The Pages of Time

Gilded Summers-15

I tiptoed in, not wanting to disturb her, and began to unbutton my dress, each press of my punctured fingers bringing another stab of pain.

“She don" want ya here.”

I jumped with a small gasp and spun round.

Greta"s startling blue eyes pierced me; hatred glowed brightly in the gloom. She"d turned under the covers to face me without a sound.

“None of us do, ya know, no really.” Her accent was as thick as her meanness. “But I"ll tell ya this, do what she says, or we"ll all pay fer it. Then you"ll really see what it can be like here, fer the likes of you.” She turned her back to me once more.

With such a tender “good-night,” I silently shrugged off my dress, and in my chemise, slipped beneath the covers of my bed, shivering in the hot night.

But often through the singing broke

But often through the singing brokeA burst of laughter gay,

A burst of laughter gay,So young were we, so glad and free,

So young were we, so glad and free,That happy Summer day!

That happy Summer day!And hand in hand would linger long,

And hand in hand would linger long,As through the dance we moved,

As through the dance we moved,For some of us were lovers then,

For some of us were lovers then,And some of us were loved.

And some of us were loved.I lay back on my bed with a sigh. Such beautiful words and written by a woman. I had obtained a copy of Verses, a book of poetry by a Newport resident, a young woman by the name of Edith Wharton. She was only sixteen when she wrote them, the same age as I was now. Her proud father had had them privately published fifteen years ago, but I had found a copy in the Astor library a few years ago, while there for the birthday party for Pauline, The Mrs. Astor"s daughter who was near my age.

VersesTheI had smuggled it out, snuggled it near me ever since. Read it when I should have—

“What in heaven"s name are you doing?”

Mother"s voice shattered my reverence. I jumped up, shoved the book of poetry beneath me.

“I…I was just about to get ready.”

It was a glorious summer day and the hour for the beach had fast approached.

Her grey eyes narrowed. She held out a hand. Though she did not admire intelligence, hers was sharp. There was nothing for it. I slipped the book out from beneath me and handed it to her.

“How many times must you read this?” Mother tossed the book on the floor as she would a piece of rubbish. “Aren"t you supposed to be reading another book, the one I gave you?”

Now I wanted to squint at her. I didn"t.

I scrambled to pick up the ignored book—The Ladies" Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness: a Complete Hand Book for the Use of The Lady in Polite Society, by a woman named Florence Hartley. The title alone repulsed me—before she could see the turned-down corner clearly marking my place, still stranded in the middle.

The Ladies" Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness: a Complete Hand Book for the Use of The Lady in Polite Society,“But I am, Mother. It"s always right here, by my bed.” Yes, always there, always forgotten.

She snatched it from my hand. It fell open, the traitor.

“This is the same page you were on when I asked you last week.”

This book she also threw, at me. It landed on my lap, far heavier than it actually was.

“There will be no beach for you today. When I return, I expect to see progress made. I will question you.”

willOh, I was sure she would. What she didn"t know was the punishment she adjudged was no punishment at all. No beach, the whole family gone, I could think only one thought…more time with Ginevra beneath the beeches. Mother had already taken my most treasured possessions. In my mind, I had little else to lose and far too much to gain by being with Ginevra.

“Yes, Mother.” I did my very best act of contrition. It worked now as it always did.

She left me with a huff, thankfully, before she could see the smile beginning to blossom on my face.

I listened as I heard her agitated steps wander away from me, growing fainter as they trudged down the stairs.

Like a child, I bounced on my bed. In the joyful frivolity, I wasted precious time. I picked up the dreaded book, and another, and made for the door fast.

It was a portent, in my mind, that my room, on the other wing of the house than my parents, was just steps away from the sewing room. Through one frosted glass door and into a foyer, I stood beside the door.

Ever so slowly, I peeked my head around the threshold.

I had never noticed how dark the room was before. Dark brown, textured cloth covered the walls, the furniture, the rugs. All dark—save her smile—when she saw me there.

“Are you alone?” I whispered to Ginevra.

She nodded, pulling her needle and its tail of thread.

I held the book up before me, grinning like a little girl, my brows dancing up and down on my forehead. She grinned as well.

Ginevra lifted her shoulders, splayed her hands to show me the piles of work before her.

I rubbed my stomach and made a ridiculously sickly face. Maybe I should be an actress, I thought, my mother would die of apoplexy. I choked back the guffaw longing to be barked.

