Lizabeth's Story (2 page)

The girls walked faster. This time, Lizabeth faced front. She wasn't taking any chance of bumping into something horrid.

T
he girls turned onto North Street. The great old trees edging the village green shaded the pavement and threw leafy patterns on their faces. The statue of the lost fisherman in the middle of the square of lawn was spotlighted by rays of afternoon sunlight.

They cut across the lawn toward Lizabeth's home on Lighthouse Lane.

There were masses of pink and orange azaleas in front of the large, white brick house. The trellis curving over the front path was covered with rose branches. There were already buds on the side trellis. The railing around the front porch was freshly painted and sparkling white.

“Hello! I'm home, Ada,” Lizabeth called.

She led the other girls past the coat stand and through the front hall. They walked around the small mahogany table with its silver tray for calling cards, and past the forest green velvet hall chair.

“Is Mother here?” Lizabeth asked.

Above the chair rail, the walls were hand-stenciled with big scarlet roses and dark-green leaves. Peacock feathers were displayed in a floor vase at the foot of the curving white staircase. The hall smelled of beeswax floor polish.

“No, your mother went to the ladies' auxiliary tea. She'll be gone until dinner.” Ada, the cook, came out of the back hall door under the stairs. She tucked a stray wisp of gray-blond hair into her bun and wiped a hand on the apron that strained to cover her roly-poly body. “Hello, Lizabeth, girls. What would you like for refreshments? I have some scones cooling off and there's strawberry jam for everyone else—apple jelly for you, Lizzie.”

A frown crossed Lizabeth's face. How many times had she told Ada
never
to call her Lizzie! It was certainly improper for a servant even if Ada had practically raised her.

“No thank you, Ada. Nothing for me,” Kat said. She turned to Lizabeth. “I can only stay a minute. That Eskimo report! And it's my turn to mop up before my lighthouse shift.”

“Oh. All right,” Lizabeth said. Kat had so many chores to do, along with her lighthouse watch every
evening. And that was on top of the gift paper she designed and painted and sold to the local stores for spending money. It was hard to believe that their mothers were sisters. Marrying a rich man made all the difference.

The cinnamon-and-spice aroma of freshly baked scones followed them up the winding staircase.

They entered Lizabeth's lavender-and-white bedroom. The casement windows were open and crisp white organdy curtains fluttered in the spring breeze.

“Sorry for the mess.” Lizabeth shrugged. “I guess the maid didn't get upstairs today.” She halfheartedly picked up some unmentionables and discarded shirtwaists from the lavender rug.

“You can't just drop things on the floor.” Amanda started to tidy up. “Lizabeth, you're a clutter-bug!”

“Never mind about that.” Lizabeth opened her closet with a flourish. “Here it is!”

“Hello!” The door of the room suddenly flew open and four-year-old Tracy bounced into the room.

Amanda and Rose greeted her, and Kat tousled her little cousin's curly blond hair. Lizabeth muttered, “You're supposed to
knock
!”

“What are you doing?” Tracy asked.

“Nothing,” Lizabeth said.

“Can I play, too?” Tracy asked.

“We're not
playing
anything.” Lizabeth exhaled with exasperation.

Amanda smiled at the little girl. “Maybe later,” she said.

Lizabeth took the strawberry dress out of the closet. Tissue paper was stuffed in its sleeves and under the skirt.

“Mother bought the fabric in Boston,” Lizabeth said, “but it originally came all the way from
France
.” She twisted the hanger and the silk pleats of the long skirt twirled, shading from deep pink to red.

“Oooh, it's lovely,” Rose breathed.

“It is,” Kat added. “You'll look beautiful!”

“See the tucks on the bodice? And that tiny bit of lace crochet around the neckline?” Lizabeth said. “The dressmaker wanted to—”

“Hello, Rose Lorraine Forbes,” Tracy interrupted, chanting. “Hello, Katherine Lee Williams—”

“The dressmaker wanted to—”

“Hello, Amanda Jane Morgan,” Tracy continued.

