A Tyranny of Petticoats

  “It’s nothing —”

  I take her hands. “It’s not nothing. Please, Sophie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She smiles a bit too brightly. “There’s no need to fret. William and I had a misunderstanding.” She frees her hands from mine and asks breezily, “How were Grandmama’s suitors? Or do you prefer your Westacre beau?”

  I sigh. “What beau?”

  “Your letter.” She gestures at my pocket and makes another grab for it. “What’s his name? Is he handsome?”

  “Don’t change the topic. Has William done something to upset you?”

  Her eyes widen — in the dim candlelight I cannot tell if it’s in anger or fear — and I expect her to storm off at my prying. Much to my surprise, she embraces me instead.

  “Are you unwell?” I say with a startled laugh.

  “Far from it. I’m simply happy to have you home, even if you won’t tell me about your beau.”

  “I don’t have a beau, for the last time.”

  “If you say so.” She pulls back just as quickly as she wrapped her arms around my waist. “I best return to the party.”

  I look at her, puzzled. She seems as jittery as a caged cat. “Sophie?”

  “William asked me for the next dance!” Then she skitters out of the room, leaving me to stare after her. She’s acting very oddly, although I’ve no idea why. Shaking my head, I resolve to get to the heart of the matter — but after the ball is over.

  I leave the library to seek out Crandall and Duchamps, but I find Grandmama and Sophie in the foyer instead, whispering furiously to each other. About what, I don’t know. Most likely gossip. I attempt to skirt past them, but Grandmama possesses the eyes of a hungry hawk.

  “There’s no use avoiding me,” she says. “We’ve much business to attend to, you and I.”

  Grandmama then snatches my hand and drags me through the house from bachelor to bachelor. There’s Judge Jarrett’s son, followed by Ambassador Eckhart’s cousin, followed by a gentleman I don’t even remember the name of. I feel like a Thoroughbred on the auction block, with Grandmama ready to sell me to the highest bidder. As if the Van Persies’ coffers aren’t piled high enough . . .

  After thirty minutes of these how-do-you-do’s, Grandmama pulls me toward the third parlor, which has been cleared of furniture to serve as a ballroom for the evening. A string quartet tucked away in one corner plays a lively song for our guests.

  Grandmama peers into the crowd. “Ah, there he is.”

  “May I ask who ‘he’ might be?”

  She ignores me. “Do smile, or he’ll think that you possess no teeth.”

  Grandmama tows me toward a portly man who’s chewing a cheese tart and licking his fingers. I stare at him, aghast. He looks older than my father. She can’t be serious.

  The man turns around, and buttery crumbs fall from his lips. “Madame Van Persie!”

  “How wonderful of you to come to our ball.” Grandmama’s own lips curl at the man’s ill manners, but she masks her distaste. “I don’t believe you’ve met my elder granddaughter. Elizabeth, dear, this is Monsieur Duchamps.”

  Duchamps? I force a smile despite the disgust rolling through my stomach. “How do you do, monsieur?”

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He takes my hand and kisses it, his mouth flopping against my skin like a freshly caught trout. “Your grandmother did not mention what a beauty you are.”

  I flush, not from the compliment but because Duchamps wiggles his brows at me in such a way that I’m tempted to slap him.

  Grandmama nudges me forth an inch. “Why don’t you and Monsieur Duchamps enjoy a dance?”

  I’d rather flee to France, but I say, “I’d be delighted.”

  As the quartet begins a waltz, Monsieur Duchamps leads me to the floor and I rifle through my memory of what Uncle Ambrose told me about him, which wasn’t much. Apparently he once invested in an Atlanta cotton mill, and rumor has it that he still carries sympathies for the South.

  “I do love the waltz,” I say, trying to ignore the crumb dangling from his bottom lip. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

  “Very much, and even more so in your company.” His left hand drifts toward my hip, and I squelch the impulse to bat it away. Grandmama instructed me to smile, but I wouldn’t mind if Monsieur Duchamps believes that I’m toothless.

