“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all, Violet,” he said, slowly shaking his head.
“They’re oranges, for goodness’ sake,” I said, still unable to control my laughter. “What do oranges have to do with the Liberty Bell? The founding fathers didn’t win our freedom by lobbing oranges at the British, did they?”
“Maybe we should move on.” People were staring at us—or more specifically, at me—and I could see that my laughter embarrassed Herman. I couldn’t seem to stop.
“Did George Washington cross the Delaware on a raft of orange crates?” I asked. “Did Thomas Jefferson toast the signing of the Declaration of Independence with a glass of orange juice? Did Patrick Henry say, ‘Give me oranges or give me death’?”
“I really think we should move on.” Herman marched me from the building as if dragging me to the headmistress’ office by my ear. Mary scurried behind us with her head lowered.
I was still wiping tears from my eyes when we emerged from the building into the sunlight. Herman paused for a moment to bury his nose in the guidebook, searching for the next marvel on his list, when all of a sudden I saw Silas McClure walking straight toward me. At least I thought it was Silas.
He was dressed like a British lord in a suit that was as finely cut and tailored as Nelson Kent’s suits were. He had grown a mustache and a neat goatee since the last time I’d seen him, and he wore a fedora on his carefully barbered head. He even carried a silver-topped cane.
“Mr. McClure?” I said as he approached.
He didn’t turn his head at the sound of his name, but continued to stroll straight down the pathway. A moment later he vanished into the crowd. Could I have been mistaken? Did Silas have a twin brother? And if so, was he a thief too? If so, he was a much more successful thief, judging by his clothing.
“Who was that?” Herman asked.
How in the world could I explain Silas McClure? “Oh, just a thief I met on the train to Chicago. I helped him and his pals pull off a robbery the last time I visited the fair.”
“No one,” I sighed. “He resembled someone I know, but I guess it wasn’t him.” Yet the stranger had the same effect on me that Silas always had. My heart was chugging like an engine at full steam. I had to change the subject.
“I hear there’s a walkway on the top of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts building that offers a marvelous view. Does your guidebook recommend it by any chance?”
“It costs extra.”
I might have known.
The aroma of exotic food and spices rose to my nostrils in tantalizing fashion from dozens of pavilions we passed. We didn’t sample anything. The only food item Herman purchased was water from the Hygeia Water stand, and he complained about that.
“I think it’s outrageous to charge money for a drink of water! Water should be free. Just look—there’s a Great Lake full of water, right over there. What will they charge us for next? Are they going to make us pay for soil? Or for air?”
“My word …” Mary said.
I kept my mouth shut.
By late afternoon, I was relieved to learn that the guidebook scheduled a stop at the comfort station. I went inside with Herman’s sister, and as soon as she had me alone she unleashed a sales pitch on behalf of her brother that rivaled Silas McClure’s pitch for Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder.
“My brother is a fine young man—hardworking, sensible, modest, and upright. Unlike a lot of other men, he has no vices… .”And so on, and so forth. I could have added that he also had no sense of adventure, no sense of humor, and no imagination, but Mary barely paused for breath. When her sales pitch ended, she began to interrogate me.
“Do you have a lot of other suitors, Violet?”
“Well, no … not a lot …”
“How many? Are they seriously courting you?”
“I’ve only been in Chicago for three weeks. It’s pretty hard to form a serious relationship in—”
“Listen.” Her face was close to mine as she pleaded with me, begging with the same fervor that Louis might use when asking sinners to repent. “I beg you to be fair to my brother. Don’t toy with him. Some girls do that, you know. They make a game out of winning a man’s heart just so they can break it. Herman deserves your honesty, Violet. And your loyalty and trust.”
“I won’t lead him on.”
“Thank you.”
I had to admit that Herman did exhibit sterling character. And he was neither devastatingly poor nor exorbitantly rich. Maybe Herman would be a compromise between Louis’ world of smells and sorrow and Nelson’s life of pretentious pretending. Maybe it was my calling to settle down in Lockport and raise a peck of children and hire a housekeeper like Mrs. Hutchins to peel my onions.
