Where We Belong

  “If you change your mind, I can always vomit on cue,” Rebecca whispered when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Flora shook her head, her newly released tendrils fluttering prettily.

  Rebecca couldn’t recall a more excruciating evening. She milled around the drawing room with her sister, sipping from a tiny cup of punch, and met the widow’s uninteresting relatives, including a cousin and his wife and a collection of nieces and nephews who were conveniently close in age to Rebecca and Flora. The widow, it seemed, had never had any children of her own. The spacious parlor felt suffocating to Rebecca, crammed with furniture and knickknacks and bronze statues, and swathed in heavy draperies like a funeral home. Even the artwork was drab and boring—just like the conversation. No one talked about anything relevant such as the upcoming presidential election, the fight over the abolition of slavery, or the simmering political unrest between the northern and southern states. Father had seemed very concerned about all of those things when reading the newspaper at home, but none of the other guests were. Desperate for a stimulating topic of conversation, Rebecca brought up the novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, hoping to discuss it with the other girls her age. But they were much more interested in discussing fashions.

  “I heard you recently returned from France,” one of the girls said. “You must tell us what the women in Paris are wearing. Are bustles still in fashion over there? And hoop skirts?”

  “I really didn’t notice. I was captivated by the wonderful artwork we saw in the Louvre, painted by all the great masters.”

  “And the Egyptian collection, too,” Flora added. “We saw an ancient obelisk covered with hieroglyphics and learned how the museum’s curator, Monsieur Champollion, used the Rosetta Stone to decipher them.” Rebecca saw their blank stares and knew her sister may as well have been speaking Egyptian. Rebecca was considering her earlier plan to escape by vomiting or perhaps fainting when one of the widow’s nephews appeared at her side. What was his name again?

  “The dinner gong has chimed,” he said. “Aunt Priscilla asked me to escort you to the table.” He gestured to the dining room door a dozen steps away.

  “Thanks, but tell her I can find it myself. After all, I’ve just been traveling all over Europe.” She meant it as a joke, but his unsmiling face wore a pained expression as he offered his arm—as if she were too frail to walk without support. When they reached the table, he held out her chair for her to be seated, then took a seat beside her. Rebecca wondered if he was going to cut up her meat for her, too. She hoped her sister would sit on her other side so she wouldn’t feel so out-of-place, but another of the widow’s nephews sat down on her left. Flora, who’d been escorted by a third nephew, was sitting too far away for Rebecca to talk to without leaning forward and raising her voice, which she knew was impolite. She wracked her brain for her escort’s name and remembered it was Frederick.

  “So tell me, Freddy. What else do you do when you aren’t escorting damsels in distress to the dinner table?”

  He made no attempt to smile, even politely. “I’ll be returning to my studies at Yale University this fall.”

  Rebecca felt a pang of jealousy. Why did men get to study at wonderful universities like Yale while women didn’t? She nearly asked that question out loud but was interrupted as the footman placed her fish course in front of her. There was enough silverware surrounding her plate for a week’s worth of meals. Where to begin? She waited to see which utensil Freddy used. “What do you plan to do after you graduate?” she asked, imitating his silverware choice.

  “Practice law, I think. I understand that’s what your father does. I had a very interesting conversation with him before dinner.”

  “My pre-dinner conversation was about whether or not hoop skirts were in fashion in Paris.”

  He didn’t blink an eye, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “I understand your father is a brilliant investor. I would love to learn more about it from him.”

  “So you can make piles of money? Is that your life’s goal?” Freddy chose not to respond, so Rebecca dutifully ate her fish and waited for the next course to be served. It was oysters, which evidently required a different utensil. She decided to break the silence after watching Freddy choose the proper fork to attack his oysters. “Father, Flora, and I saw the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum in London, where they also had some of the amazing artifacts that Henry Layard discovered in the Middle East. The Louvre has some Assyrian finds, too, but of course the Egyptian collection from the Valley of the Kings was the piece de resistance.” She wasn’t trying to baffle him or even impress him. She simply longed to find someone to talk with who was as fascinated by these ancient archaeological discoveries as she was. Instead, his unresponsiveness told her he wasn’t interested.

  Rebecca leaned forward, not caring if it was impolite, to see how her sister was faring. Maybe it was time to start choking on a piece of roast beef. But Flora was doing splendidly from the looks of things, talking animatedly with the two young men on either side of her. Judging by her delighted laughter, she had found something of common interest to talk about.

  Rebecca’s jaw ached from stifling her yawns long before the dessert course was served. After dinner she endured a painful piano recital by the widow’s two nieces, neither of whom had a sense of rhythm. More socializing followed. It was impossible to get Father alone so she could tell him the truth about the widow. But when Rebecca heard her father laughing—laughing!—she truly did feel nauseous. It was the longest evening of her life.

  The moment they settled into their carriage for the ride home, Rebecca turned to her father. “Did you know that Mrs. Worthington doesn’t own that house? It’s her brother-in-law’s. She had to move there after her husband died, and that means—”

  “Yes, I know. She told me.”

  His words stopped Rebecca short. “She did?”

