The End of Innocence (3 page)

“Your mother made you come tonight?” she asked.

“I asked if I could work on the new car instead, but she'd have none of it. She said I was to get married and that this dance might be my last chance.”

“She shouldn't despair just yet, Robert.”

“She's probably justified in my case. I brought a book to horrify her,” he said with a slight smile. “I intend to start reading after I ask if you are indeed leaving for Radcliffe tomorrow.”

“If only it could have been tonight.”

He swallowed to keep from smiling again, and, as he did, his white bow tie bobbed at his throat.

Helen hid her own smile.
He looks so awkward dressed in his white tie and black tails
, she thought. He belonged on a train off to Colorado, to ride horses in the valleys or to hike among shimmering aspens. He'd always talked of big skies and wide spaces when they were children; dances to him were forced labor. But he had always been dutiful, and this she respected.

He leaned toward her and, while looking out to the crowd, whispered, “Caroline is always at her worst when she thinks she's at her best,” he remarked slyly.

“Her best? I'm not certain that state exists.”

“Come now. Christian charity—”

“Begins at home? With our mothers?” she asked with a wicked smile.

He gave a cough. “They may have too much charity,” he said in a tone that suddenly turned as exasperated as she'd heard it in some time. “Mine has just taken in a young girl from Vermont to live with us while she studies. Meanwhile your mother has vowed to save the world, one pauper at a time. It's a sickness of some sort. Some days I pray that God will save us from Boston women as they rule the world—”

“That would give them too much credit,” she interrupted coldly. He nodded sympathetically and they fell into silence again.

“Jonathan!” a man's deep voice called from across the hall to Helen's father. Helen and Robert looked up to see Colonel R. E. Harris walking over to them, seemingly embarrassed by the number of his well-wishers and hangers-on. A military doctor, Harris was built like a bulldog and topped with curly dark hair surrounding a rapidly balding pate. He'd always been kind to Helen since she was a young girl, and she was delighted to see a real military man, someone who could not have been around to witness the news of her mother's fall from grace.

“Harris! Good to see you!” exclaimed Mr. Brooks, clapping him on his shoulder as Robert Brown excused himself at the insistence of the great-aunt, who motioned to him from across the room, her teacup apparently empty.

Dr. Harris bowed slightly to Brooks and Helen. “Jonathan, your latest book is just the thing. I finished the chapter on the Battle of Pharsalus while on the train from Washington. I loved it! Losing Pompey was quite the tragedy for Rome,” he said, shaking his head. “Helen, how much of that book did you write?”

Helen blushed at the praise. “I was only the proofreader.”

Her father shook his head. “She's my right hand and I'm sorry to lose her to college.”

“Or worse—to one of these ruffians at this dance tonight!” Dr. Harris gave a hearty laugh.

Helen blushed deeply again.

“Let's discuss something else. Harris, is there a new dreadnought in the Charlestown Navy Yard?”

“Yes! She's a great new ship! What guns, my friend,” he said, his eyes lighting. “The secretary of war is considering naming it
Pennsylvania
.”

“Damn!” said her father. “I had money on the
Massachusetts
. Why the
Pennsylvania
if we're doing all the work?”

“You know how political these things can become.” Harris looked around and leaned closer. “You wouldn't believe its guns' range.”

“Pennsylvania could use some innovation,” said Brooks with a sour look. “I'm glad the country has bought them a boat. Any other news?”

“Well, I read that the opera company is stranded over in Europe and won't be back for the start of the season. Everyone seems to be stranded somewhere, with the shipping lanes a mess as they are. And yes, I almost forgot! Sir Artemis Horn will be speaking at the Geographic Society in Harvard Hall next Tuesday. And Wigglesworth didn't invite us! Claimed limited seating.”

“What?!” asked Mr. Brooks.

“Positive. We're sans billet.”

“This requires liquid,” said Brooks decisively. “Helen, Harris and I need to repair to the bar to discuss this matter. Why don't you go congratulate Miss Peabody? You know, Harris, she's marrying Frank Adams.”

“You don't say. Now that
is
news!”