Later, as we passed a souvenir stand, I asked Herman if we could stop. “I would like to purchase a packet of postcards with photographs of the fair.” The photo on top—the one that had lured me— was of Mr. Ferris’ wheel. For a moment I thought Herman might have to check his guidebook to see if the stop was authorized, but he not only stopped, he even paid for the postcards.
“Thank you. This will be a nice reminder of my visit to the fair.” I didn’t mention which visit.
There were hundreds of interesting exhibits besides the Palace of Fine Art and the enticing Midway that we never had a chance to see. If Herman’s guidebook didn’t recommend it, we didn’t see it. Would he go through life this way, following someone else’s agenda and living by the book? I briefly considered launching into a motivational speech: What about spontaneity? What about fun? Why not ride life’s Ferris wheels once in a while?
Yet I knew that his sister was right. Herman was a good man, kind, thoughtful, well-mannered. He was hardworking; he didn’t love money; he wanted a family. In fact, Herman was very much like my father—which led to another thought: If I was like my mother, perhaps boredom was the reason she eventually left him.
We stayed to watch the fireworks display before returning home. I arrived at Grandmother’s door thoroughly exhausted. My feet ached from walking all day, but my head ached even more from holding back all of the outrageous thoughts that had bubbled up in my imagination throughout the day. I had longed to say so much more but couldn’t, especially after the Liberty Bell incident.
“When are you coming home to Lockport?” Herman asked as we said good-night in my grandmother’s foyer. Once again, I wanted to reply, “Never!”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought much about Lockport.
I’m still enjoying my visit to Chicago very much.”
“If I may say so, Violet, I hope you will come home soon.” He fumbled for my hand and took it into his sweating one, squeezing it limply before releasing it again.
“Thank you, Herman,” I managed to say. “And thanks for an … interesting day.”
Chapter
18
Monday, June 26, 1893
I happened to be standing in the front hallway on Monday morning when the mailman pushed several letters through our mail slot. The one on top was addressed to me.
It was from Silas McClure.
I dropped the other letters onto the floor and ran upstairs to read it in the privacy of my room. I didn’t find his chunky, schoolboy penmanship at all endearing this time. I opened the envelope to find that the stationery he’d used came from a hotel in Chicago. He had put another Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder card in the letter, along with a commemorative coin from the Exposition.
Dear Violet,
Please accept my deepest apologies for ending our visit to the fair so abruptly. There were hundreds of things that I wanted to see and do together, and I’m still sulking because we didn’t get a chance to do any of them. I never would have asked Robert and Josephine to be our chaperones if I had known they would leave us in the lurch like that. Do you think you can ever forgive me?
I had a great time with you, even though our day was cut short.I can still see the look on your face when we rode the wheel together.I enjoyed every minute that I s
pent with you, as few as they were.
I’ll wager that I’m probably asking too much to expect you to accompany me again, but I sure would love a second chance if you can find it in your heart to give me one. I’ll be in town at this hotel for the next few weeks, so if you’re willing to give me that second chance, please write me a note. You can send it in care of this hotel, or to my post-office box.You’ll find the number on my card, which I’m enclosing.
I’ll understand if you still feel shortchanged. To tell you the truth, I feel shortchanged myself. Drat those useless chaperones! I’ll find better ones next time. I promise.
Yours very truly,
Silas McClure
The coin was an Exposition souvenir. I turned it over in my hand and a tear rolled down my cheek when I saw the image of Mr. Ferris’ wheel on the back. I could still remember what it felt like to hold Silas’ hand. And to land in his arms when the wheel lurched the first time. Nor could I forget the way he had looked at me when we halted at the top of the wheel.
“Stop it!” I told myself.
Silas was a thieving elixir salesman. He had been trained to be a smooth talker. I could not—would not—have anything more to do with a thief. Or the friend of a thief. It could only lead to enormous heartache.
