A Proper Pursuit (9 page)

“That was for practice, Violet,” Aunt Agnes said as we settled into the carriage once again. “You did very well, by the way. But this next call is much more important.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Our next hostess, Mrs. Kent, has better social connections, for one thing. But more important, she has a very eligible grandson, as do some of the other ladies who will be calling on her. Mind you, there also may be young ladies your age present, so stay focused and make sure you don’t underestimate the competition.”

“You mean we’ll be competing for the same suitors?”

“Why, of course.”

I couldn’t help smiling at the challenge. I realize that it was extremely unfeminine of me, but I enjoyed competition of any kind. I once tried to organize a betting pool at school where each girl would contribute two bits and the “pot” would be awarded to whoever scored the most points on an upcoming exam. But only one other girl besides Ruth and me had been willing to risk expulsion by taking part in a gambling ring—and none of us would risk it for only seventy-five cents. It was probably my competitive streak that contributed to my lack of interest in Herman Beckett; no other girl in Lockport seemed to want him.

Aunt Agnes and I called at a stately mansion on Prairie Avenue next, and this time the conversation took a much more interesting turn, even if it did revolve around my appearance for a while.

“Your niece is lovely, Agnes,” our hostess, Mrs. Kent, announced. “Where have you been hiding her all this time?”

“Violet has been studying at one of the finest boarding schools in Illinois. She speaks French as if she’d grown up in Paris. And wait until you hear her skills on the piano. She’ll take your breath away!”

Since my aunt had never heard me play the piano, her boast struck me as an astonishing leap of faith. I decided it would be prudent to begin practicing on my grandmother’s piano in my spare time.

I was the center of attention as the ladies gathered around, sizing me up as if I were merchandise on display at Mr. Marshall Field’s famous store. Their comments were all complimentary until Mrs. Grant joined the discussion.

“Don’t you think her complexion is a little dark? Violet has a bit of a gypsy look to her.”

Mrs. Grant had come calling with two daughters of her own, Hattie and Nettie, who were close to my age. Her unkind remarks had the same effect on me as a shot from a starting pistol at the beginning of a race. I remained composed as I sized up my competition. Neither of the Grant sisters was as pretty as I was, even with my dusky skin. And their assets could have used a little plumping from Ruth’s Egyptian elixir. But we were in a race to the altar, and I wasn’t about to offer any advice to my rivals.

“Violet is well aware that she needs to stay out of the sun,” Aunt Agnes said. “Aren’t you, dear?”

“A parasol is an essential summer accessory for every woman,” I replied.

“I find that her unusual coloring adds to her mystique,” my aunt said.

“What about suitors?” my hostess asked. “Do you have any gentlemen callers, Violet?”

I didn’t dare tell them about stodgy Herman Beckett, the shipping clerk from Lockport. Then, to my horror, I recalled giving the traveling salesman, Silas McClure, permission to call on me at Grandmother’s house. What on earth would I do if he showed up at my door with his garish plaid suit, flashy grin, and oiled hair? I couldn’t invite him in! His head would leave grease stains on our upholstery! Why, oh why, had I given him Grandmother’s address?

“I’ve arrived in the city only recently,” I replied, dodging the question. “I’ve been away at Madame Beauchamps’ School for Young Ladies in Rockford.”

“That’s a fine institution.”

“Yes, wonderful reputation.”

“Agnes, dear, why don’t you bring Violet to the fund-raiser for the Art Institute? I would like my grandson, George, to meet her.”

My heart sped up.

“And I would love for her to attend my
soirée
. My grandnephew Edward will be in attendance.”

One of the Grant sisters gave me a malevolent glare at the mention of Edward. But soon the women lost interest in me, and the conversation shifted—or dare I say degenerated—into gossip. No one’s private life seemed off limits as they talked about who was courting whom, how the courtship was progressing, which gentlemen had proposed, which ones were never likely to, and so on. I stayed alert, cataloging the information, aware that my future success might depend on it.

Later, as Aunt Agnes and I were taking our leave along with the other women, our hostess caught my arm and whispered, “Stay for a moment, Violet. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She beckoned to a serving girl, who hurried over. “Katya, please ask Nelson to come downstairs for a moment.”

