The Daring Ladies of Lowell (17 page)

Daisy seemed to wilt at this astonishing acerbity from her grandmother. “I’m not impolite,” she began, then gave up.

“I would prefer to go now,” Alice said. She couldn’t bear this house for another minute, nor the people in it.

“Samuel predicted you would say that,” Gertrude said with a sigh. “You are not chained here, Alice. But I could see that it wasn’t just safety he had in mind. He wanted very much to see you again today. Perhaps there is a particular reason?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Daisy mumbled, rolling her eyes.

Alice paused, mute, her mind flashing back to the encounter on the stairs.

“Again, you don’t have to answer. I will send for a coach if you insist.”

Finally Alice found her voice. “I will stay,” she said.

“I’m greatly relieved,” Gertrude said, patting her lips to conceal a yawn. “Now it’s time for my morning nap.”

And right there, in her seat, Gertrude dozed off, her chin resting comfortably on her abundant bosom.

“I like your grandmother,” Alice said to Daisy. She picked up a spoon for the apple dish that had mysteriously appeared before her.

“She’s something of a busybody,” Daisy answered, then quickly amended herself. “Sometimes.”

“I’m relieved that you found my cameo.”

“Where is your mother?”

“She died.”

“Oh. Well—I’m sorry.” A pause. “I’d like you to make one for me.”

“I would, but I don’t have the brushes and tools here.”

“I’ve got those things upstairs. And clay for molds.”

“You do?” Alice’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I tried making one once. But I have no talent whatsoever and botched the job.” Daisy took a swallow of juice, not looking at Alice.

“Why do you want one?” Alice couldn’t help but be baffled. “You have a gorgeous cameo. I’ve never worked with seashells, let alone precious stones, and yours is far better than anything I can make.”

“But you could draw my face and shape it in clay, couldn’t you? And then maybe later do it in ivory?”

“I may not be skilled enough, but I would love to work in ivory.”

“Good. Can we start after breakfast?”

Alice studied Daisy’s face. It would, in profile, be quite striking. “I’ll do the carving and shaping,” she said. “Perhaps I can teach you how to do the finish work.”

“Well, perhaps. Please.”

The two women sipped coffee silently to the sound of Gertrude’s gentle snoring—but, to Alice’s surprise, not unpeaceably.

T
he sun was sending a glow of fresh morning light through Daisy’s bedroom as they made their way upstairs. It was a beautiful room, even more beautiful than the one in which Alice had spent the night. A massive, deeply carved bed took up one wall, framed by burgundy-red drapings at the head, and it was covered in the most striking woven tapestry coverlet that Alice had ever seen. She had to stop herself from running a finger over the intricate weaving of white, gold, and red threads creating such an impressive bedcover. How was it done?

“I hide the pots of paint and brushes tucked away in my dressing room,” Daisy said, pointing to an adjoining doorway. Alice peered in. The dressing room, walls covered in gold brocade, was almost as large as a dormitory for six at Boott Hall. At least ten gowns, all crisply arranged by color, hung suspended from poles along the walls.

Daisy was on her knees, pulling out a heavy box hidden behind the hanging clothes. “I’ve got everything in here.” She was flushed and seemed excited.

“Why do you hide them?” Alice asked.

“So the servants don’t laugh at me. I told you, I can’t do anything well.”

Together, they hauled out the box and deposited it on a chair near an expansive desk by the window. Daisy opened the box, and Alice gazed at its contents. It was all here, more than she had ever had herself. Wonderful little pots of paint, all the brushes and carving tools needed, molds, fabric. Everything. She felt her fingers itch as she opened a tightly closed container. Good, the clay was moldable. She sat down at the desk and began rolling some clay into a small ball, then flattened it out. She picked up a pencil, looking at Daisy critically. “Sit down,” she said, “and turn sideways.”

I
t took three tries. Even though the sun climbed higher, Daisy insisted on inspecting each profile drawing, objecting to something—her nose wasn’t that long, surely. And her hair—could Alice raise the curls higher in front? Finally she was satisfied. Alice reached for a carving tool, squinted, and began her work. “Don’t talk,” she ordered, vaguely aware that she had given Daisy Fiske three orders in a very short period of time.

The carving took several hours. Alice sank into the pleasure of her work, easing for the first time the sadness that had enveloped her since Lovey’s death. She forgot Daisy’s hovering presence. She forgot everything. She chose clay the color of cream for Daisy’s profile; for the background, a deep brown, wishing she had ivory beading to burnish the design. How many times had she imagined working on shells or semiprecious stones? Maybe someday she could work in better materials, but this felt good.

“I like this,” Daisy said, gently touching the newly carved profile. “Are my lips really that thin?”