  “Of course. But I don’t see how it’s any of our business.”

  His words were a rebuke. Rebecca didn’t dare say another word until they’d returned home and she and Flora had retired to their bedroom for the night. “What a dreadful evening,” she said, collapsing onto her bed. “That scheming widow has bewitched our father. The conversation was boring, the music ghastly, and I came this close to fainting just to escape from dreary Frederick.” She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “We need to have a meeting with Father as soon as possible. There are a few things we need to discuss with him.”

  “I agree,” Flora replied. “We need to tell him we want new dresses. And a maid who can arrange our hair properly.”

  “Our hair? What has gotten into you, Flora? Have you been swallowing the widow’s powders, too?”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t that what you want to talk to Father about?”

  “Hardly! I want to warn him that the widow is after his money. I want to beg him to let us change schools this fall and find one that teaches us fabulous things like ancient history and Greek. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose so. . . .”

  Rebecca tried to raise the subject of the widow’s financial circumstances the following evening after dinner, but her father cut her off again. “It’s none of your business, Rebecca. Let it go.” Frustrated, she changed the subject to her disappointment with her school. Flora chimed in about needing a new gown. “Give me a week to look into it,” Father replied. “I still have a lot of work to catch up with after being away for two months.”

  The meeting he convened a week later had the widow’s sticky fingerprints all over it. This time he ushered them into his library, and they sat in the leather chairs facing his desk like two disgruntled employees while he puffed his cigar. The tobacco’s sweet aroma hung in the air between them. “I’m sorry that you’ve never had a mother to advise you all these years,” he began, “but I’ve spoken with Mrs. Worthington, and she has very kindly agreed to provide you with the guidance that has been lacking.”

  “What are we lacking?” Rebecca blurted. “We’re both at the
top of our classes at school, we’re independent and mature for our age—”

  “She feels you need help with manners and grooming and feminine deportment. I’ve heard similar concerns from your headmistress over the years, so perhaps it’s time we address them.” He took a puff from his cigar and added, “Mrs. Worthington is also going to help you make the social connections you’ll need in the coming years.”

  Rebecca felt like the library walls were collapsing on top of her, burying her beneath her father’s volumes of classical literature. “I promise I’ll read any book on manners that the widow recommends. In fact, I’ll read a dozen books. But what I want most of all is to change to a better school.”

  “Mrs. Worthington assures me that the school you currently attend is one of the finest in Chicago for preparing young ladies.”

  “Preparing them for what? Not for using their brains, certainly.”

  “She feels that you may have trouble finding proper husbands in the future if you’re what society calls ‘bluestockings’—women who have been overeducated.”

  Rebecca was struck dumb. She slumped back in her chair as if the wind had been knocked out of her. In the silence that followed, Flora asked, “Is Mrs. Worthington going to help us choose new gowns?”

  “Yes. I’ve invited her to call on you tomorrow afternoon while I’m at the office to begin the process.”

  Flora appeared thrilled. “That’s wonderful, Father. Thank you.”

  “Traitor . . .” Rebecca mumbled.

  “Hmm? What’s that?” Father asked.

  “Is your goal for us to marry rich husbands, settle down, and have children?”

  He paused, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke before saying, “It does seem to be what’s best for you.”

  “But I would like to attend university after graduation. I know I’ll have to find one that accepts women, and I know that professions like law and medicine are probably closed to me, but the more I learn, the more I want to study. Haven’t you always told us we need to find God’s purpose for our life? What if that doesn’t include marriage?”

  “Nevertheless, I would like the foundation for finding a good husband to be in place. Mrs. Worthington offered to help me with that.” He grew pensive for a moment as he tapped ash from his cigar. Then he gazed intently from one of them to the other. Rebecca held her breath, fearing he was about to announce his engagement to the widow. “While we were overseas, an important client of mine passed away. He had no heirs, and he has made me the executor and one of the beneficiaries of his sizeable estate. His unfortunate passing has reminded me that I may not always be around for you girls. It would ease my heart to know you’re well taken care of by fine husbands.”

  “I’ll do whatever you’d like, Father,” Flora said, standing and reaching across the desk to squeeze his hand. “We want you in our lives for many years to come.”

  And in that poignant moment, Rebecca felt she had little choice but to concede to his wishes, too.

  Widow Worthington swept into their foyer the following afternoon and gazed around at their stately home the way a starving man eyes a banquet table. The house no doubt had been lovely when Father built it sixteen years ago, but the furnishings looked shabby and out-of-date compared to the ones Rebecca had seen in the overly decorated home of the widow’s brother. Mrs. Worthington had a look of glee in her eyes, as if she couldn’t wait to get her hands on the house—using Father’s abundant wealth, of course. “I’ve begun the process of hiring a lady’s maid for you girls,” she began after they were seated in the seldom-used drawing room. The servants had removed the furniture covers for the occasion and motes of dust still danced in the sunlight after being disturbed. “I’ve already arranged for several candidates to be interviewed and—”

  “You mean by Flora and me?” Rebecca asked.