The serving girl hesitated as if she hadn’t understood the command. But her questioning eyes met mine, not Mrs. Kent’s. I had the distinct feeling that she was sizing me up the same way that I had sized up the Grant sisters. Katya was young—no more than seventeen or eighteen—and very pretty, with slanted blue eyes and wheatcolored hair and sharp, Slavic cheekbones. She dropped her gaze and curtsied.

“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.” I could have sworn I saw tears in her eyes.

Of course! She was in love with her employer’s grandson, this Nelson whom she had been sent to fetch. Maybe he was in love with her too, but their love had to be kept secret because she was an immigrant serving girl and totally unsuitable for a man of his social standing.

They met on back stairways and in the darkened garden after midnight,
exchanging tearful embraces and passionate kisses. Katya had
begged Nelson to run away with her, but he was torn between his love
for her and his love of money. Then, one stormy night—

“Katya emigrated from Poland,” Mrs. Kent explained while we waited. “She didn’t speak a word of English when we first hired her, but she is improving every day.”

A few minutes later, Nelson arrived—without Katya. I imagined her weeping in the linen closet, using the spare blankets and bed sheets to muffle her jealous tears.

Nelson Kent ambled out to the foyer dressed for the tennis courts, and I had to bite my bottom lip to keep my mouth from dropping open. He was the living embodiment of every romance story’s hero: tall, slender, fair-haired, and handsome. And if this home was any indication, he was also extraordinarily rich.

“Nelson, dear, I’d like you to meet Miss Violet Hayes. She is my dear friend Agnes Paine’s great-niece and has just arrived in Chicago. She needs to meet some other young people her age. Violet, this is my grandson, Nelson Kent.”

“How do you do?” I breathed. I was grateful that I’d practiced my mysterious smile so I wouldn’t appear too eager. It wouldn’t do for me to greet him with a grin like the Cheshire cat from
Alice in
Wonderland
. Too bad Madame B. had never taught us how to speak when we’ve just had the wind knocked out of us by a handsome, wealthy man.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Nelson replied. He seemed cordial but cool. Unlike Aunt Birdie’s husband, it wasn’t love at first sight for young Mr. Kent.

“Be a dear, Nelson, and take Violet for a stroll around the garden, would you? There’s something I need to discuss with Agnes.”

“I would be delighted.” He offered me his arm and escorted me down the hallway toward the rear of the house.

If I had to describe my first suitor, Herman Beckett, in one word, it would be
stodgy
. Silas McClure’s word would be
slippery
. But the only word that could possibly sum up Nelson Kent was
smooth
. He seemed so at ease with proper etiquette, so casual with the trappings of wealth and his elevated social standing, that it was as if he had never been required to learn such things but had emerged from the womb with them.

I imagined him socially at ease the very first time guests arrived to view him, mere days after his birth. I could picture him smiling casually and confidently from his cradle and passing out his own cigars:
“Mr. Mayor, how are you? Mr. McCormick, so nice of you to visit.
Would you care for a drink? I’ll have one of the servants fix you one.”

“How long have you been in Chicago, Miss Hayes?” he asked as we walked through a set of French doors onto a veranda.

“Only a few days—and you?”

“I’ve lived here all my life, except for the years I was away at university. How do you like the city so far?”

“It seems like a very nice place.”

My heart skipped a beat when I realized I had just halted the conversation. It was hard to concentrate when strolling on the arm of a man like Nelson Kent.

“What lovely gardens,” I said, since that had been the pretense for the stroll.

“You are by far the loveliest flower in them, Violet.” Something about his words sounded phony. I quickly glanced at his face to gauge his sincerity. His pleasant smile hadn’t changed, but his eyes seemed very sad.

“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Kent.”

“Please. It’s Nelson.”

As we made our tour around the garden, I waited for the influenza-like symptoms of true love to strike me: the dizziness, the heart palpitations, the fluttering stomach and fevered brow. If Nelson Kent was destined to become my true love, I should feel something immediately, shouldn’t I? Instead, I felt disappointingly healthy.

“Have you been to the Columbian Exposition?” I asked him.

“Yes, several times. Have you?”