“For goodness' sake!” Lizabeth said. “We
know
you know everyone's names! Anyway, the dressmaker wanted to—”

“But I know all the
middle
names, too,” Tracy said.
“Lizabeth Julia Merchant. Tracy Delia Merchant. Tracy is for Mother's grandfather Edward B. Tracy but—”

“Stop showing off, Tracy,” Lizabeth said. “We're trying to talk.”

“You were saying the dressmaker wanted…” Amanda prompted.

“—but when I start school,” Tracy chattered on, “I'm telling everyone to call me Delia.”

Lizabeth shook her head. “I completely forgot what I was about to say!”

“Try it on!” Rose said. “Let's see it on you.”

“I would, but I'm afraid to wrinkle it,” Lizabeth said. “I don't think I should take the tissue out yet; I have to keep it perfect for the festival.” She replaced the dress in her closet carefully. She shoved other dresses out of the way to make plenty of room so that it wouldn't be crushed.

“No one's going to look prettier,” Kat said. “I bet anything you'll be Strawberry Queen.”

Tracy clapped her hands. “Are you going to be Strawberry Queen?”

“I don't know.” Lizabeth picked a pale turquoise dress embroidered with pink and green sprigs out of her closet. “Kat, I love this color on you. Do you want it?”

Amanda's clothes came from the Sears Roebuck catalog, not even fitted to her. But even worse, Kat's clothes were sewn by her mother! If a bolt of fabric at the general store was reduced in price, chances are Kat would soon be wearing a dress of that very material.

“No, thanks,” Kat said. “It's beautiful, but I don't have any occasion.”

“You
do
! If you change your mind and enter for Strawberry Queen,” Lizabeth said. The pale turquoise would be perfect with Kat's flaming red hair.

Kat smiled. “Thanks, but I don't care about a beauty contest. Honest. Now if you ever hear of an
art
contest, that's what I'd want to enter!”

“You'd win
any
art competition,” Lizabeth said.

“Who's going to be Strawberry Queen?” Tracy asked.

“I don't know!”
Tracy could try anyone's patience, Lizabeth thought. “Why don't you go play in your room and let us talk.”

“Because I have nothing to
dooooo
.” Tracy whined the last word.

“Ask Ada to read to you.”

“No.” Tracy sat down on Lizabeth's four poster bed and firmly planted herself on the quilt. It was mostly white, with scattered bunches of violets. “I want to play
with
you
! And Rose Lorraine and Katherine Lee and Amanda Jane.”

“Later,” Amanda whispered.

“How are you wearing your hair?” Rose asked.

“Pompadour on top and curls in the back. I'll try to make sausage curls with Mother's curling iron and I'll put them up with an extra-long matching ribbon.” Lizabeth had a clear image of her blond curls caught by the pink velvet ribbon, its ends trailing down. “It was almost impossible to find a match. I looked everywhere, and Mother finally found it in a shop in Cranberry. Let me show you. I think it's the exact color.”

Lizabeth opened the shallow top drawer of her dresser and gasped. Instead of her neatly rolled-up ribbons—of grosgrain and satin, in rainbow colors to match her clothes—there was a messy jumble. The white ones were mixed up with the blues, and some were badly wrinkled. And no sign of strawberry pink velvet!

Lizabeth whirled around. “Tracy! You were in my ribbon drawer again!”

Tracy's eyes widened. “I…I didn't hurt anything.” Her voice became very thin. “I…I didn't.”

“How many times do I gave to tell you!
Keep out of my drawer!
”

“I only wanted to…The way you fixed my hair yesterday with a pretty ribbon. I wanted to—”

“I need a lock for my door!” Lizabeth's voice rose with her anger.

The little girl popped her thumb into her mouth.

“I need a lock for every drawer. Anything to keep you out! And get your thumb out of your mouth. It looks too stupid!”

Tracy's eyes welled up. She removed her thumb and clenched her hands together tightly.

“Lizabeth, it's only a bunch of ribbons,” Kat said.

“The strawberry velvet ribbon is
missing
and I planned my whole outfit…” Lizabeth stared at Tracy. “Where is it?”