I wiped away another tear and shoved the letter under my mattress. I refused to answer it. I was on my way out of the room with the coin in my pocket when I remembered the well-dressed gentleman I had seen at the fair. Had that been Silas? If so, why had he been dressed that way?
The only explanation that made sense was that he had been wearing a disguise. He could have been posing as a wealthy gentleman in order to rob other wealthy gentlemen. I faced the truth that Silas McClure was probably a pickpocket as well as a thief.
I pulled the commemorative coin out of my pocket as if it might set my skirt on fire and laid it on the hall table beside the packet of postcards that Herman had bought for me.
On Tuesday, I decided to go calling with Aunt Agnes. After my muddy afternoon with Louis and my boring tour of the fairgrounds with Herman, I needed a dose of beauty. I had missed the luxurious homes, the gorgeous dresses, the elegant atmosphere—and the cucumber sandwiches. One of the women on whom we called was Nelson’s grandmother.
“Where have you been, Violet? I was so afraid you’d left Chicago for good. And without even saying good-bye.”
“I would never do that, Mrs. Kent.”
“My Nelson would never forgive you if you did. He is so very fond of you.” She took my hand in both of hers and added, “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Nelson would be peeved with me for tattling on him. But I’ve never heard him talk about the other girls the way he raves about you.”
We sat in the afternoon room and sipped tea. Everything was lovely but—I hated to admit it—boring. I entertained myself by watching the serving girls flitting in and out with our tea and finger sandwiches, hoping to glimpse the stunning Katya. But when the luncheon ended and the maids cleared away our tea things, I still hadn’t seen her. I decided to discreetly ask one of the other servers about her.
“Excuse me, but I haven’t seen Katya today. Is it her day off?”
“She no longer works for the Kents, Miss.” The maid’s cool voice revealed her unwillingness to say more.
I was instantly intrigued. “What happened to her?”
“They hired Sadie in her place.”
“Did Katya quit or was she fired?”
“I couldn’t say, miss. Will you excuse me, please?”
If someone had seen Katya kissing Nelson the way I had, I could understand why she would be sent away. Far, far away. I pictured her in an igloo in Lapland, shivering with the Eskimos.
Aunt Agnes and I were preparing to leave when Nelson sauntered in.
“Violet! It’s wonderful to see you.” There was warmth in his voice as he squeezed my hands, but he might have been greeting anyone. “Listen, I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been invited to a string of gala affairs at the Columbian Exposition fairgrounds. Might you be able to accompany me to some of them? I would like to show you the fair.”
“Violet would love to go.Wouldn’t you, dear?” Aunt Agnes replied. “You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure. The fair is a marvelous, marvelous place.”
She and Mrs. Kent gushed on and on, never giving me a chance to reply. Nelson and everyone else simply assumed that I would go.
“Will you be using a guidebook?” I asked him, remembering my visit with Herman Beckett.
“A guidebook? What for?” He appeared amused.
“To see the fair.”
“I don’t need a guidebook,” he said, laughing.
“Then yes, I would love to go.”
“Good. I have tickets for a concert in Choral Hall on Thursday evening. Afterward there is a private party I’ve been invited to attend in one of the other pavilions.”
“That sounds nice.” I could wear my new gown again. I could listen to beautiful music, enjoy sumptuous food—and pleasing smells.
“I’ll pick you up a little before seven.”
When I returned home, Aunt Matt stopped me in the front hallway. “Don’t make any plans for Wednesday afternoon, Violet. I’m taking you to see the Woman’s Pavilion.”
And she did.
We got off the streetcar at the 59th Street entrance and walked a dozen yards to the pavilion. The Midway was directly behind us, and I peeked over my shoulder at the wheel, towering above the fair. Then I gave Aunt Matt my full attention.
