“We tried to see you for two whole months, but you wouldn’t receive us, not even during the holidays. It was like you’d disappeared!” Camille blurted as I poured her tea. “I thought you’d died, too.”
“I’m sorry.” At first, her words had made me contrite. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Mrs. Elcott had said, frowning at her daughter. “Camille, Emily wasn’t disappearing—she was mourning.”
“I still am,” I’d said softly. Camille heard me and nodded, wiping her eyes, but her mother had been too busy helping herself to the iced cakes to pay either of us much attention.
There was a silence that seemed very long while we sipped our tea and I pushed the small, white cake around my plate, and then, in a high, excited voice, Mrs. Elcott asked, “Emily, were you really there? In the room with her when Alice died?”
I’d looked to Camille, wishing for an instant that she could silence her mother, but of course that had been a foolish, futile wish. My friend’s face had mirrored my own discomfort, though she did not appear shocked at her mother’s disregard for propriety and privacy. I realized then that Camille had known her mother was going to question me thus. I drew a deep, fortifying breath and answered truthfully, though hesitantly, “Yes. I was there.”
“It must have been quite ghastly,” Camille said quickly.
“Yes,” I said. I’d placed my teacup carefully in its saucer before either of them could see that my hand trembled.
“I expect there had been a lot of blood,” Mrs. Elcott said, nodding slowly as if in pre-agreement with my response.
“There was.” I’d clasped my hands tightly together in my lap.
“When we heard you were in the room when she died, we were all so very sorry for you,” Camille had said softly, hesitantly.
Shocked silent, I could almost hear Mother’s voice saying sharply, Servants and their gossip! I was mortified that Mother’s death had been the topic of gossip, but I’d also longed to talk to Camille, to tell her how frightened I’d been. But before I could collect myself enough to speak, her mother’s sharp voice had intruded.
“Indeed, it was all anyone could talk about for weeks and weeks. Your poor mother would have been appalled. Bad enough that you missed the Christmas Ball, but for the topic of conversation during the evening to have been your witnessing her gruesome death…” Mrs. Elcott shuddered. “Alice would have thought it as dreadful as it was.”
My cheeks had flamed hot. I had utterly forgotten about the Christmas Ball, and my sixteenth birthday. Both had taken place in December, when sleep had been cloaking me from life.
“Everyone was talking about me at the ball?” I’d wanted to run back to my room and never emerge.
Camille’s words came fast, and she had made a vague movement, as if she understood how difficult the conversation had become for me and was trying to brush away the subject. “Nancy, Evelyn, and Elizabeth were worried about you. We were all worried about you—we still are.”
“You left out one person who seemed especially concerned: Arthur Simpton. Remember how you said he could talk of nothing except how horrible it all must have been for Emily, even while he was waltzing with you.” Mrs. Elcott hadn’t sounded worried at all. She’d sounded angry.
I’d blinked and felt as if I was swimming up through deep, murky waters. “Arthur Simpton? He was talking about me?”
“Yes, while he danced with Camille.” Mrs. Elcott’s tone had been hard with annoyance, and I’d suddenly understood why—Arthur Simpton was the eldest son of a wealthy railroad family that had recently relocated from New York City to Chicago, because of close business ties with Mr. Pullman. Besides being rich, suitably bred, and eligible, he was also extremely handsome. Camille and I had whispered about him as his family moved into their South Prairie Avenue mansion and we’d watched him riding his bicycle up and down the street. Arthur had been the single driving force behind our desire to obtain our own bicycles and to join the Hermes Bicycle Club. He had also been one of the key reasons both of our mothers had agreed to pressure our fathers into allowing us to do so, even though Camille had told me she’d heard her father informing her mother that bicycle bloomers could lead a young woman into “a life of pernicious lasciviousness.” I remembered it clearly because Camille had made me giggle as she’d done an excellent impression of her father. As I’d laughed she’d also said she’d be willing to enter a life of pernicious lasciviousness if it meant entering it with Arthur Simpton.
I hadn’t said anything then. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Arthur had, quite often, looked our way, but the both of us knew it was my eyes he met when he tipped his hat, and my name he called a “Bright, good morning, Miss Emily” to.
I shook my head, feeling woozy and slow. I turned to Camille. “Arthur Simpton? He danced with you?”
“Most of the evening,” Mrs. Elcott had spoken for her daughter, nodding her head so quickly the feathers on her hat fluttered with disturbing violence, making her look even more henlike. “In truth Camille and I believe Arthur Simpton will approach Mr. Elcott soon and ask permission to formally court her.”
My stomach had felt terrible and hollow. How could he court Camille? Little over two months ago he hadn’t so much as spoken her name to wish her a good morning. Could such a short amount of time change him so drastically?
Yes, I’d decided silently and quickly. Yes, a short amount of time could change anyone drastically. It had certainly changed me.
I’d opened my mouth to speak, though I was still not sure what it was I was going to say, and Father had burst into the room, looking frazzled and wearing no jacket.
“Ah, Emily, here you are.” He’d nodded absently to Mrs. Elcott and Camille, saying, “Good afternoon, ladies.” Then he’d turned his full attention to me. “Emily, which waistcoat should I wear this evening? The black or the burgundy? The board is meeting again with those infernal architects, and I need to use a firm hand. The right tone must be set. Their budget is out of control and time is short. The fair must open May the first. They are simply not prepared. They climb too steep—too steep!”
I blinked, trying to focus on the bizarre scene. Arthur Simpton’s name linked with Camille’s had still been almost tangible in the air around us while Father stood there, his dress shirt untucked and only partially buttoned, a waistcoat in each hand, waving them about as if they were flags unfurled. Mrs. Elcott and Camille were staring at him as if he had lost his mind.
I was suddenly angry, and I’d automatically come to Father’s defense.
“Mother always said the black is more formal, but the burgundy is richer. Wear the burgundy, Father. The architects should see you as rich enough to control the money and, therefore, their futures.” I’d tried my best to pitch my voice softly to mimic my mother’s soothing tone.
Father had nodded. “Yes, yes, it should be as your mother said. The richer is the better. Yes, well done.” He’d bowed briskly to the other two women, wishing them a good day, and then he hurried out. Before the door closed, I could see his valet, Carson, joining him in the hallway and taking the discarded black waistcoat that was tossed his way.