Eleanor stole down the hallway past her sister’s room, where Abigail and Mother struggled to open Abigail’s trunk. Eleanor heard Mother wonder aloud how the latch had acquired that peculiar dent, but she did not hear what excuse her sister invented. She doubted Abigail would admit she had kicked the trunk when she could not close the latch. Eleanor had been standing on the trunk at the time, helping her sister compress her clothing enough to squeeze in one more dress, more than willing to postpone her own packing and delay their return home.
She raced down the stairs to the front door and darted outside, picking up speed as she ran down the length of the porch. She scrambled over the railing and leapt the short distance to the lawn. The grass was damp on her stocking feet; it must have rained that morning. At the summer house, the morning had dawned clear and breezy, with no hint of autumn.
Eleanor felt a pang that had nothing to do with her bad heart. She missed the summer house already, and it was only their first day back in the city. Mother permitted things in summer she allowed at no other time—dancing, brief games of badminton or croquet, long strolls outdoors. The previous three months would have been perfect if Eleanor had been allowed to learn to ride horseback. Abigail had learned when she was two years younger than Eleanor was now, and Eleanor had hoped and prayed that this would be the year Mother and Father would relent. Every Friday evening when Father joined them at the summer house, Miss Lang-ley had tried to persuade him, but he returned to the city each Sunday without overruling Mother’s decision.
A cramp pinched her side. Eleanor dropped into a walk, gasping for air, sweat trickling down her back. Her stockings itched; her long-sleeved sailor dress felt as if it had been woven from lead. Mother dressed her daughters by the calendar, not the weather— “Or common sense,” Miss Langley had murmured as she tied the navy blue bow at the small of Eleanor’s back—and September meant wool. Her short sprint had left her faint; she blamed the sultry air and her heavy, uncomfortable clothing. She refused to blame her heart.
Everyone knew Eleanor had a bad heart. They called her delicate and fragile and, when they thought she wasn’t listening, spoke of her uncertain future in hushed, tragic voices. Eleanor did not remember the rheumatic fever she had suffered as a baby and did not understand how her heart differed from any other. It seemed to beat steadily enough, even when she woke up in the night fighting for breath. If it pounded too fiercely when she ran, it was only because she was unaccustomed to exerting herself. Sometimes she placed her head on Miss Langley’s chest and listened, wondering how her own flawed heart would compare to her nanny’s. Her imagination superimposed the wheezing of steam pipes and the clanging of gears.
It was Miss Langley’s responsibility to make sure Eleanor did not run, or climb stairs too quickly, or overexcite herself, or take a fright. Miss Langley was English, and before coming to America to raise the Lockwood children, she had traveled to France, Spain, Italy, and the Holy Land. Eleanor thought New York must seem desperately dull after such exotic locals, but Miss Langley said every land had its beauties. If Eleanor learned to find and appreciate them, she would be happy wherever life took her.
Eleanor agreed with her in principle, but everyone knew she would never be strong enough to go anywhere, except to the summer house for three months every year. It was a fact, just as her bad heart was a fact.
If Miss Langley had not been occupied unpacking her own belongings, Eleanor could not have slipped away. She regretted deceiving her nanny, since Miss Langley was her only ally in a household that expected her to collapse at any moment. If not for her, Eleanor’s life would have been even more limited, since Mother had not even wanted her to attend school. Mother had feared exposing Eleanor to the elements and the jostling of her more robust classmates, even when Miss Langley reminded her that Eleanor’s fellow pupils would be from the same respectable families as the young ladies in Abigail’s class, well-bred girls unlikely to jostle anyone. When Mother would not budge, Miss Langley ignored the sanctity of Father’s study and emerged twenty minutes later with his promise that Eleanor would be permitted to attend school. Eleanor doubted Mother ever learned about that clandestine visit; if she had known Miss Langley had persuaded Father, Mother would have yanked Eleanor from school just to spite her.
The cramp in Eleanor’s side eased as she walked. She had fled the house not caring where she went as long as it was away from Mother and Abigail, and now she did not know where to go. They had chattered about the upcoming social season all the way home from the summer house, and Eleanor couldn’t endure another word. She was not jealous, not exactly, but she was tired of pretending to be happy for her sister.
She saw the gardener and quickly veered away before he spotted her. Ahead, the stable seemed deserted; by now the horses would have been curried, watered, and fed, and the stable hands would have left for their dinner. No one would think to look for her there, since she could not ride and was not even allowed to touch the horses’ glossy coats. Only when no one else could see did Miss Langley let her brush Wildrose, the bay mare Father had given her for Christmas. Mother had called the gift an extravagance unbefitting Miss Langley’s position, but her friend Mrs. Newcombe had said Mother could not get rid of the horse without raising uncomfortable questions.
Eleanor slipped inside the stable, took two apples from the barrel near the door, and tucked one into her pocket. “Hello, Wild-rose,” she called softly, polishing the second apple on her sleeve. She heard an answering whinny from a nearby stall—but no stern questions from a lingering stable hand, no alarmed shouts for her mother. Emboldened, Eleanor approached the mare, who poked her head over the stall door, sniffing the air. Eleanor held out the apple, and when Wildrose bent her neck to take a bite, Eleanor stroked the horse’s mane. “I’m sorry we had to come back to the city. You and I like the summer house better, don’t we?”
Wildrose snorted, and Eleanor blinked to fight off tears. She would not cry. She might be fragile, as everyone said, but she wasn’t a baby, crying over rumors. “Father would never sell the summer house,” she said, feeding Wildrose the rest of the apple. “We’ll go back every year until we’re old, old ladies. You’ll see.”
Wildrose whickered as if she agreed—and suddenly Eleanor felt a prickling on the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder to find Jupiter watching her.
She quickly looked away, then slowly turned again to find the stallion’s deep, black eyes still upon her. No one but Father rode Jupiter, and only the most trusted stable hand was allowed to groom him. “That’s what the Lord can create when He’s had a good night’s sleep,” Father had proclaimed last spring as he admired his latest purchase. Only Eleanor saw the disapproving frown Mother gave him. She disliked blasphemy.
Father said Jupiter had gained a taste for blood in the Spanish-American War and would rather trample a little child beneath his hooves than take a sugar cube from Eleanor’s palm. She fingered the apple in her pocket—and jumped when Jupiter tossed his head and whinnied. She caught her breath and took one soft step toward him. She drew closer, then stretched out her hand and held the apple beneath Jupiter’s muzzle.
He lowered his head, his nostrils flaring, his breath hot on her skin. Then he took the apple from her hand and backed away, disappearing into his stall.
Delighted, Eleanor lifted the latch to the stall door to follow— and then felt herself yanked back so hard she nearly fell to the ground. “What are you doing?” cried Miss Langley. She quickly closed the stall and snapped the latch shut. “You know you’re not allowed near your father’s horse. You could have been killed.”
“I only wanted to feed him,” said Eleanor, shaken. “He kept looking at me, and I felt sorry for him, since none of us ever play with him—”
“Jupiter does not play, not with you children or anyone else.”