“You compress them a bit tightly,” Alice said. “It’s not done, of course.”

Daisy cast her a cautious look. “I won’t be able to finish it, I’m too clumsy. As long as you’re here all day…”

With angers soothed, embarrassment gone, and the joy of creating once more in her hands, Alice had no hesitancy. “Yes,” she said simply.

Impulsively, Daisy reached into her box of supplies and pulled out a still-sealed box of clay. “Here, this is for you to take when you leave. For practice, perhaps?”

Alice smiled and reached for it. “Thank you—for practice.”

“I
s she here?”

Gertrude looked up from her embroidery and smiled at the sight of her grandson’s tense face as he walked through the entrance parlor, peeling off his coat, looking right and left.

“You can relax, dear. Yes, she stayed,” she said.

Feeling a wave of relief, Samuel sank into a chair next to Gertrude. It would have served him right if Alice had insisted on leaving after his behavior of the night before.

“Where is she?”

“She’s been up with Daisy carving a cameo for most of the day; I would suspect she heard your carriage arrive. You look exhausted.”

“I’m glad we went. The man wasn’t that badly injured, but we’ve got to deal with this, it is happening too often.” He couldn’t help himself; he kept glancing at the stairs to the second floor.

“Check the post while you’re waiting for her,” Gertrude said, nodding toward a neat stack of letters resting on the mantel. Her voice took on something of an artless quality; she slapped herself lightly on the forehead. “My goodness, you know what’s up there? The family Handel and Haydn Society tickets for tonight’s oratorio.”

Distractedly, Samuel shuffled through the letters, still glancing at the staircase. “Yes, well, Father won’t be back until very late.”

“And your mother is off to some dinner event. Daisy, of course, never goes. Pity. They count on our support.”

He cast a swift glance at her. “What are you saying?”

“Samuel?”

He looked upward. Alice was descending the staircase, a careful, tentative expression in place.

“Are my friends all right?” she asked.

“They are, and they look forward to your return.”

The two of them paused, eyes fixed on each other. He told her the details of the mill accident, hoping all the while she understood the unspoken apology beneath his words.

Gertrude broke in. “Daisy,” she said to her granddaughter, now standing on the stairs behind Alice. “Will you use the oratorio tickets tonight? The Fiskes need to be represented for this one, your mother insists. It’s the final fund-raiser for finishing the Bunker Hill Monument.”

Daisy made a face. “I think the monument design is ugly,” she said. “What’s on the program?”

“Messiah.”

“Oh, that tedious thing. I’ve heard it, haven’t we all?” Daisy flounced past Alice and collapsed into a chair. “No, I don’t want to go.”

Gertrude clucked, shaking her head, somehow not looking distressed at all.

“Pity,” she said again.

Samuel stared at his grandmother, noting her hint of a smile. He saw the challenge in her eyes. This was what he loved about her.

He turned back to Alice, a determined spark in his own. “Miss Barrow, will you allow me to escort you to the concert tonight?” he asked.

An instant of total silence.

“Samuel, really!” a shocked Daisy sputtered, sitting upright.

“Why, I think that’s a marvelous idea,” Gertrude said, her face pink and smiling.

Daisy turned furiously on her grandmother. “You know what Father and Mother would say. I can’t believe—” She stopped, casting an uneasy glance at Alice.

But Alice had not heard her, only Samuel. He was actually inviting her to join him for an evening at some fine musical event. There were no rules for how to respond, because this did not happen. She looked into his determined, upturned face and felt instinctively that he would treat her with respect. And she could respond in kind. She reached toward his outstretched hand and let his fingers close around hers.

“I would enjoy that,” she said. Four words, perhaps the most daring of her life.

T
he shadows of night were gathering as Samuel and she—once again in a quickly borrowed dress, this one from a resentful Daisy—drew up in his carriage to Boylston Hall. Alice nervously smoothed the somewhat-wrinkled silk skirt of pale lavender and tugged as discreetly as possible at the low bodice of Daisy’s gown, remembering Gertrude’s whispered words as they had left the Fiske home. “Just stand straight and be proud,” she had said. Alice willed herself to stop fussing, lowering her hand, allowing her bosom its fashionable freedom.

The redbrick building, on the edge of Boston’s town center, loomed imposingly above the cobblestones. She peered up at its graceful belfry, which was topped by a spire of polished copper that surely would glint as much in moonlight as in sun. Samuel had told her the first floor of the building was for Boylston Market, which she realized on swift observation of its elegant corridors was hardly like any market she had known.

What, she asked timidly, was the Handel and Haydn Society? A group of Bostonians intent on promoting a love of good music, Samuel replied.