  “I’ve never traveled to France. I’m curious what your countrymen must think about our current war?” I hope my talk of politics will distract him, but his gaze falls upon my bosom, and he makes no effort to hide it.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve not stepped foot in my home country for many years.”

  “Then what are your own opinions about the war?”

  At last, his eyes flicker toward mine. “War is always unfortunate,” he says, ever the diplomat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, most unfortunate. Concerning your work —”

  “How old are you, mademoiselle? Eighteen?”

  “I’m seventeen just.”

  “Have you always been so”— his brows wriggle at me again — “mature for your age?”

  I’m tempted to retch upon his shoes, but I ask him a question of my own, ready to be done with this dance and with him altogether. “Tell me, have you had the chance to meet my dear friends Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens?”

  “I don’t believe I have.” He pulls me so close that I smell onions on his breath. “But you should forget about those gentlemen. Perhaps you and I could be friends instead?”

  My cheeks flame. “I think not!” I should slap him — twice, even, and very hard — but I won’t spare him another second.

  “Mademoiselle —”

  “Au revoir, Monsieur Duchamps.”

  Free from his filthy hands, I gulp down a glass of champagne, but it does little to wash away the memory of the Frenchman. I take comfort in knowing that I won’t have to speak with him again, because he didn’t utter the code phrase I needed to hear. That leaves me with Congressman Crandall. I need to find him. He has to be the Raven . . . unless Uncle Ambrose has made a mistake.

  I frown at that thought. Could it be possible that the spy’s true identity has slipped through my uncle’s fingers? If so, the Raven could be anyone, a district judge or a foreign diplomat or someone else entirely. My eyes flicker over the parlor, and I wonder if he’s here, sipping our champagne or smiling at our other guests. I dart quick glances over my shoulders.

  Don’t be premature, I tell myself. I must still speak with the congressman.

  Smoothing my skirt, I search for our butler to tell me the whereabouts of the congressman, but when I pass by the servants’ staircase another idea tickles at the back of my mind. I could run to my room and stow away my uncle’s letter before Sophie or Grandmama inquires about it again. It wouldn’t take long. I take the stairs two at a time and reach into my pocket . . .

  And find it empty.

  My pulse halts. My gaze claws down the hallway, but I don’t find the slip of paper. I hurl myself toward the staircase to retrace my steps, but when I walk past Grandmama’s bedroom, my feet lurch to a stop. I blink hard. My grandmother is nowhere in sight, but her room is occupied. From her windowsill, two dark eyes fix on mine.

  The eyes of a raven.

  The creature hops onto my grandmother’s desk and settles next to the bedroom key that she must have forgotten. At first, I wonder if the bird has lost its way, but when I try to shoo it through the window, I notice a piece of parchment tied around its leg. I go still. Uncle Ambrose mentioned that the Red Raven used a raven to correspond with the Confederates.

  While the bird cleans its feathers, I tiptoe toward it and remove the parchment and read:

  Have you gleaned more information concerning our enemy’s troop movements? It may be time to arrange for another afternoon tea . . .

  I stumble away from the desk.

  Another afternoon tea?

  “So here you are.”

  I jump and spin around. My grandmothe
r stands in the doorway, her chin tipped high.

  “I don’t believe I granted you permission to enter my quarters, Elizabeth,” she says.

  My face drains of color. “Grandmama?” My instincts tell me to apologize quickly and exit even more so, but I can’t ignore the letter in my hand. I thrust it behind my back, but Grandmama clucks her tongue at the sight of it.

  “I see you’ve been trespassing where you’re not welcome.” She doesn’t even address the parchment or the bird. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “What . . . what do I have to say for myself?” There’s a wobble in my voice. Another afternoon tea. Those words echo through me once again. “Why has this raven flown directly to your room?”

  “How dare you question me,” she snaps, and drags me toward the door. “We’ll address your punishment later. For now, we’re needed downstairs.”

  “That bird —”

  “Is none of your concern.”

