Hannah's Dream (5 page)

As she sat at her dining table, Margaret sipped her tea and thought about a drawing Pierre had done.  She had asked him to give her an example of his work so she, in turn, could show it to a friend in Long Branch.  Someone told her of an artist colony in Point Pleasant, and she was considering renting a bungalow there during the summer months so he could be with other artists who would help him perfect his craft.  She hadn't mentioned this to him yet since she hadn't decided if she wanted him to go.  He was charming and a good listener, and Margaret enjoyed his company.

He had been living in the carriage house for a month.  He had gained weight and looked quite handsome in his new clothes Margaret had custom-tailored for him.  Most people thought she was having an affair with the younger man, but Margaret had no interest in sex anymore.  She loved her husband, and was content with her life.  She did not want or need the romantic attentions of a younger man.  She did, however, like witty conversation and intelligent discussions about art, and Pierre was able to provide her with both.

There were French doors in the dining room that led to a side porch, and she could see Pierre talking to George, her gardener.  She couldn't hear the conversation, but by the look on George's face, it wasn't congenial.  Margaret liked George and didn't want to lose him, but if he couldn't get along with Pierre he would have to be replaced.

Pierre came through the French doors and smiled at Margaret.  She was dressed for the day in a silk lilac bodice and skirt, and her long, brown hair had been fashioned in a Gibson Girl style by her maid, Jenny, a woman who had worked for her for twenty years.  Margaret's hair was streaked with gray, and her face slightly wrinkled around her mouth and her eyes.  But her blue eyes twinkled with mirth as Pierre entered the room.

"Good morning," he said.

His French accent pleased Margaret as it reminded her of the summer she spent in Paris with her husband.

"Good morning," she replied.  "I saw you talking to George.  Is there a problem?"

Jean-Pierre took his seat on Margaret's left-hand side.

"He thought I had trampled his roses."

"Why on Earth would he think that?"

"He is a fool.  Everything that goes wrong, he blames me."

Margaret studied Pierre's face.  She was no fool; she knew there was more to the story than this, but she chose to let it go.

"I spoke to John Taylor yesterday," she said.

John Taylor was the head of the school board.  Margaret wanted the board members to hire Pierre as an art teacher.  She was willing to build a new classroom in the high school if they would give Pierre a job.  Art wasn't being taught there, and Margaret wanted to introduce the young people of New Beach to the finer things in life.

"And what did Mr. Taylor say?"

"He said they would take it under advisement.  That means they will think about it."

"They will never hire me.  They all think I am a gigolo."

"Oh, I think they will hire you.  They like the idea of a new classroom, and I'll make sure you have a contract so they can't just let you go once they have it."

"I am grateful for the things you've done, but this is too much," said Pierre.

"Poppycock.  It's not just for you; it's for the children of this town.  They need to know there is more to life than reading and writing.  The world is changing."

Pierre reached out and placed his hand on hers.  Margaret pulled it away.  He frowned, and she smiled.

"I'd prefer you didn't touch me, Pierre.  I told you at the beginning I wasn't interested in that type of relationship."

"I was just showing my gratitude," he protested.

"I know what you were doing," she said.

He looked into her eyes.  She looked at him as though she could see into his soul, and her stare made him uncomfortable.

"Yes, well, I thank you for helping me."

"You're welcome.  Now, we have a meeting at the school this afternoon.  I want you to wear your navy blue silk suit with a tie, not a cravat, and the plain black shoes I bought you.  We want to show them that you are a serious young man and despite the fact that you don't have a teaching certificate, which you will obtain in the future, of course, you are more than capable of teaching art.  Bring some of your drawings with you, and maybe write something down about artists in France."

"Do you really think these bourgeois peasants will want to hire me?"

"Be careful,
Pierre
.  These are your neighbors now.  You'd better change your attitude if you want to live here."

"But surely you feel the same way about them."