“Please don’t tell,” begged Eleanor. “I won’t do it again. I know I should stay away from the horses. I’m delicate.”
“Jupiter is a proud creature, and very strong. He is not safe for children. I would have given Abigail the same advice though she is four years older.”
“You wouldn’t have needed to. Abigail’s afraid of him.”
“Don’t be saucy.” But Miss Langley almost smiled as she said it, and she brushed a few stray pieces of straw from Eleanor’s dress. “Your father is a formidable man. Don’t cross him until you’re old enough to accept the consequences.”
It had never occurred to Eleanor that anyone might intentionally cross Father. “How old is that?”
“I suppose you’ll know, if the occasion ever arises.”
Miss Langley took Eleanor by the hand and led her outside.
As they returned to the house, Eleanor looked up at Miss Lang-ley and asked, “Do you really think Father will sell the summer house?”
“I know he does not want to.” Miss Langley absently touched her straight, blond hair, as always, pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. “However, it would be more frugal to maintain only one household.”
Eleanor had hoped for something more encouraging, but Miss Langley never lied, and Eleanor knew her father was concerned about debt. She had overheard him say that the family business had never completely recovered from the Panic six years earlier. It would surely not survive another unless he took on a partner.
“If he has to sell a house, I wish he’d sell this one,” said Eleanor.
“You might find the summer house rather cold in winter.”
“Mother would bundle me in so much wool I’d never notice the cold,” said Eleanor, glum, then stopped short at the sight of her mother, holding up her skirts with one hand and approaching them at a near run.
“Miss Langley,” Mother gasped. “What on earth are you doing?” Abruptly, Miss Langley released Eleanor’s hand. “Walking with Eleanor.”
“I can see that.” Mother knelt before Eleanor, held her daughter’s face in her hands, and peered into her eyes. “Why would you bring her outside after such a hard day of travel, and without a word to anyone? My goodness, where are her shoes? Have you given no thought to this poor child’s health?”
Miss Langley drew herself up. “Mrs. Lockwood, if I may, moderate exercise has remarkable curative effects—”
“Curative? Look at her. Her face is flushed. She looks positively ill.”
“She does now. She did not before you arrived.”
“Your impertinence might pass for the voice of experience if you had children of your own.” Mother took Eleanor’s hand. “Use better judgment in the future or you shall convince Mr. Lockwood that our trust in you has been misplaced.”
Mother led her daughter away without giving Miss Langley a chance to reply. When they reached the house, Mother told Eleanor to go to her room, finish unpacking, and rest until supper.
Eleanor did as she was told, listening through the closed door for Miss Langley. She had to pass Eleanor’s room to get to her own, the smallest bedroom on the second floor and the farthest from the stairs. Although only a wall separated her room from Eleanor’s, Miss Lang-ley moved about so soundlessly that Eleanor rarely heard her. Miss Langley must have been able to hear Eleanor, though, for if Eleanor was ill or had bad dreams, Miss Langley was at her side almost before Eleanor cried out. Still, it sometimes seemed as if the nanny simply disappeared once she closed her door on the rest of the house.
Eleanor had been invited into Miss Langley’s room only a handful of times. The furnishings appeared neat but not fussy like Mother’s parlor. A few framed portraits, which Miss Langley had identified as her parents and a younger brother, sat on a bureau; leafy green plants and violets thrived in pots on both windowsills. Displayed to their best advantage were two embroidered pillows on the divan, a quilt draped artfully over an armchair, and a patchwork comforter spread over the bed. The room was very like Miss Lang-ley herself: no-nonsense yet graceful and elegant.
Eleanor waited and listened, but Miss Langley did not come. Heavy-hearted, she put away the last of her dresses and climbed onto the bed, wishing she had not run off. She lay on her back and studied the patterns the fading daylight made on the ceiling, wondering if she should risk upsetting Mother a second time in the same day by leaving her room to find Miss Langley.
She must have drifted off to sleep, because suddenly Abigail was at her side, her long blond curls swept back from her face by a broad pink ribbon. “Why is Mother angry?” asked Abigail. “What did you do?”
Eleanor wasn’t sure if it was more wrong to lie to her sister or to expose Miss Langley’s deception, so she said, “Nothing.”
“You must have done something, because I know I didn’t.”
Eleanor sat up and made room for her sister on the bed. “I went outside without asking Mother.”
“Is that all? You must have done something else to make her this mad. Come on, tell me the truth.”
Eleanor shrugged. Mother didn’t know about the horses, so that didn’t count.
“You should have just finished unpacking, as Mother told us to.” Abigail climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged beside her sister. “If you would just obey her, you wouldn’t get in trouble so often.”
“I can’t help it. I forget.”
“You don’t forget. You just don’t think you’ll get caught.” Abigail smiled, showing her dimple. “Maybe I should go downstairs and break some dishes or kick Harriet in the shin. If Mother’s mad at me, she might forget what you did.”
Eleanor was tempted, especially by the image of Mother’s maid howling and clutching her leg, but she shook her head. “It wouldn’t work.”
“I suppose not.”
“I wish we had stayed at the summer house.”
“Not me. I hate that place. The bugs, the wind messing my hair—and I hate seeing Father only on weekends.”
They saw him so little on weekdays that Eleanor saw no difference between the summer house and home in that respect, but she knew better than to seem to criticize Father in front of Abigail. Eleanor hesitated to say anything negative about him at all, as if her very words would make him appear.
“I bet the walk was your idea,” said Abigail airily. “Miss Langley wouldn’t dare defy Mother except for you. You have her wrapped around your little finger. She treats you much nicer than she treated me when I was your age.”
“It’s true. She lets you do exactly as you please because you’re the baby and you’re...”
“What?” Eleanor fixed a piercing gaze on her sister. “Go on, say it. I’m going to die. Right? That’s what you were about to say.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“You and Miss Langley are the only ones who think so.” But Eleanor knew Abigail didn’t really mean it.
Timidly, Abigail said, “You won’t tell Mother I told you?” Eleanor sighed and sat up. “No.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I think Mother’s more angry with Miss Langley than you.”
That was nothing new; Mother became displeased with Miss Langley over the littlest things, while Harriet could oversleep or lose Mother’s best gloves and Mother would forgive her. Once Eleanor overheard the cook say she thought it a wonder that Miss Langley had not resigned long ago, but Miss Langley did not seem to mind Mother’s tempers as much as Eleanor did.
Eleanor remembered her warning and asked, “Do you think Mother will send Miss Langley away?”
Abigail shrugged. “She might. You’re too old for a nanny, anyway.”
“Maybe they want her to stay in the family in case they have another baby.”
Abigail giggled. “I don’t think that’s very likely.” “Why not?”
“If you can’t figure it out, you’re not old enough to know.” Then a puzzled frown replaced her grin. “I wonder why Mother said Miss Langley had no children of her own.”
“Because she doesn’t.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What?”
“Promise you won’t say anything.”
“I heard Mother tell Mrs. Newcombe that Miss Langley had a baby. It was ages ago, when she was just a few years older than I am.”