“I…I don't know,” Tracy whimpered.

“Do you have it?”

Tracy shook her head.

“Oh, what's the use! Tracy, just
go
. Go away!”

Everyone could see that Tracy was holding back tears. Her whole face crumpled as she left the room.

“You're too hard on her,” Amanda said. “You forget she's only four years old.”

Lizabeth sighed. “Well, I have to do
something
to keep her out of my things.”

“She wants to be just like her big sister,” Kat said. “That's why she gets into your things.”

“Even though Hannah's older,” Amanda said, “I would never be that harsh with my little sister.”

“That's different,” Lizabeth said. Poor Hannah depended on Amanda for everything since their mother died in childbirth. It was completely different. “Tracy has to learn to respect my property. She really is spoiled.”

“She seems extra-bright,” Rose said. “And she's so cute.”

“You don't know, Rose,” Lizabeth said. “It's a lot easier to be an only child like you.”

“Well, I think Tracy is adorable,” Rose said. “And I think your brother, Chris, is wonderful!”

Lizabeth raised her eyebrows. “You think
my brother
is
wonderful
?”

Rose's face had taken on a pink glow.

“I thought you met him only once—the day I introduced you at the railroad station,” Lizabeth said. Chris didn't go to the William McKinley grade school with them; he went to the high school in Cranberry. How would Rose know anything about him?

“He comes to my uncle's stables pretty often,” Rose said. “A lot of afternoons. And we talk.”

“Chris is interested in
riding
?” That was the first Lizabeth had heard of it!

“He is…now. He's getting very good at it.” Rose ducked her head down a little. “But…I think he comes to see me.”

“What's going on? Do you
like
him?” Lizabeth asked.

“Oh, I do! He's nice and interesting and—” Rose's words came out in an enthusiastic rush. “He's charming, and he makes me laugh, and we have so much to talk about!”

One of the things Lizabeth liked most about Rose was that she was completely straightforward. Most girls would pretend to be disinterested, but Rose didn't seem to know how. Just this once, Lizabeth thought, she wished Rose could pretend. Rose wasn't Chris's sort at all. He had an eye for much flashier, flirtier girls—and they certainly had an eye for him! Lizabeth's heart sank. Rose was going to get hurt. And then Rose would be embarrassed when she remembered admitting she liked Chris. Just thinking about it made Lizabeth furious at her brother.

“Well, Christopher and Tracy could both disappear, as far as I'm concerned!” Lizabeth said.

She caught Kat's disapproving look. Of course she didn't
mean
it, Lizabeth thought. Kat had to know she loved Chris and most especially little Tracy. For goodness' sake, it was only words!

L
izabeth was lucky she'd had a late tea of Ada's scones. Father came home late from the bank, so dinner wasn't served until half past seven.

Father placed the white linen napkin on his lap with an angry gesture. “I was kept waiting all evening for a telegram from that banker in New York! What's
wrong
with those people?”

He was in a terrible mood. Lizabeth was sure that hunger was adding to Father's irritation because he certainly had a strong appetite. He still cut a fine figure, though the gold buttons of his waistcoat threatened to pop over his well-rounded stomach. He was the very picture of prosperity, a man who could enjoy a whole roast goose and then afford to soothe his liver with trips to the mineral springs at Saratoga.

“Incompetent fools,” Father grumbled.

“Now, now, Stanton…” Mother patted his arm.

Ada served the cream of mushroom soup and tiptoed out of the room.

They ate hungrily, silver spoons clanking against china bowls. All except Tracy, who had pushed her soup away untouched. She slumped over the table.

“Sit up straight, Tracy,” Father said.

Tracy moved so slowly that Lizabeth was afraid Father would take it as disobedience. Father had no patience with Tracy. Though she was a bright, enchanting little imp, with deep dimples and huge navy blue eyes, Father said he had no interest in nursery twaddle. He said children didn't interest him until they were twelve or so and could hold a decent conversation.

“Can't anyone teach the child to keep her elbows off the table?” Father growled.