“Yes, I do. Come, Harris, let's commence and not hold Helen up further.”

Helen felt chuffed as she walked over to a small gilt chair by the wall—abandoned and exposed. She certainly would not congratulate the young woman who had stolen Frank from her side. Caroline had never wished her well and had envied every prize Helen won at the women's academy they attended together. Caroline once assured Helen that though Helen was smart with books, she preferred to be smart with hearts, the better trophy.

To be fair, Frank was willing to be stolen. She'd known Frank all her life but remembered the moment he had changed from a boy into a young man with whom she could see herself spending the rest of her life. Two years ago, he asked to dance with her at a fall dance and she lost her heart to him.

He was always the perfect gentleman. He never said anything untoward or opinionated. He was perfectly reserved, just like her own father. And that perfectly suited Helen, who wanted anything but her mother's zealous nature.

Maybe too reserved, she realized now. Had he even admitted he loved her? He was kind. He was attentive to her at every gathering. She thought he had in so many looks or dances or smiles. Her parents were certain many times that he would propose, as was she, but he never did.

Had she imagined it all with Frank? She remembered her excitement as Frank had come to the house that past March, she thought, to declare himself. But it was just as her mother left for New York. The family was all outside. Frank looked nervous. He never explained why he had come that day to pay a visit to Helen's family. He made pleasant conversation, tipped his hat, and left. Then she'd begun to notice his distance at church in April, about the time rumors of Mrs. Brooks's New York work had begun to circulate.

And there had been signs at the last dance too. She thought Frank would dance with her but was called away by her father for a moment as the music began. When she returned she found Caroline in Frank's arms on the dance floor. She remembered the toss of Caroline's curls and a beautiful laugh.

It was a fact too terrible to admit. Helen had seen evidence of their growing interest over the summer but had chosen to ignore it. Lose Frank to the vindictive and beautiful Caroline?

Now the truth was right before her. Both her mother and Frank slipped away from her, and her life would now move along a different path.

As the evening wore on, the room grew hotter and so did Helen's temper as friends and acquaintances continually snubbed her and her family. Didn't her mother realize how the arrest affected her daughter? Did she care that her daughter's heart was broken?

Helen stiffened in her seat as Frank and Caroline greeted her. Frank's blond hair was immaculately groomed, his starched smile as crisp as his collar. Caroline was four feet eight inches of sunshine, her waist cinched into a tiny dress that fell to the floor in half a dozen satin layers. She resembled a doll of fine porcelain, with the same vacant stare.

“I understand that congratulations are in order,” said Helen, trying to keep up appearances.

Frank thanked her, nodding uncomfortably and looking away, mumbling that they would send out engagement notices shortly.

Caroline giggled. “I know that the post office is quite busy with your mother's business—sending all of those packages. I hope you don't miss our invitation,” she said with a cherubic smile.

At that moment, all Helen could think to say was “I think you are a horse,” but that lacked any sort of elegance.

Frank turned a bright pink. “Caroline—”

“I was only teasing,” said Caroline. “Helen knows that. How is your mother?”

“My mother's at the contributions table,” said Helen, recovering. “Do you wish to contribute?”

“I was just telling Frank, we hope she's recovered from her excitement.”

“She's fine, thank you. Frank, I'm sorry to hear that your uncle died.”

Frank bowed his head and thanked her for the condolences. After a few moments of silence, he spoke again. “Miss Brooks, I regret that we must leave, but Admiral Wilson said that he wished to meet Caroline. We'll speak later?” he asked, nodding again to Helen as he whisked his fiancée away.

Helen felt the tight boning of her dress cut into her side as she swallowed her anger, knowing he wouldn't return. She looked at the clock to find she still had two hours of torture left to stand in their shadow. It was so humiliating.

Oh, Frank
, she thought,
why
not
me?