“But she’s not married.”
“That’s why she had to leave England. Mrs. Newcombe said that Mother was a model of Christian charity but that she herself would not trust her menfolk with a fallen woman in the house, however humbled and redemptive the woman might be.”
Eleanor did not want to believe it, but Abigail had mimicked the haughty Mrs. Newcombe perfectly. “If that’s true, where’s the baby?”
“It died when it was only a few hours old.” Abigail regarded her thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why Miss Langley is so fond of you. Maybe you remind her of her baby, because you’re so frail.”
“She would have told me.” Miss Langley did not lie, but as far as Eleanor could recall, Miss Langley had never explicitly denied having children. Eleanor had never thought to ask. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“You’re just a little girl, and she can’t tell anyone. Can you imagine what a scandal it would be if everyone knew the character of the woman who practically raised us? No one would ever want to marry me then.” Abigail flung herself back against the pillows. “Sometimes I think you’re the lucky one. You don’t have to worry about learning to dance and sing and act like a lady. You don’t have to worry about your beauty or your reputation or marrying into the best family. You never have to leave home or Father, not ever. Sometimes I think it would be so much easier if I could die young, too.”
Eleanor nodded, but her mind was far away, imagining Miss Langley cradling the cooling body of a brown-haired infant daughter. The woman Eleanor imagined did not cry. She had never seen Miss Langley cry.
When Mother’s maid, Harriet, came upstairs to tell them to dress for supper, Abigail bounded off to her own room. Eleanor dressed more slowly, wondering at Abigail’s enthusiasm. Father expected children to be silent at the supper table and absent shortly thereafter. He might give Abigail an indulgent smile and a pat on the head when she asked to be excused, but nothing more than that. Only when he was in a particularly leisurely mood would he linger at the dinner table to enjoy his cigar and brandy in their company instead of retiring to his study. On those occasions he would reminisce about his childhood or tell them stories about the company.
Father’s two passions were his business and his horses. Mother had once remarked that she was fortunate her husband did not decide to combine his two passions, or she might find herself married to a groom or a jockey, or worse yet, a gambler. Father had chuckled and said, “I am content to befriend grooms and jockeys, and yes, even gamblers, since I cannot become one myself.”
Mother had sniffed. She disdained “horse people,” as she called them, and her mouth set in a hard line whenever her husband announced one would be their guest. “I cannot bear to entertain another one of his pets,” she had complained to Mrs. Newcombe when Father invited Mr. Bergstrom to spend a weekend at their home. The horse farmer had brought his son with him, a boy named Fred, only two years older than Eleanor, and he had stayed inside to play with Eleanor when Mother insisted it was too cold for her to go out. Eleanor never had friends visit, and she was grateful to Fred, for she knew how much he had wanted to see Father’s horses.
Mrs. Newcombe had consoled Mother with reassurances that no one would think less of her for these strange guests; the Bergstroms had traveled all the way from Pennsylvania, after all, and they must stay somewhere, and besides, everyone knew the invitation had been another one of Father’s whims. “No man can completely forget where he came from,” she said, patting Mother’s hand.
Mother’s mouth turned sour, and she declared that it was beneath the Lockwood family to have people who were little better than common laborers sit around the same table where the Astors, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, and William McKinley himself had dined. It was bad enough that Miss Langley dined with the family rather than in the kitchen with the rest of the help, but the children were fond of her and Father appreciated her international perspective on politics, which he said was remarkably keen, for a woman.
“I am sure it is her international perspective he appreciates,” said Mrs. Newcombe dryly, then she and Mother remembered Eleanor, reading in a nearby armchair, and changed the subject.
Eleanor had heard Father recount his self-made success so often that she thought she could have repeated the tale from memory, but she never tired of hearing it. Even before marrying Mother he had contrived to start his own business, a respected department store specializing in women’s fashions. When Grandfather died, Father invested Mother’s inheritance into buying out several of his smaller competitors and opening a dazzling, modern Lockwood’s on Fifth Avenue. True, the Panic had hit them hard, but they would come back, Father said, and had been saying for as long as Eleanor could remember.
She wished she could make her own way as Father had done, but when she told her sister so, Abigail tossed her head and said, “Business isn’t for women. Did you ever hear Mother talk about sales or fuss over an inventory? All we have to worry about is marrying a prosperous man and hoping that he is also handsome and kindly. Have you seen Father’s friends? They’re odious, except Mr. Drury, and Father says he’s a fool.”
For once, Eleanor pitied her sister. “They’re old, too.”
“I won’t marry one of the old ones,” snapped Abigail. “Honestly, Eleanor. Maybe you can’t help being jealous, but you don’t have to be spiteful.”
Father would not have been pleased to hear his eldest daughter speak favorably of Mr. Drury, his chief competitor and bitter enemy. Mr. Drury had been Father’s rival for more than twenty years, ever since Mr. Drury had rejected Father’s offer to purchase his company. Even worse, Mr. Drury had responded by snapping up several smaller stores Father wanted for himself. Three times Mr. Drury outbid Father and convinced the seller to sign a contract before Father could make a counteroffer. If Father did not exactly blame Mr. Drury for his current financial problems, he did see him as an obstacle to getting clear of them.
As much as Father loved horses and horse people, Eleanor knew he would never leave his store and become a groom or jockey. He had spoken too often of his struggles to build his company, and he surely loved his work, too, because he often left for the office before the children rose for breakfast and did not return home until supper, after which he retreated to his study until long after Eleanor had been sent to bed. Sometimes he worked so late he fell asleep there. Eleanor knew this because several times she had passed his door at midmorning to find the maids gathering up rumpled sheets from the leather sofa.
On their first night home from the summer house, no guests, “horse people” or otherwise, would join them for supper. When Miss Langley at last rapped on her door, Eleanor accompanied her to the dining room and seated herself only moments before Father entered. “Confounded radicals,” he grumbled as he strode into the room. He paused to kiss Mother’s cheek before taking his seat at the head of the table. “How was your trip home?”
Mother beckoned for the meal to be served. “We are not confounded radicals, but our trip was uneventful, thank you.”
“I was not addressing you, and you’re quite right to point out my rudeness. Darling, girls, Miss Langley, welcome home.”
“It’s good to be back, Daddy,” said Abigail.
“I do hope you’ll cheer up before eight,” remarked Mother. “We have a party at the Newcombes’ this evening.”
“Good. I need to talk to Hammond about these blasted union organizers.”
Mother’s smile tightened. “Why can’t a party be merely a party? Must you conduct business everywhere?”
“If you want me to keep a roof over these children’s heads, I must.”
“Are the union organizers the confounded radicals you spoke of?” Miss Langley broke in.
Father dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and held up his other hand to forestall her lecture. “Let’s not spoil your first night home with another argument. The men on my loading docks aren’t paid any worse than those at my competitors.”
“Yes, but they aren’t paid any better, either. Your workers built your business. They created your wealth, and they’re entitled to share in it.”