If Tracy was yelled at twice in one day, that would be too much. Maybe I was a little too hard on her, Lizabeth thought.

“I know you had a difficult day at the bank, Stanton, but please try to relax,” Mother said. “For the sake of your digestion, dear.”

But Father turned to Chris. “Perhaps if you had managed to honor us with your presence this afternoon.”

Chris's face froze. “I'm sorry, sir. I never said I'd be
coming in to the bank.”

“What does that mean?” Father was bristling with anger now. “You've been handed a golden opportunity that other boys would be more than grateful for!”

“I suppose…if that's what they want.” Chris kept his tone polite, but his rebellious eyes gave him away. “But I don't.”

Ada brought in the main course, interrupting at just the right time to avoid a scene between Father and Chris. Father didn't believe in airing the family laundry in front of the hired help.

Lizabeth glanced over at her sister. Tracy was unusually quiet. Still sulking, Lizabeth thought. Well, Lizabeth refused to feel guilty! Tracy had deserved getting yelled at, hadn't she? But normally, Tracy bounced back in no time at all….

Tracy was pushing mashed potatoes around her plate without bringing any to her lips. Lizabeth was glad Father didn't notice. He never allowed them to play with their food.

Ada served the crystal bowls of butterscotch pudding and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir? Ma'am?”

“Yes, Ada.”

“If I could leave now, please, with dinner so late and
all. You see, my sister Leda is feeling poorly and I promised I'd stop by and give supper to the children.”

“Leda?” Mother asked. “Is she the one who cooks for Dr. and Mrs. Forbes?”

“No, ma'am, that's Edna. Leda is the youngest of us, with three little ones. She's taken to bed and I said I'd help out with the children tonight.”

“All right, Ada, go ahead,” Mother said.

“Thank you, ma'am, I'll just pour the coffee and—”

Tracy pushed her pudding away. “I don't want any.”

“But butterscotch is your very favorite!” Ada exclaimed. “I made it especially for you.”

“I don't feel so good,” Tracy whispered.

Tracy must have stuffed herself with Ada's scones all afternoon, Lizabeth thought.

“Oh, dear,” Ada said. “Does something hurt?”

Tracy's head sagged onto the table. “I feel sick.”

“Sit up, dear. Let me see.” Mother put her hand on Tracy's forehead. “She feels a little warm. Maybe a cold coming on. Do you want to go up to bed, sweetheart?”

Tracy nodded.

“All right, run along. I'll come up soon.”

Ada's worried eyes followed Tracy. “I think we should call Dr. Forbes, ma'am. I mean, if she's feverish….”

“I said she felt a little warm, that's all,” Mother said. “That doesn't mean
feverish
. I don't think we need the doctor for every little sniffle.”

“She didn't eat a thing,” Ada said. “And she's
never
so quiet.”

“That's enough, Ada.” Father didn't like it when Ada took over Mother's role. Ada did that more than he knew, Lizabeth thought, especially with Tracy. You'd think the sun rose and set with Tracy!

“You go ahead and take care of your responsibilities,” Father continued.

Ada was practically wringing her hands. “But, sir, I can't help worrying….”

“We appreciate that, Ada,” he said more kindly. “We'll watch her and we'll certainly call Dr. Forbes if necessary.”

Ada nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Chris got up from the table. “I'd like to be excused, too.”

Father scowled, but then Mother said, “Let him go, Stanton. It's almost nine.”

“Me too.” Lizabeth scooped the last bit of pudding from her bowl. “May I be excused? I have to go to Amanda's.”

“It's awfully late to visit her,” Mother said.

“Well, it's not really to see Amanda,” Lizabeth explained. “I want to ask Reverend Morgan about walkabouts. About the spiritual side of them.”

“Walk what?” Father asked.

“The journey that Aborigines take to…um…meet themselves.”

“What are you
talking
about, Lizabeth?” Father asked. He didn't wait for an answer. “The point is to expand the bank,” he told Mother, “and those people should see there's money to be made!”

Lizabeth's chair scraped against the shining parquet floor as she stood up.

“Do you have to go right
now
, Lizabeth?” Mother asked. “At this hour?”