Maybe I should be an actressmy mother would die of apoplexyGinevra bit her lip, bit back her own laughter I could tell, nodded, and dropped her face back to her work, but not before I saw another grin.

I made my way back to the family portion of the house unhurried. My mother was gone; there was little need to hide. Reaching the first floor, I heard the sound of drawers opening and closing from my father"s library. Servants were to clean in there, but never to invade any of it. I strode off, ready to reprimand the offender. I"ve since heard it said that no matter how hard we try, we eventually become our mothers. I fought against it even then. My righteous indignation in that moment was hers, all hers.

But there was no offender, only my father.

“Hello, my Pearl,” he greeted me with the endearment that had been mine since before I could remember. I stepped into the room forever thick with wood, leather, and man.

“Hello, Father.” I tossed back casually, a camouflage. I didn"t know if my mother had told him of my continued wayward behavior. She hated when I did not attend the days at the beach. At my age, she already paraded me before the sons of like years from the best families, already tried to push us together. She must have complained to him. She was always complaining to him.

“What are you up to this fine day?” he asked, still rummaging in his desk. Mother hadn"t told. “No beach for you?”

I shook my head. “No, not today. I have some studying to do.” He didn"t need to know more.

“Study is always good,” he said with half his attention.

My father valued education and learning. The thought struck me like a hammer blow. Would he approve of what I was about? That it contradicted my mother so grossly could swing him decidedly one way or the other. Once more, I dared to push against one of the many fences that surrounded me.

“Actually, Father,” I stepped closer to his desk, he looked up at me, “I"m going to teach Ginevra to read and write in English.”

He stared at me with his sad brown eyes. The sadness he could not hide, everything else hid behind it. After what had happened, I wasn"t sure he would still be on my side.

“Can she read and write in her own language?”

He surprised me. It was a surprise whenever he did.

“Yes. Yes, she can,” I said happily.

Father studied me for the length of a breath. “Good. It will be easier to teach her then.”

He gave his form of approval, as he had learned to do safely, given but not outright. It was enough, more than enough.

I leaned down and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Father,” I said, squeezing harder at the sight of his pleasure.

I dashed away and out of the house, filled with joy, to await my friend beneath the beeches.

“My Pearl?” Father stopped me cold. I turned. “Don"t get caught.”

It had been a few days since we were able to meet again. Though Pearl would sometimes pass the sewing room, an unnatural path for her to take when coming from the downstairs ladies" bathroom, but one easily explained if she had to.

For my needs, I had to climb either to the third floor or down to the basement.

On days when we could meet, she would flick her brows up, flick her head out toward the trees, but I dared not go again at first. I worked very hard for a few days. Red pinpricks on my fingers told the truth of it, as did the ache from an always bent neck. That day–having become an established part of Mrs. Brigg"s well-run household—found me courageous.

I waited a few minutes after Pearl disappeared from the door and made my way to the laundry room. I told Mrs. Brown I felt unwell and needed to use the facilities, holding my stomach while holding my face in a scrunched way—the way the Pearl had done—silly but convincing.

Instead of making my way to my room as I told her I would, I slipped down the stairs, out to the side terrace, and ran the path behind the maple trees to cut across to the beeches.

Stepping through the curtain of flowing leaves and branches, I stepped into that other world once more. Here, no work would bend my body until it ached; no harshness could reach through the softness.

Pearl had brought books, one by a woman and one by a man. She flapped them in her hands as if they were wings and their words would give us the power of flight.

“Let"s start with this one on etiquette. It"s dreadfully boring but the language is a little simpler than Mr. Twain"s is, though not nearly as interesting. But I think it a good place for you to start.”

Start we did. Slowly, ever so slowly. With the tip of her finger, she scrolled across each line, only moving it when I had learned the word. The movement marked our passage through the work, my passage into the language. The shadows shifted upon the pages beginning to look less like gibberish and more like words.

Don"t hold your parasol so close to your face, nor so low down. You cannot see your way clear, and you will run against somebody. Always hold an umbrella or parasol so that it will clear your bonnet, and leave the space before your face open, that you may see your way clearly.

Don"t hold your parasol so close to your face, nor so low down. You cannot see your way clear, and you will run against somebody. Always hold an umbrella or parasol so that it will clear your bonnet, and leave the space before your face open, that you may see your way clearly.I read it well, happy with my progress. Comprehension filtered through recognition, the meaning ridiculous.