Mother’s laugh tinkled. “My husband is better qualified than you to decide what his workers should earn.”
“They do share in it,” said Father to Miss Langley. “You seem to think their share should be as great as mine.”
“Or greater,” said Mother.
“I founded this company. I managed fine without unions, and so shall my successor.” He smiled at Abigail. “Whoever the lucky fellow to marry my beauty shall be.”
Miss Langley asked, “What will you do if the workers strike?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” declared Mother, but when Father said nothing, she added, “Surely they aren’t talking of a strike.”
“Merely rumors,” said Father.
“If your informants have heard talk of a strike,” said Miss Lang-ley, “it’s likely the planning is well under way.”
“I won’t cave in to threats. First they’ll want higher wages, then fewer hours, and eventually they’ll demand enough to drive the company into bankruptcy.”
“Not if they have a share in the company’s good fortune. If their success is tied to yours, not through obligation and fear but ambition and loyalty, your employees will work harder and better than your competitors’. You will attract the best workers, and they will be more productive because they have a stake in the outcome of their labors. The evils of capitalism are great, but not insurmountable. Is it more important that you make enormous profits, or that you treat your workers like human beings?”
Mother’s voice was ice. “You have been told repeatedly not to air your radical ideas in front of the children.”
“I have to stand firm,” said Father to Miss Langley. “I pay fair and honest wages. I don’t hire children. I provide for any worker who is injured in the service of my company and I don’t fire them if they fall ill. You see how they thank me—they take those agitators’ handbills and listen to their speeches. The business owners of my acquaintance already accuse me of weakness on these facts alone. I will not give them more reason.”
“If you lead, others will follow,” said Miss Langley. “We are moving into a new century. You can either ride the crest of the wave or be swept away by it.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mother. “Darling, what would Mr. Corville think if he heard you were considering allowing a union to organize at Lockwood’s?”
“I am not considering it.”
Miss Langley sighed so softly that Eleanor doubted anyone else noticed. She did not understand why Miss Langley provoked Father so, and why he permitted it.
“Finish your supper, girls,” said Mother.
Eleanor picked up her fork, her appetite spoiled. She wished they had never left the summer house.
Later that evening, Eleanor and Abigail watched from their hiding place on the upstairs balcony as Father escorted Mother, clad in a new Lockwood’s gown and wrap, outside to the waiting carriage. “If all you do is talk business, we’re coming home early,” they heard Mother say before the door closed behind them.
“If she doesn’t want to go, I will,” Abigail said. “Father is a fine dancer. I wouldn’t care if he conducted business as long as he danced with me now and then.”
Eleanor thought that if Mother refused to go, Father would be wiser to take Miss Langley in her place. Miss Langley knew how to talk with important people, and Abigail giggled too much. Mother loved society gatherings as much as Father loved horses, however, so Eleanor couldn’t imagine Father could conduct so much business that Mother would refuse to go.
“You’ll be allowed to go when you’re sixteen,” she told her sister.
“That’s three years away. I want to go now. Why should I take dancing lessons if I’m only to stay home?”
“To improve yourself?” suggested Eleanor, wearily. It was a response Miss Langley often used with her. At the moment, it seemed especially good advice, and Abigail the least likely person to accept it.
“You’re just envious because you want to go, too, and you know Father would choose me instead.” Abruptly, Abigail rose. “I never get to go anywhere. I might as well be a nanny like Miss Langley or an invalid like you.”
Watching her storm off to her room, Eleanor was struck by a sudden thought: If she lived, and if she were not an invalid, she could become a nanny. Perhaps Miss Langley had been preparing Eleanor for that all along. Eleanor could think of no better explanation for her vigilance in seeing that Eleanor received an education. At last she understood how her defiance of Father would one day come about: He would surely object if one of his children, even his strange youngest daughter, went into service in another household. He would rather Eleanor remain an invalid forever.
Although Abigail insisted she was too old for a nanny, she did not mind Miss Langley’s company when the alternative was another etiquette lesson from Mother. As the week between their return to the city and the first day of school passed, Abigail joined them more often in the nursery, and Eleanor was surprised by how quickly she agreed to read aloud to them while she and Miss Langley sewed.
Among the accomplishments Miss Langley had passed on to the Lockwood daughters was needlework. Abigail had no patience for it and her first project, an embroidered sampler, was also her last. When Miss Langley had suggested she attempt a small embroidered pillow next, Abigail had declared that when she married she would hire a woman to do her sewing, as Mother did. Therefore, she had no need to learn any new stitches and no desire to practice those she already knew. Miss Langley merely smiled and said, “Very well. You may practice piano instead.”
Abigail disliked playing the piano only slightly less than sewing; the saving grace of music was that people watched and admired her as she performed. Still, she had no choice but to pick up a needle or turn on the metronome, so she left without another word, and before long the sounds of scales and arpeggios came faintly up the stairs to the nursery.
It was Eleanor who had completed an embroidered pillow for Abigail’s hope chest, and then a second, and then she started a patchwork quilt for her doll. Mother frowned when she discovered Eleanor piecing together squares of flowered calico and asked Miss Langley if the nanny might not find a better use for Eleanor’s time.
“Sewing requires less physical exertion than playing the piano, which Eleanor has shown us she can endure,” said Miss Langley. “A small doll’s quilt will consume little of her time. Quilting will teach her patience and thrift, and to see a task through to its end.”
Mother relented with the condition that in the future Miss Langley limit her lessons to embroidery and the finer needlecrafts. Patchwork was vulgar, the province of the lower classes, who pieced quilts from necessity. For all her frailties, Eleanor was a well-bred young woman. It would not do to have her practice the skills of a common housemaid.
“I suppose a well-bred young woman should never be useful if she can be merely decorative,” said Miss Langley after Mother left, but Eleanor wasn’t sure if her nanny mocked Mother’s opinion of patchwork or her own indulgence in the craft. Heedless of Mother’s scorn, Miss Langley enjoyed relaxing in the evening with a needle in her hand and a basket of fabric scraps on the floor beside her chair, piecing quilt blocks as Eleanor read aloud. Miss Langley completed several quilts a year and donated them to a foundling hospital. In a brave moment, Eleanor had told Mother that by making patchwork quilts from scraps, Miss Langley both prevented wastefulness and performed acts of charity, but although Mother admired those traits at other times and in other people, they did not elevate quilting in her esteem.
After Eleanor sewed the last stitch on the binding of her doll’s quilt, Miss Langley obeyed Mother’s orders and taught Eleanor new embroidery stitches. Eleanor balked and pretended to be unable to learn, but she could not bear to be dishonest with Miss Langley, especially when it made her look clumsy and stupid. She had so longed to make a patchwork quilt to brighten her own room. The patterns with their charming names—Royal Cross, Storm at Sea, Dutch Rose—evoked romantic times and far-off places, and Eleanor longed to learn them all.