“It's for my end-term report. And Amanda said her father comes home around nine.”

“That man is a saint,” Mother said. “I hear he's out till all hours counseling anyone who needs him—church members or not. But aren't his girls often left alone late into the evening?”

Lizabeth nodded. “I think Amanda wishes he wasn't so busy with everyone else. But she says it's best to speak to troubled people when they're home from their
days' work and relaxed after their dinner.”

“That makes sense,” Mother said. “He's certainly selfless.”

“It would be lots better for Amanda if he wasn't so selfless,” Lizabeth said. “I feel funny about taking more of his time, but Amanda told me to come. She said nothing pleases him more than discussing spiritual questions with young people.”

“Don't stay too long,” Father said.

“I won't. Good night, Father. Good night, Mother.”

Lizabeth walked out and across the wide front porch. The shape of a man was silhouetted by the gas lamp on the path and for a moment Lizabeth was startled. Then she saw that it was Christopher leaning against the railing. She thought he had gone upstairs to his room.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Breathing.”

“Mmm, I know.” She inhaled deeply. “May smells wonderful.”

“That's not what I meant,” Chris said. “I have to get out of the house to
breathe
.”

“You shouldn't sass him, Chris. It wouldn't hurt to show up at the bank.”

“Yes it would. I hate it.”

“But you know you're going to take it over one day.”

“No such thing!”

“I don't understand you,” Lizabeth said. “Bankers make the most money.”

Chris shrugged.

“There's another thing I don't understand,” Lizabeth continued. She hesitated. She didn't know quite what to say, but if she could save Rose a lot of heartache…“About Rose. Why are you—”

“That's none of your business,” Chris interrupted.

“Rose is my friend,” Lizabeth said. “And I know she's not your sort at all—”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” Chris interrupted. “I'll tell you this much. She's not like everyone else. Rose doesn't think she's some porcelain doll. She'd never pretend to swoon or anything stupid like that, or act coquettish.”

“She doesn't know how,” Lizabeth muttered.

“When I see her ride Midnight Star, she amazes me!” Lizabeth was surprised by how enthusiastic Chris sounded. That wasn't like him at all.

“And she's not afraid to work and get dirty to keep the horses comfortable and fit,” he continued. “Rose doesn't need to stop and primp either.”

“You mean…she lets you watch her muck out the stall?” Lizabeth was astonished. She could just imagine Rose in that old cracked leather divided skirt of hers, with her hair tied back any which way, surrounded by the smell of manure instead of perfume! She was already fourteen, the oldest of their group, she should really know better! Someone has to talk to Rose about how to present herself in front of boys, Lizabeth thought.

“Sure. I help her with the stall sometimes,” Chris was saying, “and scrubbing out the feed buckets and—”

“Well, that's the strangest way of courting I've ever heard of!”

“Who cares about
courting
?” Chris laughed. He put on that awful falsetto voice he used when he was being mean to her. “Courting is leaving your calling card on a silver tray in her front hall and calling her
Miss
Forbes and she calls you
Mister
Merchant and you take
proper
little walks and talk about nothing! It's not like that with me and Rose.”

“You'd better be proper with her! She's my friend.”

“She's my friend, too.” Chris's eyes flared with anger. “You don't know a thing about it, so why don't you stop bothering me and go on your way?”

Lizabeth tossed her head and flounced down the
porch steps to the path. Christopher was impossible! She had planned to ask him to pick up a length of strawberry velvet ribbon in that shop in Cranberry. After all, it's near his school in Cranberry so it wouldn't be out of his way. But this didn't exactly seem to be the best time to ask him for a favor.

A boy was supposed to put a girl up on a pedestal. That's what everything she'd read in the
Ladies' Home Journal
and the Girls' Guides told her. She was supposed to be fragile and he was supposed to be inspired to romantic poetry by her feminine loveliness—certainly not by the way she communed with her horse! And there were occasions when swooning was exactly the right thing for a lady to do to show her delicacy. All those magazine articles couldn't possibly be wrong. It was right there in print!