As she sat back in the tiny chair and arranged her white skirts, she felt the full weight of the room clucking, tut-tutting, and being overall put out about her mother's outspokenness exhibited in such a public manner. It was one thing to read Thoreau's
Civil
Disobedience
. He was a former neighbor and it would have been inhospitable to ignore the work. But it was entirely another thing to actually abandon your family for a summer to put your immodest plans into practice. And if her mother just had to rebel, why couldn't she do so by becoming a rogue census taker and not a sex merchant?

“Say, are you Peter's sister?”

The voice startled her. The accent was British. She looked up to see a handsome young man with dark hair and intelligent, bright green eyes who introduced himself as Rhyland Cabot Spencer, from her brother's crew team at Harvard. He lifted her silk-tasseled dance card.

“May I claim this dance?” he said, writing his name in very large letters across the top half of the card.

“You've just claimed three, Mr. Spencer.”

“Why, so I have, but please call me Riley. It sounds Irish, and my very British father hates it,” he said with a conspiratorial smile as he took her gloved hand and lifted it close to his lips. “Dancing with you keeps me out of the clutches of your brother, my crew captain, and, if I might say so, a homely fellow to have such a lovely sister. He'd have me rowing tonight if I weren't otherwise occupied. So since the fairest lady here is seated right before me, I thought I'd make a bold move and ask her to dance.”

She gave a light laugh, almost involuntarily. What a charming young man—tall, fair-skinned, with high and delicate cheekbones. When he grinned his entire face lit up.

Suddenly a flash of recognition came upon her and she paused. “Just a moment. Aren't you the one who called my brother a ‘dim-witted fright of a bink' in front of hundreds at the Princeton race?”

“Miss Brooks, such language!” He laughed as she stood. “Peter threw me in the Charles River for that one. It was absolute hell getting that smell out of my hair. I paid dearly for such disrespect, and it hasn't happened again. Rather, I'd prefer to be known as the one who offered his assistance helping you move into Radcliffe tomorrow.”

“How did you know I'm moving tomorrow?”

“You didn't think Peter was going to move those boxes, did you? He acts like royalty now that he's the crew team captain.”

“He wore that crown long before he got to Harvard,” she said with a smile as she set her purse on the table, abandoning it for the dance.

Those
poor
British
boys
fighting
in
Belgium
, she thought as he placed his arm firmly around her waist.

This was the very least she could do for the war effort.

* * *

Wils squinted at his cousin Riley from across the dance floor. He'd lent Riley one of his formal suits for the evening, as his cousin's other white jacket had been smeared with a woman's rouge. Riley looked absolutely terrible in the borrowed clothes, but it hadn't impeded his typical progress—he was already asking a pretty young woman to dance. Women never learned.

Wils shook his head and walked over to a small table in the corner of the dance hall. The orchestra launched into a reel and all that silk and lace began spinning around the room.

He adjusted his spectacles as a service boy came by with a tray holding several flutes of champagne. He took one and sipped it. Quite refreshing. It was probably the only thing to work off last night's champagne headache.
Gesundheit
, he thought glumly and drained it.

Wils sat back in the little gilt chair as the delicate bubbly dulled his misery. He, in contrast to his cousin, had no one to dance with despite being dressed impeccably in his own white jacket and white tie that he had brought from Berlin. His dark pants were perfectly tailored and his short blond hair neatly cropped. Even more unlike his cousin Riley, he wished he were far away from the dance and from all people.

With his long fingers he drew a
W
in the condensation on the empty flute. Why his Aunt Frieda married an Englishman he had never understood. And why he looked after Riley, he often forgot. Habit, he guessed.

He gazed out into the whirl of dancers, twirling against a backdrop of velvet curtains and gold tassels. They looked so pleasant, these Bostonians. That is, until they fingered you for a German spy. Then the whole lot would up and have you in jail. He secured another flute and tossed it back.

It occurred to him that he should be, in fact, with Riley at Beck Hall, waiting for news from the field. But then he frowned and thought better of that idea. If he were at home, his mother would hound him with more letters. He'd telegrammed her about having to wait to leave until after the police interview. She was furious and had no patience with logic (the shipping lanes were closed) or probability (Wils felt safe as long as Arnold Archer was being watched). Wils had left for the dance without even reading his mother's last two notes.