She could not agree, either, that patchwork was vulgar, for Abigail had seen a quilt in Mrs. Newcombe’s parlor, and Mrs. Newcombe never permitted anything in her home that did not adhere to the most current trends in fashion and good taste. Abigail could not describe the quilt very well, but even the few details she remembered were enough to convince Eleanor it must be a Crazy Quilt, the same type of quilt Miss Langley kept on her armchair. The Crazy Quilt was the one sign of chaos in Miss Langley’s ordered world, the one nod to ornamentation for the sheer pleasure of it in a room dedicated to usefulness and practicality. When Eleanor was ill or downcast, Miss Langley would let her curl up beneath the quilt in the window seat in the conservatory, warmed by the privilege rather than the quilt itself, which, in the style of Crazy Quilts, was pieced of more delicate fabrics than traditional quilts and had no inner layer of batting.
Eleanor admired the wild and haphazard mosaic of fabric, so carefree, reckless, and robust. In contrast to the undisciplined pattern were the luxurious fabrics and formal colors—silks, velvets, brocades, and taffetas in black, burgundy, navy blue, and brown. Embroidered borders, initials, and figures embellished the few solid cotton or wool pieces. Eleanor’s favorite was the spiderweb in one of the corners. Miss Langley had told her that an embroidered spiderweb was supposed to bring the quilt’s owner good fortune, but she had included the design in her quilt because the story amused her, not because she believed the superstition.
Another embroidered outline had often caught Eleanor’s eye: two tiny footprints, outlined in white. Eleanor had assumed the little feet had sprung from Miss Langley’s imagination, like the spider-web, but Abigail’s tale of Miss Langley’s shocking secret made her wonder. She longed to ask Miss Langley whose tiny footprints had been immortalized on the black velveteen, but she feared Miss Langley would deny their existence and forbid Eleanor to see the quilt ever again.
Fortunately, Miss Langley apparently did not take Mother’s prohibition against quilting lessons to mean that Eleanor was not allowed to watch her quilt, nor did she refuse to answer Eleanor’s questions. But that was in their companionable solitude in the summer house. With Abigail present, Eleanor did not dare show too much interest in her nanny’s quilts. Instead, as Abigail read to them from Dickens or one of the Miss Brontës, Eleanor worked on a needlepoint sampler and counted the hours until school began.
On the last Wednesday of the summer recess, Mother and Abigail attended a luncheon at Mrs. Corville’s. As soon as Father left for work, Mother announced that Eleanor must play in the nursery by herself while Miss Langley helped Abigail prepare. Stung that she should be sent away like a child, Eleanor hovered in the background while Miss Langley and Harriet bathed Abigail, brushed her golden curls until they shone, and dressed her in a light blue dress with white lace at the collar and matching gloves.
As Mother supervised and fussed, Eleanor learned why this particular occasion was so important: the Corvilles had a fifteen-year-old son. Mr. Corville owned a store a few blocks from Father’s, and while it was smaller than his, it was so prosperous that Mr. Corville had opened branches in Boston and New Rochelle. Father had once said that he could never buy out Mr. Corville, but he would not object to becoming the man’s partner. Unfortunately, there were rumors Mr. Drury had the same idea, and he also had a daughter Abigail’s age, though not as pretty.
“If Abigail marries Mr. Corville’s son, Mr. Corville couldn’t become Mr. Drury’s partner instead of Father’s,” said Eleanor to Miss Langley after Mother and Abigail hurried out the door.
“He could, but he wouldn’t.”
Eleanor felt a surge of sympathy for her sister. Abigail did not want to leave home, but she would obey to make Father happy. “I hope she likes Edwin Corville,” said Eleanor, dubious. That might not influence the decision, but it would make the inevitable easier to bear.
Miss Langley sighed. “So do I, for her sake.”
They went inside to the nursery, where Miss Langley said, “Since our presence is not required at their silly luncheon, how would you like to spend the rest of the morning?”
Eleanor almost asked for a trip into the city, but something held back the words. Something in Miss Langley’s expression told her that the offer was meant to compensate for more than the missed luncheon. She looked Miss Langley straight in the eye, steeled herself, and said, “I want to ride Wildrose.”
Miss Langley’s smile faded.
“Or Princess,” said Eleanor quickly. “Abigail will never know. You could ride Wildrose and we could ride together.”
“Eleanor—”
“Don’t say no. I know I’m not allowed, but I’m not allowed to do anything. Please, Miss Langley. I’ll be careful. Don’t say it’s too dangerous, because if it’s not too dangerous for Abigail—”
“Eleanor.” Miss Langley’s voice was quiet but firm. “You cannot ride Wildrose or any of the family’s horses. We could not go riding without at least a half-dozen people witnessing it. We cannot count on them to keep silent.”
Eleanor knew Miss Langley was right. She took a deep breath, nodded, and tried to think of something else.
“I know,” said Miss Langley. “You’ve admired my Crazy Quilt for years. I’ll teach you to make your own.”
“I don’t want to make a Crazy Quilt,” said Eleanor. Not today, not when the forbidden lessons had been offered only because what she truly wanted was impossible. “Abigail was younger than I am when she rode for the first time. I’m tired of being treated like I’m sick when I’m not. I don’t have a weak heart. I don’t.”
“I know you don’t,” Miss Langley said. “You have the strongest heart of anyone I know.”
She extended a hand, and when Eleanor took it, Miss Langley pulled her onto her lap. Eleanor clung to her and fought off tears. She would not cry and prove that everyone was right about her, that she was fragile and a baby.
Miss Langley stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “Eleanor, darling, don’t judge your parents too harshly. They’re doing the best they know how.”
Eleanor made a scoffing noise and scrubbed her face with the back of her hand.
“Good heavens, Eleanor, please use a handkerchief.” She handed Eleanor her own. “From the time you were a baby, your parents were told you would surely die. Try to imagine what that must have been like for them. Some families might have responded by spoiling you, by giving you your heart’s desire every day of your life to make up for all the days you would not have. Other families distance themselves from their child so that when that terrible day comes they will be able to bear it. It wounds them a little every day to do so, but they tell themselves that they can survive these wounds. They think only of the size and not their number.”
Eleanor sat silently, absorbing her words, but a merciless voice whispered that Miss Langley was only trying to be kind. The simple truth was that her parents didn’t love her. How could they, when her poor health made her such a disappointment?
Miss Langley was watching her with such compassion that Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to say what she really felt. Instead she said, “I wish my parents had been the kind who gave their child her heart’s desire.”
“I for one am glad they are not. You would have been insufferable.”
Eleanor smiled, and when Miss Langley offered the quilting lesson a second time, she accepted.
To avoid Harriet’s prying eyes, they carried Miss Langley’s sewing basket outside and spread a blanket in the shade of the apple trees on the far side of the garden. Eleanor hugged her knees to her chest as Miss Langley unpacked needles and thread, her favorite pair of shears, and several small bundles of muslin, velvet, satin, and silk, which Eleanor recognized as scraps Mother’s dressmaker had discarded.
Miss Langley had also brought along two diamond-shaped “blocks” for a new Crazy Quilt she had begun. “Most Crazy Quilts use squares as the base unit shape,” she said, “but I chose diamonds.”