  “But —”

  “Hush!” Grandmama halts in front of the window to give me a good shake, and the moonlight illuminates her from hairline to toe.

  I try to speak but can’t form any words.

  “What are you gawking at?” she demands.

  Goose bumps cover my skin, and I stare at my grandmother’s dress. It’s bloodred silk. Red, her favorite color.

  “The letter was intended for you, wasn’t it?” I whisper.

  Grandmama snatches the parchment from me. “That’s my private correspondence, and I’ve no need to explain myself.”

  “Then you don’t even deny it?”

  She merely picks at a loose thread at her wrist. “I’m well acquainted with Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens, if that’s what you mean.”

  I brace a hand against the canopy bed. At last I’ve heard the words I’ve waited to hear all night, but they weren’t whispered by Blackgrace or Crandall or Duchamps. Uncle Ambrose was wrong. We were both so very wrong.

  Grandmama lets out a noisy sigh. “There’s no use in lying to you. Your sister may have inherited my looks, but you were blessed with my mind.”

  “Blessed?”

  “Do watch your tone. I’ve no patience for insolence.”

  Out of habit, I’m ready to utter an apology and slink away — but I clench my teeth and tell myself No more. I’ve allowed Grandmama to pull me out of Westacre and parade me through this ball like my marriage vows are for sale, but I cannot condone her treason.

  “How could you?” I say. “How could you willingly work for the Confederates?”

  She scowls. “I’m saving this family from ruin, I’ll have you know.”

  “You call this ‘ruin’?” I point at her jewelry box and the Chinese silk curtains cloaking her windows.

  “Where did ‘this’ come from? I’ll tell you where: from the fortune your great-grandfather made building steamships — in the South.”

  “That was years ago! Father works in railroads now.”

  “And he’s a fool for that. If your insipid mother hadn’t persuaded him —”

  “Insipid? How dare —”

  “Her ridiculous convictions led us straight to the poorhouse! I possess the proof of it right in this very room.” She nods at her jewelry box. “Open it.”

  “Why?”

  “Open it.”

  I reach for the box, knowing that I’ll find a trove of sapphire rings, ruby bracelets, and the largest pearls in all of Washington. But once I open it, I nearly gasp. It looks like Grandmama has been robbed. The rings, gone. The rubies, depleted. Only a strand of pearls remains, sitting lonely against the black velvet.

  “I had no choice but to sell them,” Grandmama says, pain lacing her words. “We’re almost bankrupt due to this railroad venture. I’d no choice but to accept the Confederacy’s offer. They pay me quite well in exchange for the secrets I glean at my afternoon teas. How else could I have bought the dress you’re wearing?”

  I sink onto the bed, dizzy from her revelations. I wish I could tear off this dress and burn it.

  “So now you understand the importance of you marrying well,” she continues. “The Confederates’ money may keep us afloat, but we’re standing upon a sinking ship. I will find you a husband — and a wealthy one at that — especially with your father off to who knows where.”

  My thoughts immediately shift to Father. “Does he know what you’ve done?”

  “Of course not,” she says. “Your sister, on the other hand. . . .”

  My gaze bores into hers. “Whatever do you mean?”

  With great flourish, she reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out my letter — the letter from Uncle Ambrose.

  It grows difficult for me to breathe. “How did . . . ?”

  “It appears I’m not the only spy in the family,” she says, fanning herself with the letter before I yank it from her. “Sophia was kind enough to retrieve this for me.”

  My mind reels. No, I won’t believe it. I can’t. “She wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “She would and she did, while you two spoke in the library earlier.”

  My memory skips back an hour to Sophie’s odd behavior in the library. Has my sister changed so much since I’ve been away at school?

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Because I asked her to read all your correspondences,” Grandmama replies. “It’s my duty as your guardian to be privy to such matters, although little did I know that your uncle’s letters would prove so interesting.” She glances at me in her mirror. “Oh, don’t be too cross with Sophia. She didn’t want to read your letters — at first — but I told her that I’d never give her my blessing to marry that Radford boy if she didn’t.”

