“I shall have to have a daughter, then,” said Devonny, “to wear it in her turn.”
It was rude to refer to future daughters. A man wanted sons.
“No,” said Lord Winden, denying the possibility of daughters. “You will pass Granny’s pebbles on to our son’s wife.”
“Oh, dear Lord Winden,” cried Florinda, good stepmother and excellent hostess, speeding away from Devonny’s mention of girl babies, “I am in love with you myself. Devonny, darling, I see you wearing the family necklace, supervising the family castle! You will be welcome at every party. You will have dinner with the Prince of Wales!”
The Prince of Wales, thought Devonny, is a fat old lecher who drinks too much. “The American press,” said Devonny, “does not think much of the current fad of marrying titles. There was an editorial in the Tribune that we American girls should seek noble hearts instead of noble names.”
Lord Winden smiled engagingly. “I do not have a heart, my dear.”
The others laughed at this funny little joke, but Devonny believed him.
He did not have a heart.
Tod was much taller than his little soccer team.
Six-year-old girls stared up at him, their little mouths open, their little clothes messed up, their little hairdos as windblown and confused as their expressions.
There had been no parent or adult willing to coach the six-year-old girls, and Tod’s mother had informed her son that this would be good for him. He, Tod, would be their coach, and their role model.
The little girls were completely alien; he might as well have been coaching kangaroos or harp seals.
They did not have the concept of this game at all. They watched the ball now and then but did not get involved with it.
“Hit it with your shoelaces,” said Tod patiently.
“Keep your eyes on the ball,” he said constantly.
His little team couldn’t do that. They had each other to watch, and Tod to watch, and the sky and the birds. They could not get a sense of the action. They were lost right there on their tiny playing field, inside their modified game.
He showed them how to hit the ball with his forehead, and his little girls quite reasonably fell down laughing at the sight of a big boy like Tod whacking a ball with his face.
But they loved him.
Tod had never been loved like that, the pure complete adoration of children for their teacher.
If he wanted them to bat balls off their ears, they would try. If he thought racing up and down a stretch of grass mattered, they would make it matter.
They were thrilled with the color of their team T-shirts (hot purple) but sadly disappointed with the name. “Laura’s Fabric Shop?” said Elizabeth, who could read better than the others. “We thought we’d be Tod’s Team!”
All his little girls had formal names: Elizabeth, Emily, Letitia, Judith, Constance. He thought they’d run harder if they had harder names, so he called them Liz, Em, Tish. “You’re athletes now,” he explained. “You’re fighters. You’re tough.”
They were awed at this description of themselves, and by the end of practice were far more grass-stained than usual, and Tod told them he was proud.
“Devonny!” he yelled. “Keep your eyes on the ball.”
Every little player ground to a halt. “We don’t have a Devonny on the team, Tod,” Tish told him gently.
Tod shivered, as if Devonny’s hair had drifted across his face. “Right,” he said. “I meant Liz.”
I’m normal, Tod told himself, although he had never heard of a normal teenage boy agreeing to coach six-year-old girls’ soccer. Time travel is abnormal. So it didn’t happen.
Tod, who had never thought of texture in his life, who did not know the difference between velvet and denim, found himself remembering the texture of Devonny’s gown. He had no word for that soft glossy stuff. He remembered her tears. For years, Tod had enjoyed making his sister cry—in fact, it was kind of a hobby of his, a successful hobby—but he felt pretty crummy remembering how easily he had made a strange girl cry. He remembered the curls, the strands of hair he had not touched but wanted to. The shock on her face when he left.
He had screwed up big-time. He should have stayed with her and helped.
This was a nauseating thought, and he got rid of it. The last thing he wanted was some romantic nonsense in his life.
“Em!” he bellowed. “Run the other direction!”
Emily eagerly ran the other direction, without remembering to try to take the ball with her. The ball lay alone and forgotten at the wrong end of the field.
Tod engaged his mind, putting it equally on soccer and designer water, leaving no spare brain cell for Devonny Stratton.