“Then I’ll use diamonds, too.”
With Miss Langley’s guidance, Eleanor carefully cut a diamond foundation and appliquéd a velvet scrap to the center. She then selected a triangular piece of dark green silk and held it up to the foundation, trying it in one position and then another, until she liked the angles and shapes it created. She stitched it in place, sewing over one edge of the velvet in the center. In this fashion she added more fabric scraps, working from the center outward, varying the angles and sizes of the added pieces to create the characteristic random appearance. When the entire surface of the foundation was covered, she trimmed off the pieces that extended past the edges until she had a Crazy Quilt diamond like Miss Langley’s, if not quite so perfectly made.
“Shall I begin another?” asked Eleanor, reaching for the muslin to cut a new foundation.
Miss Langley shook her head. “You haven’t finished this one yet. Has it been so long since you’ve seen my quilt that you’ve forgotten about the embroidery?”
“But I already know how to embroider. I want to learn more quilting.”
“You’ve embroidered on solid fabric,” said Miss Langley. “Embroidering a Crazy Quilt is quite another matter. Your stitches will follow the edges of the patches, so you will have to sew through seams, which you have never tried. You also need to learn how to choose the perfect stitch for each piece. A skilled quilter uses a variety of stitches to achieve the desired effect.”
“What’s the desired effect?”
“That’s entirely up to you. Sometimes your embroidery will frame the fabric piece, defining it, highlighting it, but other times the fabric recedes to the background and becomes a canvas for the embroidery.”
“Such as when you embroider a picture?” asked Eleanor. “Like the spiderweb in your quilt—or the little baby footprints?”
“Precisely.” Miss Langley held out her hand for the muslin.
Eleanor had watched Miss Langley’s face carefully, but not a flicker of emotion altered her expression at the mention of the baby footprints. If Eleanor had seen the slightest hint of pain at the reminder of a secret tragedy, she could have asked Miss Langley what troubled her, but Miss Langley gave away nothing.
Reluctantly, Eleanor handed her the muslin. “Why couldn’t we do the embroidery later, all at once, after the diamonds are sewn together?”
“We could, and I suppose some quilters probably do. As for me, I find it easier to embroider something small enough to hold in one hand.”
Miss Langley traded Eleanor’s sewing sharp for a longer, sturdier embroidery needle. Eleanor took it, but couldn’t resist adding, “We could embroider this right in front of Mother and she wouldn’t even get mad.”
“If I didn’t know better, I might think you only want to quilt in order to anger her. Or perhaps you’re simply pouting. Very well. If embroidery has become too routine for you, I’ll teach you a few new stitches.”
She did teach Eleanor new stitches—the Portuguese stem stitch, the Vandyke stitch, and the Maidenhair. They were more difficult than any she had previously mastered, and attempting them required all her concentration.
The morning passed. Eleanor would have gladly spent the whole day sewing in the shade of the apple trees with Miss Langley, but as noon approached, her nanny began to glance more frequently toward the house. Then she announced that the lesson was over.
“But Mother isn’t home yet.”
“Not yet.” Miss Langley began packing up her sewing basket. “But she will be soon, and I would like your Crazy Quilt block safely out of sight before then. And you do recall it is Wednesday?”
Eleanor’s heart sank. She had forgotten it was Miss Langley’s afternoon off. “Do you have to go?”
“I’m afraid so.” Miss Langley rose and held out her hand. “Harriet will look after you until your mother and sister return.”
Harriet. Eleanor pretended not to see Miss Langley’s hand and climbed to her feet without any help. Without a word, she picked up her things and headed for the house.
Miss Langley fell in step beside her. “Now, Eleanor, don’t sulk. I’ll be back in time to tuck you in.”
Eleanor did not care. Harriet would scold Eleanor if she tried to read or play the piano and would probably have her polishing silver within minutes of Miss Langley’s departure. Worse yet, Miss Lang-ley surely knew that, but she was leaving anyway.
She stomped upstairs to the nursery and slammed the door, something she never would have dared to do if Mother were home. She sat in the window seat with a book on her lap, listlessly looking out the window. When she heard the heavy front door swing shut, she pressed her face against the window and saw Miss Langley striding toward the carriage house. She had changed into a brown dress and hat with a ribbon, and a well-worn satchel swung from one hand.
Eleanor jumped to her feet, then hurried downstairs and outside. She stole into the carriage house just as the driver finished hitching up the horses, chatting with Miss Langley as he worked. Her heart pounding, Eleanor held her breath and climbed onto the back of the carriage as she had seen the grocer’s boy do. With a lurch, the carriage began to move.
Dizzy and fearful, Eleanor tore her eyes away from the ground passing beneath the carriage wheels and fixed them on the house, waiting for Harriet to burst through the front doors and run shouting after her. But the iron gates closed, and the carriage pulled onto the street. She pressed herself against the carriage, both to make herself smaller and less visible to others, but also out of fear that she would tumble from her insecure perch. The short drive to the train station had never seemed longer, but eventually the carriage came to a halt. Eleanor knew she should leap to the ground and hide before Miss Langley descended, but she could not move. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep, steadying breath. She would not be afraid. She would not.
The carriage door closed; Miss Langley’s shoes sounded on the pavement. Eleanor heard the driver chirrup to the horses, and with a gasp, she jumped down from her seat a scant moment before the carriage drove away.
At once a crowd of passersby swept her up and carried her down the sidewalk. She managed to weave her way through the crowd to the station house, where she looked about frantically for Miss Lang-ley. She was not waiting in the queue at the ticket window, nor was she seated in any of the chairs. Eleanor went outside to the platform, where a train waited. She did not know if this was Miss Lang-ley’s train, and it would do no good to ask about its destination, for she had no idea where her nanny went on her afternoons off. Even if she had known, she had no money for the fare.
“Miss Langley,” she whispered, and then shouted, “Miss Lang-ley! Miss Langley!”
She called out again and again, until suddenly a hand clamped down on her shoulder and whirled her about. “Eleanor.” Miss Lang-ley regarded her, incredulous. “How on earth—” She glanced at her watch and shook her head. “I cannot send you back alone, and there isn’t time to take you back myself.” She gave Eleanor a searching look. “I suppose if I had allowed you to ride Wildrose as you asked, you would not have been so determined to accompany me. Well, there’s nothing to be done now but make the best of it. Stay close, and say nothing of this to your parents.”
Eleanor shook her head. Of course she would tell them nothing; she fervently hoped they would never know she had left the nursery. She mumbled an apology as Miss Langley marched her back into the station and bought her a ticket. Miserable, Eleanor wondered what portion of a day’s wages Miss Langley had spent on her charge’s fare.
Miss Langley took her hand and led her aboard the train. “Sit,” she instructed when she found two unoccupied seats across from each other. Then she directed her gaze out the window as if she had forgotten Eleanor was there. Eleanor stared out the window as well, hoping to lose herself in the passing scenes of the city, but she couldn’t bear the punishment of Miss Langley’s silence.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked, less from curiosity than from the need to have Miss Langley acknowledge her.