  “No, I’ll be doing the interviewing myself. . . . I have an excellent seamstress who is waiting to work on your new gowns once we take your measurements and choose the patterns. You’ll need morning dresses for making and receiving calls, as well as evening dresses for parties and dinners and social events. You’ll also need what we call a walking dress for shopping or traveling, something not too colorful or vulgar. We’ll shop together for accessories such as gloves and bonnets and shoes for every occasion.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes. She felt weary and the widow was just getting started. “You must each have a scent,” she continued. “A memorable one that’s associated only with you. Men love perfume. Your scent will remind him of you so you’ll captivate him and fill his thoughts.”

  You mean gag him so he can’t breathe, Rebecca wanted to say. The servants would have to open all the windows to air out the sitting room after the widow and her memorable scent departed.

  “My stationer is already printing calling cards for each of you. Once you’ve learned how to conduct yourselves and dress properly for social occasions, we’ll plan an event here in your home, so you can learn to be gracious hostesses. You’ll need to learn poise along with all of the other social graces. I’ll teach you how to manage servants, run a home, and entertain your future husband’s guests.”

  Flora appeared entranced, sitting on the edge of her seat like a lap dog waiting for her master’s whistle. “They already teach us many of those things at school, and—”

  “And those classes bore us to death,” Rebecca interrupted. “Be honest, Flora. We’ve laughed at how stupid those classes are.”

  The widow gave Rebecca a long-suffering look, then continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I noticed that you both looked uncomfortable at times during dinner last week. But I can teach you how to be an attentive listener and to contribute demurely to the conversation.”

  “But I would much rather contribute intelligently to the conversation,” Rebecca said.

  “That isn’t important right now, Rebecca.”

  “It is to me,” she mumbled as she slouched back in her seat.

  “We’ll be discussing proper posture, as well,” the widow added. Rebecca wanted to scream.

  She managed to control herself for the rest of the long afternoon until the widow finally left, promising to return for the many future lessons they would certainly require. “Do you really want to learn all those worthless things?” Rebecca asked her sister when they were alone. “Do you want to be an exact reproduction of Widow Worthington, or would you rather become your true self?”

  They had returned to their upstairs bedroom where Flora stood gazing in dismay at the dresses hanging inside their wardrobe, probably dreaming of all the new ones she soon would own. “Father does seem to have his heart set on us becoming proper ladies,” she replied. “I want to please him.”

  “Nonsense! The widow has cast some sort of spell over him, making him think this is what’s best for us. It isn’t! I refuse to believe that God gave us brains and curiosity and a love for learning so we could talk demurely at dinner parties and sit with proper posture.”

  Flora slowly closed the wardrobe doors and turned to face her. “Maybe we can do both, Becky. Why can’t we learn to be proper ladies and still continue our studies?”

  “The widow will never allow it. She says we’ll never find proper husbands if we’re bluestockings. But I don’t want a proper husband if he won’t let me be myself. I want to marry someone who loves learning and travel as much as I do, don’t you? Tell me the truth, Flora, and I’ll never bother you again—do you honestly believe you could live the way the widow does for the rest of your life? Would you be happy with a man who doesn’t respect your God-given intelligence and is only interested in a wife who is a pretty adornment on his arm?”

  “I think we should at least try to learn what Mrs. Worthington is teaching us, for Father’s sake. We can study all the other things we want to on our own. Besides, we have several more years to decide what our futures will be, don’t we?”

  In the end, Rebecca gave in. She would learn to be a lady to please her father and because Flora wan
ted to be one. But for every concession she made, Rebecca vowed to present a demand of her own. She held negotiations at one of Father’s after-dinner meetings in his library a week later. “Mrs. Worthington believes you would benefit from dancing lessons,” he began.

  “I’ll agree provided we can also take horseback riding lessons.”

  “Horseback riding? What on earth for?”

  “We’ll need to know how to manage a horse for some of our overseas travels. The lost city of Petra is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’ll have Rufus look into lessons for you,” he said. “You should know that Mrs. Worthington has also arranged a private piano tutor for you.”

  “Fine. As long as you hire a Greek tutor, too. Flora and I are hoping you’ll take us to Greece next summer.”

  He sighed in resignation and tamped out his cigar. “Very well.”

  “And one more thing, Father. Flora and I aren’t getting enough physical exercise. We need to be able to climb the pyramids and explore the more remote parts of the world. Could you arrange to install some exercise bars in our backyard?”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Worthington what she thinks.”

  “Please don’t. She’s trying to turn us into dainty maidens who can’t walk ten steps without feeling faint and reaching for the smelling salts. Flora and I are healthy and strong, and we want to stay that way. We’re doing everything else the widow wants us to do, so please let us have this one thing. . . . Please?”

  “Exercise equipment?”

  “Yes! Remember the story in the Bible about Daniel and his friends? The king wanted them to eat his food, but they refused, and they ended up healthier than all of the others. Let us do a few things our way—please, Father?”

  “Very well. I’ll install exercise equipment in the back garden. I hope that’s all.”

  Rebecca gave him her sweetest smile. “Yes, Father . . . for now.”