"No, I don't.  I rather like the people of this town, and I suggest you form an attachment to them as well.  You need their approval, whether you like it or not, and if you don't get this job because you can't humble yourself, then I may have to ask you to leave my carriage house."

Margaret's stare was hard, and Pierre felt anger rising in his chest, but he remained calm.

"Of course, Margaret, I will do as you ask."

"Good.  It's nice to know we understand each other."

Margaret rang the bell she kept by her place at the table, and Ginny, the kitchen maid, appeared at her side.

"Yes, ma'am," she said.

"Bring Mr. Rousseau his breakfast, Ginny."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ginny quickly returned to the kitchen while Margaret rose from the table.

"You won't sit with me while I eat?" he said.

"I've things to attend to.  I'm sure you will be fine, Pierre."

He watched Margaret walk away.  She was an enigma to him; a woman immune to his charms.  He didn't know how to act around her, and didn't trust her, either, but he would stay here as long as he could; he would even work as a teacher if he had to, to stay in this fine house.  This is where Jean-Pierre Renault, who now went by the name Pierre Rousseau, belonged, and if he played his cards right, he would own this house one day.

Chapter 8

Summer, 1895

John Liberty was sitting on his porch railing waiting for Hannah to come outside.  He wanted to tell her his news, but wasn't sure how she'd react.  He'd been putting it off for a week now, and since he would be leaving for school tomorrow, it just couldn't wait any longer.

He heard the front door to Hannah's house open and close, then he saw her strawberry blonde hair, made into one long braid down her back.  She also had a straw hat on her head.  She turned and saw him sitting on the railing and smiled.  Hannah had just turned fifteen, and John got a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he saw her.  There was something about her eyes and the contour of her face, or maybe it was her smile.  John couldn't understand why she affected him this way, but since turning seventeen, he was having trouble understanding anything anymore.

"Hi, John!" she said.

She waved and smiled at him as she walked across the porch.

Good
, he thought,
she's in a good mood.

He got off the railing and went to meet her on the sidewalk.

"Have you been waiting for me, John Liberty?"

"Naw, I was just watching Mavis Bartles walking with Jenny Frye."

He was pleased when he saw the flash of anger cross her face.

"Well, then, I guess you won't be walking to town with me.  I wouldn't want to take you away from
Mavis and Jenny
."

She walked away from him as quickly as she could, but he followed close behind.

"Actually, Hannah, I have to talk to you."

She didn't respond, but kept walking.

"Come on, Hannah, please slow down."

She slowed down a bit so he could come up alongside her, but she kept her eyes looking ahead.

"Remember when my father wanted me to go to private school before going to college and I persuaded him to let me stay here?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, he's changed his mind.  He's sending me to a private school now."

She stopped and turned to look at him.

"Oh?" she said.  Now she looked concerned.  "When does he want you to go?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

Hannah felt as though the world was crashing down around her.  Even though she knew he would be going off to college next year, she wasn't ready to let him go.

"But you're supposed to be here one more year."

"I know, but he, I, oh, Hannah, I'm sorry.  I wanted to tell you, I did, but I..."

"It's all right, John."  She put her hand on his arm and squeezed.  "I'll miss you."

John looked into her eyes.  He wanted to ask her a question but was uncertain of her response and hesitated.

"Hannah," he said. "Will you wait for me?"

Since she was eight years old, Hannah had wanted to marry John Liberty, but because boys didn't talk about their feelings, she was unsure how he felt about her.  Her heart began to beat faster, and she smiled broadly.

"Yes, of course I'll wait for you."

"Will you write to me?"

"Yes, every day."

John put his arm out and she took it.  Her acceptance of his request to wait meant that one day they would marry, and with that settled, John could go to New Brunswick without fear that some other boy would steal her away.

They walked together to the center of town and headed toward the beach.  Hannah felt so grown up walking on John's arm that she almost forgot he would be leaving the next day.  They chatted about what he planned to do after he finished college -- John didn't know what he wanted to be.  Then they talked about their dreams.