  I don’t think I can speak. This is all too much. My grandmother, a spy? My sister, an accomplice? I want to believe that Grandmama is lying — that Sophie would never betray me — but my heart severs in half just the same.

  “Wash your face and gather your wits, Elizabeth,” she orders me. “Now that you know the truth, we can return to the matter at hand: your nuptials.”

  My jaw slackens. “After what you’ve told me, you expect me to rejoin the ball as if nothing has happened?”

  “You saw my jewel box. Our family’s good name is in jeopardy — and you shall save it.”

  Despite my trembling legs, I stand. “If anyone has jeopardized the Van Persie name, it’s you, Grandmama. You’ve committed treason.”

  She laughs. Laughs! “Call it what you want, but I’ve done this for our family. If I hadn’t, we would have lost this house and the very clothes on your back.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a smart girl. Do you wish to spend the rest of your life in the poorhouse?” She looks me up and down. “Well, do you?”

  I struggle for an answer. I struggle even to think. She expects me to wilt, like I’ve done so many times before.

  Grandmama takes my silence for assent and marches for the door. “Come along.”

  I don’t move.

  “Stop dallying.”

  I refuse to budge. I don’t wish to end up in the poorhouse. But how can we live a life funded by our grandmother’s traitorous acts?

  “Move your feet,” Grandmama says.

  Two choices fork in front of me. I can do as she says and preserve my family’s name. Or I can take another path. My fists clench and unclench, and I think of my mother.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Her eyes slash into me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I won’t play a part in your deceit.”

  She hurtles toward me, her hand raised to slap me. “Listen to me, you —”

  I block her blow. She grabs at my collar, and I realize she won’t let me out of this room until I bow to her demands. I yank the bedroom key from the desk and wrench away from her, my heart beating so quickly that I fear it might burst.

  “You wretched thing!” she cries.

  I reach the door and catch a flash of Grandmama’s murderous gaze before I shut the door behind me and lo
ck it tight. She pounds her fists against the wood and spews terrible words at me, but I stuff the key into my pocket.

  “Open this door at once, Elizabeth!”

  I stare down the door. I quell the tremble in my voice and say, “My name is Lizzie.”

  I force my legs down the hallway and stumble into my room. I’m unsure of what to do next, but I know I mustn’t tarry in the house, not with Grandmama yelling and pounding at her door. I throw a cloak over my shoulders and gather my mother’s ring and a small stack of spending money from my desk. There isn’t time for anything else. As I descend the servants’ staircase, my mind scrambles for where I should go — but I’m stopped midway by my sister.

  “I heard shouting,” she says, her bottom lip quivering. Her gaze falls upon my left hand with my uncle’s letter still clutched inside it, and her face turns as white as her petticoats. “Where’s Grandmama?”

  “Upstairs,” I mutter, her betrayal stabbing through me once again.

  “Lizzie, please —”

  “Grandmama told me everything. Everything.”

  “Let me explain!” Her hands grab on to mine to anchor me next to her. “I never wanted to betray your confidence, but Grandmama said —”

  “That she wouldn’t give her blessing for you to marry William.”

  She nods with teary eyes. “What was I to do? I love him.”

  What of me? I’m tempted to ask her. Do you possess no love for your own blood?

  Sophie dabs her eyes with her sleeve. “She forced me to do it. I’ve barely eaten or slept in weeks because of the guilt. You believe me, don’t you?”

  She cries harder, and I can’t muster the strength to push her away. Despite the anger flaring inside my chest, I know that Sophie acted out of fear, not malice. And for that reason alone, I place my hand on her shoulder.

  She laces her fingers against mine. “I’ll write to Father. I’ll tell him what has happened.”

  “There’s no need.” I pull away. Grandmama’s shouting grows louder by the second, and I need to depart.

  But how can I leave without Sophie?

  I take her hand. “Come with me.”