After dinner, so the gentlemen could enjoy their cigars and have an intelligent conversation, the ladies left the dining room.
Florinda, as hostess, led with Mrs. Van Stead, while Flossie, Rose and Devonny followed.
“We must discuss gowns,” said Florinda as soon as they were all safely inside the parlor. “It’s going to be so difficult, getting ready so quickly.”
Rose, knowing she would be a bridesmaid, was wildly excited. “Ooooooh, this is so lovely! A grand, grand wedding and the attention of the world. And afterward, you shall live in England. People are so civilized there. Not like here.”
“All Hugh-David wants is my money,” said Devonny. Granny’s pebbles had been returned to their leather case, but her throat felt dented from their weight.
“Then it’s good you have lots of it,” said Rose. “This is so unfair. Mother and I were husband hunting in Saratoga and we didn’t encounter a single possibility. You didn’t hunt for a moment, and up walks the most eligible creature to visit America in years!”
“I’m too young to husband-hunt,” said Devonny.
“And I, too old,” said Rose. “I am twenty-two, and I am getting frightened.”
“There now,” said Florinda, patting her. “You’re a lovely lovely girl, and some fine young man is out there thinking of you even now.”
But Rose was not lovely, and nobody was thinking of her, and they all knew it.
“We shall pair you with one of Lord Winden’s eligible friends,” said Florinda firmly. “That will be your task, Devonny. You must be sure that the groomsmen are unmarried and eager for brides. We will line up the wedding party accordingly.”
“And my Flossie,” said Mrs. Van Stead sharply, “must also be paired with a bachelor.”
She suspects, thought Devonny. She knows Flossie is in love. But she can’t know that the man is Johnny Annello. If she did know, we would be having a very different conversation. Well, I won’t have true love, but Flossie must. “I think, Mrs. Van Stead,” said Devonny archly, with much fluttering of eyes and tilting of cheek, “that I have seen Hugh-David’s very dear friend Miles gazing upon Flossie. And all too boldly, I have seen Flossie gaze right back.”
Mrs. Van Stead was delighted. Danger, for the moment, had passed.
Devonny’s stepmother fussed at the neckline of Devonny’s dress, tucking fabric down until all possible cleavage was visible. “We must enhance your wardrobe, Devonny,” said Florinda. “Your gowns are childish. He will want you displayed.” There was emphasis on the pronoun he, for the only person who mattered now was the he in Devonny’s life.
Devonny gathered her courage. “What happens in a marriage, Florinda? What is the wedding night for?”
Flossie and Rose held their breath, and waited silently, just as desperate to know.
How uncomfortable the two older ladies looked.
Florinda gently returned the neckline to hide Devonny’s figure again. “Well!” she said. “Do you remember the statues of nude men we saw when we traveled to Europe?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember that the men were shaped differently?”
Devonny remembered.
“Well, then. That’s that. Now, Devonny, I believe I can convince Hiram that your dear mother must be part of th
e wedding planning. I see it as a way to get your mother quite a fine wardrobe. I can insist that she must be properly clothed for every event. Oh! A brilliant thought has come to me! Oh! Gather round!”
The ladies held hands in expectation.
“Devonny, I have seen the oil portrait of your dear mother in her wedding gown. We could remake it for your wedding! Of course it is completely out of style, but we would add hundreds of pearls! We would reset the sleeves to make them fashionable. And that way, you would be proud as you came down the aisle, and the hearts of your guests would be touched deeply, as you honored your dear mother.”
The oil painting was in the attic in the city house. Facing the wall. Once Mama had been as slender and beautiful as Devonny, but abandonment and poverty had destroyed her.
“But,” said Devonny, “I still don’t know what happens when a man and a woman—”
“Hush. What happens is right. The man decides these things, and you obey.”
“All right, but what does he decide?”
“Devonny, it is not ladylike to linger on these topics.”
Before she could stop herself, Devonny said, “He has a mistress.”