“Not yet, but I would like very much to go.”

“Perhaps you would allow me to escort you there one day.” This was my third offer. I wondered how Chicago’s young lovers ever undertook a decent courtship before the fair was built. I gazed up at Nelson again and gave him my well-rehearsed, enigmatic smile.

“Perhaps I will.”

I had been taught to act mysterious with suitors, to be shy yet flirtatious, to play hard to get.
“Men enjoy the pursuit,”
I’d been coached.
“Chase him until he catches you.”
But I had the distinct feeling that Nelson Kent was playing the same game with me, acting charming enough to gain my interest while remaining coolly aloof. And he was a much better player than I was.

“Might I be seeing you at the fund-raiser for the Art Institute?” he asked.

“Yes, you might.”

“Then I hope you will save one dance for me.”

My only reply was another enigmatic smile. I longed to ask him one of my favorite questions just to get a sense of who he truly was:

“If you had to choose between being struck blind and never being able to
see the face of your beloved again, or becoming permanently deaf, and
being denied the sound of music and of a child’s laughter, which would
you choose?”
But I didn’t dare ask Nelson Kent such a question.

Madame B. had warned against the indiscriminate use of our imaginations. “If you could visit only one pavilion at the fair,” I asked instead, “which one would you choose?”

“The Electricity Building,” he answered immediately. “It’s a showcase of modern progress and innovation. I predict that electric lighting will make gaslights obsolete one day. Just wait until you see the White City all lit up at night. It’s astounding. I’m trying to convince my father to invest in some of the modern inventions that are being introduced at the fair.”

“Did you ride Mr. Ferris’ wheel?” I asked, recalling Silas McClure’s description of it.

“Not yet. I went to Paris for the previous World’s Fair and saw Mr. Eiffel’s Tower. There has been quite a controversy over which is the more impressive achievement.”

“What is your opinion?”

He gave me his gentle, charming smile. “I’ll let you know after I ride on the wheel.”

We made a circuit of the garden—it wasn’t very large—and arrived back at the French doors.

“Thank you so much for the garden tour,” I said as we joined the others in the foyer.

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Hayes. I hope to see you again soon.” He gave a slight bow and strolled away, his hands slipping casually into his pockets.

“You carried yourself very well this afternoon,” Aunt Agnes told me on the way home. “All the ladies seemed quite taken with you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Agnes. I confess that I was a bit nervous. Did it show?”

“Not at all. In fact, did you notice how they all competed for you? You can expect several invitations to arrive in the coming weeks. The women are always excited when someone introduces new blood.”

“New
blood
?” I shivered involuntarily, wishing I had never read Ruth’s cannibal story.

“Yes. After a while, everyone ends up related to everyone else and it becomes a bit … unseemly, if you know what I mean. One could lose track of who is a first cousin and who is a second—and that would never do. But if we can manage to marry you well, then our families—the Howells and the Hayeses and the Paines—will all move up a notch or two in the social ladder.”

I suddenly felt like the prize money in a betting pool—winner takes all. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“Young Nelson Kent seemed quite enamored with you.”

“Did he? He was very pleasant and well-mannered.”

“Be careful not to let him monopolize your time too quickly. I hope he didn’t rush to fill your calendar already.”

“He mentioned escorting me to the fair. And he asked me to save a dance for him at the fund-raiser.”

“Oh, dear. He does move quickly. Mind you, he is an excellent catch as far as husbands are concerned, but take your time making your selection. One never knows when an even bigger fish might come along.”

“Do society men and women ever marry for love?”

“Love!” She laughed. “My dear, you’ve been spending too much time with my sister Birdie. Do I dare ask how you answered Mr. Kent’s invitations?”

“I gave him a very vague reply.”

“Good. Good. Never appear too eager. Keep him in suspense awhile longer.”

“But I would like to see him again,” I said, thinking that perhaps a fire wasn’t always kindled with one match. “Do you think he’ll ask?”

“Don’t worry—you’ll see him quite soon. His grandmother told me that she plans to hold a party at her home and invite you and Nelson and all the young men and ladies your age, including some of your second cousins. I’ve always thought it such a pity that you don’t know your extended family very well.”