“Some are a bit stuffy,” he said, “but anyone who enjoys music has benefited from their productions.” He glanced out at the concertgoers making their way up the stairs, realizing how alien a scene it must be to Alice. “Don’t be intimidated,” he added gently. “Tonight will be a treat—
Messiah
with full orchestra.”

She smiled nervously. Was there a way—how could she ask him, what was this music called
Messiah
?

Too late. The carriage had stopped; the doors were opening.

Samuel stepped out first, raising a hand to Alice. Her cape fluttered open as she stepped out, caught by a small gust of wind. She gasped as the wind licked at her exposed throat, resisting an instinct to cover herself up, even when she saw Samuel’s eyes rest on her bosom. His gaze flickered; he looked away.

Cradling her arm in his, he guided her to the stairs. As they mounted the steps, a clear, almost-piercing female voice sang out:

“Why, Samuel Fiske, how delightful to see you here! It’s been far too long, hasn’t it?”

Alice turned her head and saw a young woman with arched eyebrows and very rosy lips reach out a slender hand to Samuel. She saw the glitter of emeralds at the woman’s throat. Her wrap was of some floaty, white fur. It was obvious to Alice, suddenly, that Daisy had made sure she was not properly dressed for the occasion.

“And who is this?” the woman caroled again, her eyes traversing Alice in one swift zigzag cutting glance.

Alice began to step back, but Samuel drew her forward. “Lydia, may I introduce Miss Alice Barrow?” he said in his most formal voice. “Alice, Lydia Corland and I are old childhood chums.”

“A little more than that?” the woman teased. “Samuel, you are such an upright sort.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “And where are you from, Miss Barrow?”

“I am from Lowell,” Alice said. She mustn’t panic. But she saw the sudden curiosity in Lydia Corland’s gaze, the darting glance at Samuel; the faint smile that tugged at the woman’s lips.

More people were approaching, greeting Samuel with lavish attention while casting curious glances at her. The men were clean and crisp in dress coats and white ties, the women in gowns that rippled and flowed beneath furs and velvet wraps. One wore a tiara in her abundant hair that looked, to Alice, truly fit for a queen.

“Have you heard
Messiah
with full orchestra?” the woman named Lydia asked her as they reached the third-floor music hall.

“No, I haven’t,” she managed.

“My dear, you are so wise to dress sensibly for these events,” Lydia continued, taking on a confidential tone as she stared at Alice’s simple silk dress. “I really wonder why we get so fancied up to be with our own kind.”

She said something else, but Alice wasn’t listening; she was absorbing the dimensions of the splendid hall. Such a sweep of space! Rows of chairs, all covered in thick green velvet, rising upward, offering unimpeded views of a deep, massive stage.

Samuel guided her to seats in the front row, nodding and murmuring to friends, introducing her when people seemed to expect it, hoping she was comfortable under this scrutiny, hoping this hadn’t been a brash impulse to bring her. He glanced at her face, which was quite pale. But how beautiful she looked—her lovely eyes, her calm demeanor—there was no one, no one, he would rather have by his side tonight.

Their seats, Alice found with uneasy heart, were next to Lydia Corland and her parents.

A ripple of clapping surged through the hall. A choir of more than a hundred men in black robes was filing onto the stage, arranging themselves in bleachers. Then came the musicians, each carrying an instrument. How grave they looked as they studied the papers on racks arranged before them.

“Can I point out the instruments?” Samuel asked gently.

“Please. I’ve never been to a concert,” she confessed as quietly as she could.

Samuel had to resist the impulse to hold her tight as he pointed out the flutes, the first violins, the clarinets. Sitting now so close to her, he could feel her breathing. Something was passing between them; he was sure of it. It was all he could do to keep his mind on the orchestra.

The oratorio began. Alice was almost immediately swept into the glory of Handel’s masterwork—such sound, sound she had never heard before. It swelled and filled the room as it filled her heart. The singing, the music—then the voice of a single, pure soprano singing an aria that brought her to tears. As the aria ended, Alice clapped as vigorously as she could, only to realize suddenly no one else was joining in.

Lydia Corland leaned past Samuel, her voice carrying just enough to reach the ears of the nearest audience members. “My dear,” she said to Alice, “in Boston, we wait to clap until the conductor raises his hands at the end of the performance. They do it differently in Lowell, I presume?”

Samuel took Alice’s hand, holding it tight. “It’s a stodgy rule and it’s changing,” he said evenly.

“Of course,” Lydia said soothingly, leaning back into her seat.

Alice held herself as stiffly as she could for the rest of the performance, forcing herself to think only of the music. She would not let this be spoiled, she would not. Gently, she pulled her hand from Samuel’s embrace. She did not belong with these people, and Samuel’s protectiveness was a thin shield against those who identified interlopers in their midst. She closed her eyes, claiming the music for herself.