“Lord Winden?” said Rose. “How sophisticated!”
“It is not sophisticated!” said Devonny. “It is disgusting.”
“You said you wanted to marry a man like your father,” Rose said nastily.
I hate you, thought Devonny.
“It is all right for gentlemen to do that,” said Mrs. Van Stead. “Do you know what they say in London? You may do anything you like, as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”
“That’s fine for London,” said Devonny, “but I’m packing Father’s pistol, and if Winnie keeps seeing this woman, he’s a dead man.”
They laughed, as if Devonny had made a joke.
At last the ladies were summoned to rejoin the gentlemen, out on the glassed porch. A fire had been lit in the outdoor fireplace to take the chill off the evening.
Devonny and Flossie lingered until they were alone. Devonny whipped a letter out of her corset.
“Florinda almost found it when she played with my clothes. I was terrified!” They muffled their giggles while Flossie read.
Dearest sweet Flossie,
Now the fountain is complete. Now I have no reason to return to the Stratton estate. My heart aches. In front of my family, my crew and my friends, I laugh and talk. But my heart is in pain. I ache to be with you.
We must name the day. Miss Stratton has promised to help.
All my love,
Gianni
“Oh, Flossie, that’s so beautiful!” whispered Devonny. “Does he mean the day you will elope? How will you get to him? Your mother suspects. She will not leave you unsupervised.”
“I know!” whispered Flossie, glowing and sparkling with excitement. “Your wedding!” She clutched Devonny’s arm. “In the excitement of the wedding, I will slip away. I will go with Johnny to City Hall and we will be married. Nobody will notice that I am gone until it is too late. It will be a double wedding, Devonny, but only you and I will know.”
“What a beautiful plan!” breathed Devonny. “There will be a dozen bridesmaids, Flossie, and you will simply—”
Flossie’s mother was upon them. “Give me that letter,” hissed Mrs. Van Stead.
Flossie thrust it behind her, crumpling it, looking for a fire to throw it in. “No, Mama, please, it’s private.”
“Your father is outside the door, young lady. Would you like me to call him and have him see this letter?”
The threat of fathers was very great. Flossie bowed her head and handed the letter to her mother.
Her mother read it silently. “What a ridiculous name. Gianni. Why can’t these people spell? Better yet, why can’t they stay in Italy, where they belong?”
Flossie was weeping.
“This comes of allowing a girl to continue an education. I should never have permitted you to stay in school. It leads to false desires and weak mental behavior. You,” said Mrs. Van Stead to her daughter, loathing and hatred in her voice, “will stay under my supervision.”
She ripped the letter in many pieces. When it was reduced to confetti, she said, “We will not tell your father. It would destroy him.”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” whispered Flossie, trembling.
“Nor will I tell your father of your terrible behavior, Devonny,” said Mrs. Van Stead. “I am shocked that you would cooperate with Flossie in her silliness. I am certainly glad you are marrying a strong man who will control you!”
She gripped each girl’s arm and escorted them out like prisoners, all three pretending to be laughing and happy over nothing in particular, and nobody noticed a thing, because not noticing things was important in Society.
The evening passed, and when Devonny looked at her dear friend standing alone in the moonlight, Devonny knew that the fire in Flossie’s heart simply burned stronger.
It came to Devonny that Flossie could still elope, on the very date they had thought of, using the very same plan. For Mrs. Van Stead had not shown the note to Mr. Van Stead, and Mrs. Van Stead could not know what “choose the date” meant.
The wedding that would mean prison for Devonny would be escape for Flossie Van Stead.
FOUR
Police had blocked off the streets around Grace Church. The public lined the sidewalks early, for the best view of the wedding party, the famous, and the wealthy. There would be four hundred guests, each of whom must present the ivory vellum invitation. The police would let no one intrude upon the wedding.
