are not the ones who decide such things.”
“Who is?”
Mrs. Porter said, “Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Gatzert.”
The two women who had, in unison, declined my invitation to supper.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, I see.”
Mrs. Brown took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Well, then, when is Mrs. Wilcox’s calling day?”
Mrs. Porter’s glance was faintly pitying. “Before you go calling, Mrs. Langley, I wonder if you should ask yourself just how strong is your desire to ladle out soup to the downtrodden.”
“You don’t think me capable of such feeling?”
“Mrs. Wilcox is unlikely to receive you,” Mrs. Brown said bluntly. “She has stated publicly that she won’t.”
“Mrs. Gatzert then. Mrs. Denny.”
There was silence.
A little desperately, I said, “They cannot mean to snub me forever.”
“I think you’ll find they have impressive staying power,” Mrs. Porter said quietly.
“I mean to make Seattle my home. What must I do to convince you I am not what the rumors make me?”
Mrs. Brown said, “Are the rumors true?”
“I suppose … some of them.”
“You see the difficulty?” Mrs. Porter asked.
And I did. Very well. They wished me drowning in shame, humbled and contrite, and they could not know that the evidence of those things was the very fact that I was here now, that I had held this dinner, that I volunteered for charity work, that I was so desperate for friendship I was willing to offer myself for Mrs. Wilcox’s consumption. Public self-flagellation would have suited them, I realized. But my pride was all I had left. I would not give them that.
The problem was that it was the only thing they wanted.
“Yes, I understand,” I told Mrs. Porter softly. “But I have to try, don’t I?”
But trying was easier said than done. As the weeks passed, I began to feel as if I were disappearing. My favorite days became the ones where the city was socked in with fog, because on those days there was no world beyond the one in my parlor, and it was strangely comforting to think there was nothing to miss. I read a great deal. Poe and Hawthorne, Whitman and Coleridge and Browning. The world inside my head took on vibrant life and melodrama. But as far as the world outside … I felt myself wrapped in cotton, a dull automaton.
My father’s letters continued, now touched with concern, as I could no longer keep to my promises to be cheerful, and I’m afraid my loneliness crept into every missive.
I am grown worried about you, Geneva. Nathan tells me you are quite despondent. Surely there is some social life there to please you? Are there no plays or operas to go to?
Yes, there were, but I dared not go alone here as I had in Chicago, not after the promises I’d made my husband and my father, and Nathan claimed to be too busy. But then, one morning in February, as I sat at the table, playing with a piece of toast and sipping coffee and wondering what I should do with the day, Nathan laid something at my elbow. I glanced over without interest until I saw they were tickets. Tickets to the Regal Theater to see
Black Jack, or, the Bandit King of the Border
.
I glanced up at my husband, who seated himself and poured coffee into one of the fine china cups I’d had shipped from Chicago. “Do you mean for us to go?”
“Why else would I have tickets?” he asked irritably. “Robert Wesley gave them to me last night. You’ve seemed so despondent, I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Oh, I should love to!”
He shrugged. “It’s only a mellie, but I didn’t think that would matter. God knows we’ve seen enough of them.”
“You mean to escort me?”
“Yes, of course. Why, did you have someone else in mind?” He glanced around. “You haven’t some artist hiding in the woodwork, do you?”
A lump rose in my throat, a quick and bitter longing. “Don’t be absurd.”
He took a final sip of his coffee and rose. “We will be attending Judge Burke’s supper after. I shall send the carriage
“Who is?”
Mrs. Porter said, “Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Gatzert.”
The two women who had, in unison, declined my invitation to supper.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, I see.”
Mrs. Brown took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Well, then, when is Mrs. Wilcox’s calling day?”
Mrs. Porter’s glance was faintly pitying. “Before you go calling, Mrs. Langley, I wonder if you should ask yourself just how strong is your desire to ladle out soup to the downtrodden.”
“You don’t think me capable of such feeling?”
“Mrs. Wilcox is unlikely to receive you,” Mrs. Brown said bluntly. “She has stated publicly that she won’t.”
“Mrs. Gatzert then. Mrs. Denny.”
There was silence.
A little desperately, I said, “They cannot mean to snub me forever.”
“I think you’ll find they have impressive staying power,” Mrs. Porter said quietly.
“I mean to make Seattle my home. What must I do to convince you I am not what the rumors make me?”
Mrs. Brown said, “Are the rumors true?”
“I suppose … some of them.”
“You see the difficulty?” Mrs. Porter asked.
And I did. Very well. They wished me drowning in shame, humbled and contrite, and they could not know that the evidence of those things was the very fact that I was here now, that I had held this dinner, that I volunteered for charity work, that I was so desperate for friendship I was willing to offer myself for Mrs. Wilcox’s consumption. Public self-flagellation would have suited them, I realized. But my pride was all I had left. I would not give them that.
The problem was that it was the only thing they wanted.
“Yes, I understand,” I told Mrs. Porter softly. “But I have to try, don’t I?”
But trying was easier said than done. As the weeks passed, I began to feel as if I were disappearing. My favorite days became the ones where the city was socked in with fog, because on those days there was no world beyond the one in my parlor, and it was strangely comforting to think there was nothing to miss. I read a great deal. Poe and Hawthorne, Whitman and Coleridge and Browning. The world inside my head took on vibrant life and melodrama. But as far as the world outside … I felt myself wrapped in cotton, a dull automaton.
My father’s letters continued, now touched with concern, as I could no longer keep to my promises to be cheerful, and I’m afraid my loneliness crept into every missive.
I am grown worried about you, Geneva. Nathan tells me you are quite despondent. Surely there is some social life there to please you? Are there no plays or operas to go to?
Yes, there were, but I dared not go alone here as I had in Chicago, not after the promises I’d made my husband and my father, and Nathan claimed to be too busy. But then, one morning in February, as I sat at the table, playing with a piece of toast and sipping coffee and wondering what I should do with the day, Nathan laid something at my elbow. I glanced over without interest until I saw they were tickets. Tickets to the Regal Theater to see
Black Jack, or, the Bandit King of the Border
.
I glanced up at my husband, who seated himself and poured coffee into one of the fine china cups I’d had shipped from Chicago. “Do you mean for us to go?”
“Why else would I have tickets?” he asked irritably. “Robert Wesley gave them to me last night. You’ve seemed so despondent, I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Oh, I should love to!”
He shrugged. “It’s only a mellie, but I didn’t think that would matter. God knows we’ve seen enough of them.”
“You mean to escort me?”
“Yes, of course. Why, did you have someone else in mind?” He glanced around. “You haven’t some artist hiding in the woodwork, do you?”
A lump rose in my throat, a quick and bitter longing. “Don’t be absurd.”
He took a final sip of his coffee and rose. “We will be attending Judge Burke’s supper after. I shall send the carriage
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