“The garment district.”
Eleanor nodded, although this told her nothing. She knew little of New York except for the streets right around her father’s store.
They rode on in silence, and gradually Eleanor forgot her guilt in her anticipation of the outing. Where would Miss Langley take her? To meet her family? A beau? The former seemed unlikely, as the only relatives Miss Langley had ever mentioned were far away in England, but the latter was impossible. She could not picture her nanny linking her arm through a man’s and laughing up at him as Mother did to Father when they were not fighting. Not even Abigail’s tale about the baby could change her mind about that.
After a time, the train slowed and they disembarked. As Miss Langley led her from the platform to the street, Eleanor looked about, wide-eyed. This station seemed older than the one closer to home, older and dirtier. The street was even more so. Not one tree or bit of greenery interrupted the brick and stone and steel of the factories; the very air was heavy with bustle and noise. She slipped her hand into Miss Langley’s and stayed close.
They walked for blocks. Miss Langley asked her if she needed to ride, but Eleanor shook her head, thinking of the money Miss Langley had already spent. The noises of the factories lessened, but did not completely fade away until Miss Langley turned down a narrow, littered alley and rapped upon a weather-beaten wooden door. On the other side, someone moved a black drape aside from a small, square window. Then the door swung open, and a stooped, gray-haired woman ushered them inside without a word.
“The others are upstairs,” she told Miss Langley, sparing a curious glance for Eleanor.
Miss Langley noticed. “You can see the reason for my delay.”
The older woman tilted her head at Eleanor. “Shall I keep her in the kitchen?”
“No. I think it will be all right.”
The older woman clucked disapprovingly, but she led the way down a dark, musty hall and up a narrow staircase that creaked as they ascended. They stopped at a door through which Eleanor heard a murmur of voices. The older woman knocked twice before admitting Miss Langley. Eleanor followed on her heels, but stopped just inside the room as the older woman closed the door behind them.
The dozen women already there greeted Miss Langley by her Christian name and regarded Eleanor with surprise, wariness, or concern, depending, Eleanor guessed, upon their own temperaments. One ruddy-cheeked woman burst out laughing. Her hands were chapped and raw, her clothing coarse, but so were those of two other women present, and they sat among the well-dressed ladies as if they might actually be friends. Only two of the women did not seem to notice Eleanor’s presence: a dark-haired woman in a fine blue silk dress who revealed her nervousness by tinkling her spoon in her teacup in a manner that would have earned the Lock-wood girls a reprimand at home, and an elderly lady who sat by the stove in the corner smiling to herself.
Miss Langley apologized for her tardiness and removed her hat. “As you can see, Mary could not leave her little lamb at home today,” she added as she took the nearest chair and gestured for Eleanor to sit on the footstool.
“Never mind,” said one of the women, who was dressed so much like Miss Langley that Eleanor wondered if she were a nanny, too. “We’ve started without you.”
A deeper voice added, “But we’re a long way from finished.”
Others chimed in as they told Miss Langley what she had missed. Their friends from upstate needed their help in organizing the demonstration at the capital, but while many of them were eager to assist, others insisted they were wasting their time with state governments and should instead concentrate on reform at the federal level. On the contrary, the others countered, success in one state would ease the way for others.
One debate swiftly flowed into another: Universal suffrage ought also to include coloreds and immigrants, with all impediments such as property ownership and literacy removed. No, they should fight for the rights of white women only unless they wanted to jeopardize the very structure of their society.
“Is that not precisely what we seek to do by seeking the vote for ourselves?” inquired Miss Langley, setting off another debate.
Eleanor followed the back-and-forth, fascinated. These women looked so ordinary but they talked like confounded radicals. Even Miss Langley. If Father could hear them, his eyes would bulge and the little blue vein at his temple would wriggle like a worm on hot pavement.
Then the woman in blue silk set aside her tea. “My husband has spoken to his colleague in Washington.”
The voices hushed.
“A certain influential senator has promised his public and unwavering support if we compromise on our demands.”
“What’s he mean, exactly?” said a dark-haired woman in a thick, unfamiliar accent.
“He would limit suffrage to women who owned substantial property.”
The caveat made laughter echo off the walls of the dingy room, and the ruddy-cheeked woman laughed loudest of all. “I’d like to see him tell that to the girls on my floor,” she said, wiping a tear from an eye. “They’d drown him in their dye pots.”
“We cannot abandon any of our sisters,” said Miss Langley in her clear, precise tones. “A laundress may have as much reason as the wealthy woman who employs her. We cannot deny the workers their voice.”
The ruddy-cheeked woman applauded but the woman in blue silk looked to the heavens and sighed. “Reason, but no education. Do we want the ignorant masses determining the fate of our nation?”
Miss Langley fixed her with a level gaze. “You sound very much like the men who argue that no woman should vote.”
“You care more about your workers than the rights of women.”
Voices rose in a cacophony that hushed at a quiet word from the elderly woman in the corner. “Women who own substantial property are so few in number that their votes would scatter like dandelion seeds on the wind.” Her voice was low and musing. “No, it must be all women, including colored women, including those who cannot yet read and write or even speak English. Yes, they should learn, and we must see they are taught.”
She sipped her tea, but not one of those listening would have dreamed of interrupting. “Our emancipation must be twofold. We must have the vote, but we will not be truly independent until we are independent economically as well as politically.”
“Hear, hear,” said Miss Langley quietly, as the others murmured their assent.
The elderly woman smiled fondly at her. “And to that end, you must continue your work.”
Miss Langley nodded.
The elderly woman went on to say that she hoped they would attend the demonstration, and she would express their concerns to the others in her organization. Then she rose, bid them farewell, and departed, accompanied by one of the younger women in the group.
The meeting broke up after that; Miss Langley spoke quietly with a few of the others, then took Eleanor by the hand and led her back down the creaking staircase and outside. Eleanor pondered the strange gathering as they walked back to the train station, so absorbed in her thoughts that she forgot the cramp in her side and her labored breathing. She was sure she heard Miss Langley tell the ruddy-faced woman something about a union and something more about a strike.
As the station came into view, Miss Langley broke her silence. “You were a good girl, Eleanor.” Then she laughed, quietly. “I imagine today was quite an education for you.”
Eleanor nodded, but she didn’t think she had learned very much because she had so many questions. She had understood enough, though, to realize Miss Langley would be discharged if Eleanor’s parents discovered her activities.
“Miss Langley,” she ventured as they boarded the train, “who was that woman, the one everyone listened to?”
Miss Langley did not reply until they had seated themselves in an unoccupied compartment. “We call her Miss Anthony. She is the leader of an important organization, and the rest of us were honored by her visit.”
“When she said you must continue your work ...” Eleanor hesitated. “She didn’t mean being my nanny, did she?”
“No.”
Eleanor waited for her to explain, but when she said nothing, Eleanor asked, “Are you a confounded radical?”
Miss Langley burst into laughter. “I suppose some people would call me that, yes.”
