obadiah needs. He should have married someone important like her or like you or like the woman on the Ferris wheel.”
“But you’re a good dancer. You danced for me. Surely you can dance for one person.”
“Strange, isn’t it? I could dance for a room full of people, but not for my own husband.”
“Why not?”
“I guess I’m afraid to try. If I fail—if he disapproves—I think there can be no further hope.”
Jemmy spoke gently. “Would that be so very much worse than the way things are now?”
Just then, they heard the front door open. Dorothea put her finger to her mouth as she tiptoed to turn off the gas jet. Footsteps came up the stairs and into the next bedroom. After everything was silent next door, Dorothea whispered, “You’d best go back to your room.”
Jemmy took Dorothea’s hand. “Leave the children to Aunt Tilly. She’ll set them right or bust her bustle trying. I confess to having a purely selfish reason, too. I can’t hope to do my job unless I find a way to get her off my back. Keeping her occupied with the children will give me freedom. With a push in the right direction, Aunt Tilly might solve all your problems with the children. As for me, I don’t know whether I can be of any help at all. I know less than nothing about husbands. But there is one thing I can do.”
She took Dorothea’s other hand. “I know what it’s like to be without a friend. When my grandmother was ill, all the people I thought were my friends deserted me. Loneliness taught me to value real friendship. Please, I’d like to be your friend.”