"I want to work in a museum, John" Hannah said.  "And I want to be an artist."

She waited for his response.  She had told others of her dream to become an artist, and they scoffed at the idea.  Women became wives and mothers, and within the scope of their marriage, attended social functions for charities, or planned dinner parties, but a married woman never worked outside the home.  Art was an acceptable hobby, but one simply did not make a living at it, and certainly not a woman.

When John didn't reply, she continued.

"Mr. Rousseau said I have a gift that shouldn't be squandered.  That was the word he used -- squandered."

"It would be...difficult," John said.

She wondered at his hesitation.

"What do you think, John?"

"I always loved your sand castles, and I still have the dog you made me out of clay.  But you're talking about making a living from it.  People will think your husband can't support you."

"Mr. Rousseau said there's an artist colony in Point Pleasant.  I don't think the people living there would think that way."

She turned up her nose.

"You asked me what I thought," he said.  "I didn't make the rules, Hannah."

"Rules can be changed, John Liberty," she said.

She pulled her arm away from his and quickened her steps, moving ahead of him.  When he caught up with her, he gently took her hand and held it, forcing her to stop.

"They can be changed, Hannah, but it takes time," he said softly.  "I know you have talent, and since we were kids I've seen how your eyes light up when you create something.  I'd be a fool to ask you to give that up."

"But you still wouldn't want your wife to work for money," she said.

"Not if she doesn't have to.  That would be taking a job away from a man with a family.  If you have a husband who provides for you, why would you do that?  It wouldn't be right."

"Then perhaps I shouldn't have a husband."

Hannah turned and walked away, and this time John let her go.  There were times in their relationship when Hannah became impossible to reason with, and John had learned to just let her go.  He watched her until her form disappeared in the distance and decided to go to her house later that day to say goodbye.

Hannah's eyes glistened with tears.  She cared for John Liberty, but she loved art.  The stained glass windows in the church had given her the impetus to learn more about the great artists of the Renaissance and the impressionist movement in Europe.  She longed to go to Paris and walk through The Louvre museum.  For Hannah, her desire to work in a museum stemmed from her love of art, and the desire to be in an environment that made her feel alive.  How could she reconcile her two loves?  Would she have to abandon one to keep the other?

When she got home, she sat on a rocking chair on the porch and took off her hat, held it on her lap and ran her fingers over the lilac ribbon around the crown.  A soft breeze ruffled her hair, and a few strands blew across her face.  She brushed them back, putting them behind her ear.  The sky was bright blue and the clouds, full and fluffy white, were marbled with gray highlights.  The world was full of artistic inspiration.  She could feel the clay in her hand as she shaped those clouds.  She didn't realize she was molding the air until Becky came onto the porch and began to laugh.

"What are you making this time?" she asked.

Hannah smiled.

"I was making that cloud up there," she said, pointing to the sky.

Becky looked up.

"It is pretty.  So, I saw you walk off with John, but you came back alone."

"We had a fight," Hannah said.

"Not again," Becky said.

She sat in the other rocking chair.

"He said a woman shouldn't work if she has a husband to support her."

"Oh, he did, did he?  Hasn't he heard of women's suffrage?"

Becky had become entranced by the burgeoning woman's movement.  At the age of twelve, her interest in bettering the lot of women had begun the day she asked her father why women couldn't vote, and he slapped her so hard across the face that she fell into the wall. 

"You'll never get a husband talking like that," he said.

At that moment, Becky decided that in that case, she didn't want a husband.

I'll provide for myself
, she thought.

At that age, she didn't understand how limited her choices for employment would be, and when, at sixteen she went looking for work, the only jobs she could find were for servants and shop girls.  Becky wasn't plain, but she had a tendency to look angry, with narrowed eyes and a pinched mouth.  Her brown hair was as straight as a stick, and she usually wore it in a tight bun to keep it in place.  She hated stray hairs and would often pull them out if they annoyed her, and then would have to deal with the short hairs that resulted from her habit.