Eleven bridesmaids, one maid of honor, the bride, the rector’s wife, a florist, two seamstresses, and one stepmother filled the church parlor. The bridesmaids’ gowns were old-fashioned, three shades of blush pink, with flounces and ruffles, the skirts so large that not an inch of floor was visible. Their delicate rose pink shoes were covered with seed pearls. Their flowers were white baskets filled with roses and stephanotis and ferns.
Day and night dressmakers had been at work. The crust of pearls added to her mother’s wedding gown made the dress so heavy it took three bridesmaids to lift it over Devonny’s head. When it was fastened on her body, she could not move. Her father would literally have to walk her down the aisle.
The stays had been laced very tightly. The bridesmaids cooed and ahhed at the amazing narrowness of her waist. This is my life, thought Devonny. Laced together by strangers, while a man decides where I walk.
“Oh, Devonny!” cried her friends. Gertrude and Flossie and Victoria, Ethel and Constanza and Ariel, Elizabeth and Rose and Muriel, Eunice and Charity crowded around to touch and gasp over the gown. “You are so beautiful,” whispered Maud, her first cousin and maid of honor, though they were not close. “You make a perfect bride.” Maud believed this: The gown was perfect, the face was perfect, and so the life would be perfect.
Harriett should have been maid of honor, but Harriett had died. Strat should have been best man, but Strat had vanished. And now Devonny Stratton, too, would vanish, across an ocean and into another name and life. Only Flossie would vanish by choice, and whether that choice was wise or terribly foolish, Devonny did not know.
The parlor was quite lovely: wallpaper of yellow roses, heavy church furniture, carved and mysterious. There were two doors: the door to the sanctuary, and the door to the side vestibule. From the vestibule, one could go outside, or into the parish house, the Sunday School rooms and the great hall.
Flossie’s timing must be perfect. No one must notice her slip out of the parlor.
Devonny had seated Flossie’s parents behind tall people, so they’d have a poor view of the aisle. Mrs. Van Stead was nearsighted and Devonny didn’t think she could pick her own daughter out of the parade.
When the processional had ended, the girls would be lined up along the chancel, enormous gowns like a vast bouquet. If somebody were to count and find one bridesmaid missing, would anybody dream of interruptin
g the ceremony? No. They would assume the missing girl had fainted from excitement. Ladies did this.
Once Flossie got out of the church, there was no danger—the police, after all, were preventing people from entering, not from leaving. But Flossie had a long way to go, and Devonny would give her every minute she could. Devonny had insisted on an anthem by the boys’ choir as well as a solo by the tenor. She was not satisfied with the reading of one psalm, but required three. She would repeat her vows slowly, with much heaving of her girlish breast.
Then would come the recessional, then lots of bustle and photographs, and waving at the public, and leaving for the reception. Very possibly, hours would pass before Mr. and Mrs. Van Stead knew that Flossie was not among the bridal party, and never had been.
The beautiful Gothic nave was filled with Society: matrons, businessmen, millionaires, elderly patrons of the arts. Men wore graceful swallowtail coats. Every lady had been given a corsage, every gentleman a boutonniere.
Not one member of Hugh-David’s family was here.
Last night she had asked Hugh-David why not. Even though she was a purchased bride, was it not an event to celebrate?
Lord Winden had merely studied his hands, of which he was very proud. His hands were rather slight, not long or strong enough for work. Everything about Hugh-David was rather slight. “My mother will arrange family celebrations when we return home,” he said. “There is every need for you to meet my people, but there is no need for my people to meet yours.”
Every day on Devonny’s breakfast tray had been a letter from Hugh-David. His letters were not affectionate; they were instructions. His plans, and how she would fit into them. They were un–love letters.
Through the parlor door came Devonny’s mother. The first Mrs. Stratton’s corsage was too heavy for her gown, and it lopped forward, dragging the dress with it. Though Florinda had arranged for a generous budget at the finest dress shop, poor Aurelia Stratton stood now in a new dress that did not quite fit and was not quite fashionable. She was twitching with anxiety, an apologetic smile darting in and out. Even Devonny could see why nobody invited Mother anywhere. A woman without a man was so completely nothing and nobody.