Eleanor did not think that was such a terrible thing. Even Mother wanted to vote. Eleanor had heard her confess as much to Harriet, although she would never mention such a shocking thing to Father or Mrs. Newcombe. But she did not understand the rest of it.
She took a deep breath. “You’re not the one trying to get a union at Father’s store, are you?”
“Eleanor, listen to me.” Miss Langley took her hands. “Unions are important and just. Only when all the workers speak with one voice can they hold any leverage against the owners. The influence of power and money are too great otherwise.” She gave Eleanor a wistful smile. “But I am not organizing at your father’s store. I would be recognized.”
“Somewhere else, then.”
“Yes, somewhere else.”
Miss Langley settled back into her seat, and Eleanor rested her head in her lap. They rode in companionable silence until they reached the station nearest to home. The carriage waited for them outside, and the driver’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Eleanor.
“There’s a lot of trouble for you at home, miss,” he said to Eleanor, then removed his cap and addressed Miss Langley. “The missus has her eye on you. You best pretend we found Miss Eleanor on the way home.”
“Thank you, but I shall not lie.” Miss Langley smiled kindly at the driver and helped Eleanor into the carriage.
“Maybe he’s right,” said Eleanor as the carriage began to move. “I could get out a block away and walk home. I could say I was hiding. I could say I was mad about the luncheon.”
Miss Langley shook her head. “We will tell the truth and accept whatever comes of it.”
Mother met them at the door, frantic. When Miss Langley tried to explain, Mother waved her to silence, ordered the nanny from her sight, and told Harriet to take Eleanor to her room. “You should be ashamed of yourself, giving your poor mother such a fright,” scolded Harriet as she seized Eleanor’s arm and steered her upstairs. “We thought you had been kidnapped or worse.”
“I was fine.”
“Ungrateful, disobedient child. It’s that Langley woman’s influence, I know it.”
“Leave me alone,” shouted Eleanor, pulling free from Harriet’s grasp. She ran to her room and slammed the door. She stretched out on the bed and squeezed her eyes shut against tears. She listened for Miss Langley on the other side of the wall until fatigue overcame her.
She woke with a jolt as the first shafts of pale sunlight touched her window. She ran to Miss Langley’s room. The nanny opened at Eleanor’s knock, and in a glance Eleanor took in the bulging satchel, the stripped bed, the missing quilts.
Eleanor flung her arms around her. “Please don’t go.”
“I have no choice.”
“I hate her. I hate them both.”
“Don’t hate them on my account.” Miss Langley hugged her tightly, then held her at arm’s length. “I knew their rules and deliberately broke them. I made a choice, and I am prepared to accept the consequences. Remember that.”
Eleanor nodded, gulping air to hold back the tears. “Where are you going?”
“I have a friend in the city who will take me in for a while, until I can find a new situation. Maybe I’ll stay in New York. Perhaps I’ll return to England.”
“I thought you couldn’t go back to England because of the baby.”
“What baby?”
“Yours. Your baby.”
Miss Langley regarded her oddly. “I never had a baby. Whatever gave you that idea?”
Eleanor couldn’t bear to repeat Abigail’s tale. “The baby footprints on your Crazy Quilt. I thought you traced your baby’s footprints and embroidered them.”
“Eleanor.” Miss Langley cupped Eleanor’s cheek with her hand. “Those are your footprints, silly girl.”
Eleanor took a deep breath and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Miss Langley sighed, reached into her satchel, and handed her a handkerchief. Eleanor wiped her face and tried to compose herself. “Will I ever see you again?”
“That’s up to you.” Miss Langley closed her satchel. “When you’re a woman grown and free to make your own decisions, I would be very pleased if you called on me.”
“I will. As soon as I’m able.”
Father’s carriage was waiting outside, the rest of Miss Langley’s belongings already inside. At first Eleanor was surprised to see it, but naturally Mother would also not have it said that the Lockwoods allowed a woman, even one discharged in disgrace, to struggle on foot into the city, unescorted and encumbered by baggage.
“I’ll write as soon as I’m settled,” said Miss Langley as she put her satchel into the carriage and climbed up beside it. “Take care of Wildrose.”
“I will.”
Miss Langley closed the door, and the carriage gave a lurch and moved off. Eleanor followed in her bare feet, waving and shouting good-bye. Miss Langley leaned out the window to blow her a kiss, but then she withdrew from sight, and Eleanor could do nothing but watch as the carriage took her through the front gates and away.
“Come inside,” called Mother from the doorway. “Goodness, Eleanor, you’re still in your nightgown.”
“You should not have sent her away.”
“On the contrary, I should have done so long ago. You’re too old for a nanny, especially one with no regard for your safety.”
Without another word, Eleanor went inside and upstairs to the nursery, where she flung herself on the sofa, aching with loneliness. Only anger kept her from bursting into tears. Every part of this room held a memory of Miss Langley, but they would make no more memories here.
After a long while, Eleanor sat up, and only then did she realize she still clutched Miss Langley’s handkerchief. She opened it and traced the embroidered monogram with her finger: An A and an C flanked a larger L. She knew the A stood for Amelia, but she did not know what the C was for.
She was tucking the handkerchief into the pocket of her nightgown when her gaze fell upon the window seat. Less than a day before, she and Miss Langley had concealed her Crazy Quilt diamond beneath it. Eleanor had been correct to suspect they would not continue their quilting lessons, but she never could have imagined the reason why.
She crossed the room and lifted the window seat. There, under a faded flannel blanket, she found her Crazy Quilt diamond—but something else lay beneath it. Wrapped in a bundle of muslin were the rest of the fabrics Eleanor had used the previous day, the two crazy patch diamonds Miss Langley had made, and her favorite sewing shears, the silverplated, heron-shaped scissors.
Eleanor held them in her lap a long while before she closed the window seat, seated herself upon it, and cut a diamond foundation from the muslin. She appliquéd a green silk triangle to the center, then added another patch. She added a second patch, and a third, working toward the edges as Miss Langley had showed her.
Then Harriet entered. “Your mother wants you to get dressed and come to breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Harriet waited as if hoping to receive some other reply, but Eleanor did not look up from her work. Eventually Harriet left.
Within a few minutes, Abigail replaced her. “Mother and Father want you to come to breakfast,” she said. “So do I. Won’t you please come down?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But you didn’t have any supper.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“All right. I’ll tell them,” said Abigail. “I’m sorry about Miss Langley.”
Eleanor snipped a dangling thread and said nothing.
Soon after Abigail left, Mother herself appeared. “You’re too old to hide in the nursery and sulk. Come down to breakfast this instant.” She watched Eleanor sew. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making a Crazy Quilt.” Eleanor embroidered a seam of velvet and wool with a twining chain stitch. “I will eat breakfast when I’m hungry, and after that, I’m going outside to ride Wildrose.”
“Absolutely not. It’s not safe. You know nothing about riding.”
“Abigail will show me.”
“She will not. I will forbid her. I forbid you.”
Eleanor smiled to herself and worked her needle through the fabric, embellishing the dark velvet and wool with a chain of white silk thread, each stitch another link.