“First of all, you need to know about this building. It was designed by a woman architect in the Italian Renaissance style. The Board of Lady Managers launched a nationwide search for a woman architect and received twelve submissions. All of the women were under the age of twenty-five, by the way. The winner, Sophia Hayden, was around your age, Violet—twenty-one—and had recently graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”
I couldn’t comprehend it. A girl my age? And she knew how to design a building? I stared at the pavilion for a moment as I tried to take it all in—the lagoon in front, the prolific flowers in the hanging gardens, the graceful staircase to the terrace, the triple-arched entrance. Designed by a woman my age.
“It truly is beautiful, Aunt Matt.”
“Keep in mind as we go inside that it was also decorated entirely by women. And The Board of Lady Managers, which is composed of members from every state and territory in the U.S., are in full charge of it all. This is unprecedented, Violet. Women have never been given control of a pavilion at such a huge, important exposition as this.”
The first displays we viewed were a model hospital and a model kindergarten. I glanced around as we walked through the exhibits, hoping to see the famous Pinkerton guards, standing in uniform at all of the strategic places. I wanted to ask one of them how much it would cost to find my mother. But I saw very few men, and none in a guard uniform.
“Where are the Pinkerton guards?” I asked Aunt Matt.
“You can’t see them—that’s the whole point. They purposely blend in so the thieves don’t know they’re being observed.” She pulled her father’s gold watch and chain out of her purse and glanced at the time. “We can see the rest of the building after the speech. Come on.”
“A speech?What’s it about?” I asked as we marched to the lecture hall.
“I believe a woman physician is going to present her research on women’s health.”
The lecture hall was packed, and we had to take seats in the front row. One of the Lady Managers introduced the physician, and I had to cover my mouth to disguise my amusement. Instead of a proper dress, the good doctor wore a baggy tunic and an enormous pair of bloomers. They looked like the pantaloons women wore beneath their skirts—but without the skirt!
“Ladies,” she began, “I’m well aware that the majority of you are, at this very moment, trapped in the confines of a whalebone corset. But you might be shocked to learn that, according to my research, your tightly
laced corsets are responsible for more than fifty feminine ailments.”
She proceeded to enumerate them, one by one, but my mind began to wander after “heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, and lightheadedness.” The symptoms sounded suspiciously like a romance novel’s description of love. Could it be that thousands of women had married their husbands in the mistaken belief that they were in love, when all along their corsets had been too tight? How disappointing to watch their love mysteriously vanish once their corsets were unlaced. I made up my mind that if I ever felt love’s symptoms, I would loosen my corset immediately before accepting a proposal of marriage.
I turned my attention back to the speaker and learned that she not only advocated tossing out our whalebone corsets, but expected us to replace all of our leisure dresses with bloomers.
“Someday, dresses for women will be a thing of the past,” she insisted. She bounced around the stage as she talked as if she had taken an overdose of Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder, her baggy bloomers flopping like a clown suit. “Women will experience more comfort, better health, and more freedom of movement when they switch to wearing bloomers. Once you try them, every one of you will want to wear them. We’ll see bloomers on trains, in the parks, and in every public place. Freedom, ladies! Bloomers mean freedom!”
I had to work hard to stifle my giggles. I was probably the only woman in the audience who thought the lecture—and the doctor’s bloomers—were hilarious.
The applause that followed her speech seemed a bit tentative to me. As much as Aunt Matt and her friends might yearn for freedom, I don’t think they could picture themselves in bloomers. Nor could I. Admittedly, corsets were uncomfortable. But the unrestrained female form, especially on some of the plumpest dowagers, might yield more freedom than the world was prepared to see.
Aunt Matt and I continued our tour of the Woman’s Pavilion after the lecture, and it truly was awe-inspiring. The Women’s Christian Temperance Union and Susan B. Anthony’s suffragettes both had booths. The sky-lit gallery housed every type of artistic endeavor I could imagine: paintings, sculpture, needlework, pottery. The pavilion overflowed with women’s accomplishments in science, health care, literature, education, and exploration. The variety of inventions was staggering— everything from washing machines and surgical bandages to egg beaters and frying pans. All created by women.