Katherine's Story, 1848 Page 3

“Of course you’re right, but I do so much want to make a good impression.”

  My twin was much bolder than I when it came to meeting new people. She didn’t worry about every little thing she said and the impression she made the way I tended to. She came over and gave me hug.

  “You will make a good impression,” Elizabeth told me. “Remember what Mama used to say about meeting new people? Simply ask them about themselves and show an interest. It makes everyone want to know you.”

  I nodded, feeling the tug at my heart that always came with thoughts of Mama. Her wise words, repeated by my sister, put me at ease about meeting an actual author.

  Soon Elizabeth and I were both yawning. We put our pendants together and repeated our nightly chant. Then my sister kissed me on the cheek and went into her room.

  I crawled into bed. After so many days at sea, I felt as though I was still rocking and rolling in the waves. I had left the doors to the balcony ajar and could hear the sound of the waves rolling in and out. I had to remind myself that I was on dry land.

  Funny how the very thing that made my stomach lurch and roll on the Britannia created such a soothing sound. My racing thoughts—wondering what Anna DuMay would be like, whether my American relatives would be enjoyable company, and what Cousin Maxwell was doing—were soon lulled as my breath began to match the ebb and flow of the waves.

  I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard a sound that startled me awake again. It was a voice—loud and deep. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded as if a man was berating someone in a frightful way. I clutched the coverlet to my chest, straining to hear the actual words, but I could not make them out.

  Papa was just across the hall and Elizabeth through the connecting doors, but I was too frightened to go to either of them. What if the man is just outside? I wondered. What if he hears me moving about and turns his attention on me?

  Mostly, I wondered, Who is that? And why is he so angry?

  The voice vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. I matched my breathing to the sea again, and soon my heart slowed into the same calm rhythm. The next thing I knew, Essie was opening my curtains, waking me gently just the way she did at home.

  “Good morning, Lady Katherine,” she sang.

  “Good morning, Essie,” I answered. I sat up and was greeted by a bright, sunny day under a beautiful blue sky.

  Elizabeth must have already been awake. She walked through the bathroom to join us, stretching her arms over her head.

  “How did you sleep your first night on dry land, milady?” Essie asked me.

  I thought about last night. The troubling voice had gone away so quickly; I realized the whole episode must have been a bad dream. I was overtired and in a strange place. I decided not to mention anything to my sister or to Essie.

  “I slept like a dolphin on a gentle wave,” I said, thinking about the poem I had begun the night before. “And now that I’m on dry land, my appetite is back. Let’s hurry and do something with Lady Elizabeth’s hair so that we can go to breakfast.”

  Elizabeth knew the reason for my desire to hurry. “And meet the famous author,” she said with a smile.

  “Yes, and meet the famous author!” I answered with a laugh. “I hope I don’t get tongue-tied.”

  Essie gave me a squeeze. “Just remember how much you are loved,” she said. “And you’ve no reason to be afraid of anything.”

  I chose one of my favorite day dresses in which to meet Anna DuMay—a blue and white striped muslin with puffed sleeves. The neckline showed my blue sapphire pendant to great advantage, and the dress went beautifully with my blue parasol. I imagined the two of us walking together in the garden, talking about literary enterprises, while Elizabeth painted nearby.

  Unfortunately, my hopes were thwarted again. At breakfast, Alfred explained that Mrs. DuMay often ate in her rooms when she was in the midst of a new story. I saw Uncle Willem frown upon hearing this explanation, but he said nothing and only urged us to eat our fill.

  I began to suspect the author wasn’t as interested in meeting us as I was in meeting her. My family had sailed all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. Didn’t that call for a trip downstairs to greet us?

  I shook off my hurt feelings when Maxwell joined us with a happy smile. Alfred offered to give the three of us a tour of the manor and the grounds as soon as we had finished breakfast.

  The customs at Vandermeer Manor continued to surprise me. Breakfast was laid out on the sideboard, and we were expected to serve ourselves. That makes great sense, I thought. One could take as much or as little food as one liked, without having to ask, especially since there were so many people staying at Vandermeer Manor, with the wedding only a few days away. Guests and family came and went, sometimes even eating standing up.

  The servants, along with the family and guests, were rather more relaxed with us than their English counterparts. No one referred to Elizabeth or me as “Lady.” We were introduced as Miss Elizabeth and Miss Katherine, or simply as Elizabeth and Katherine.

  Elizabeth seemed to take it all in stride, but I was continually surprised. At one point I looked around to see which one of the maids running past was called Katherine, only to discover that the person, a guest of Henry Vandermeer, was talking to me.

  If our butler, Mr. Fellows, were here, he would have corrected everyone with a stern, “Lady Katherine, if you please,” but I decided to relax into these American ways. After all, here there were no lords or ladies, I reminded myself. Once I got used to it, it was rather fun.

  The house was a bustle of activity with guests arriving, deliveries being made, and servants cleaning every nook and cranny. Alfred, leading us on a tour of the downstairs rooms, explained that the wedding was the late summer’s grandest event.

  “Even people who don’t summer in Bridgeport are coming to the wedding,” he said proudly. “Every home and hotel in the area is filled with guests. Wait until you meet Anna’s friends—writers and artists mostly. It’s been a treat to get to know them. They’re quite different from Father’s shipping colleagues.”

  Elizabeth began to ask Alfred about the painters who might attend when we had to jump back to avoid being knocked over by a man carrying a large, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. He nodded at Alfred but continued on his way without a word of pardon.

  “I say,” Maxwell called after him, but the man continued on as if he had not heard.

  “That’s Uncle Willem’s valet,” Alfred said. “My uncle must be in a hurry for whatever that is—perhaps a wedding present. I am sorry.”

  My sister laughed. “I do like these American manners,” she said, her eyes flashing. “So much unnecessary bowing and whatnot dispensed with.”

  Alfred laughed, too. “I am glad you’re not shocked by our brash ways,” he said.

  He led us into the parlor and to a portrait of a woman with a warm smile and friendly blue eyes. “This is my favorite thing in the whole house,” he said. “It is a portrait of my mother. It was painted shortly after she and Father were married.”

  “She was very beautiful,” Elizabeth said. She studied the portrait and then Alfred. “I see a family resemblance, too. You have her eyes.”

  Alfred nodded, clearly pleased. “She died when I was just a baby. This is the only portrait we have of her. I have no real memories of her, but I have this.”

  Alfred explained that his parents had been very much in love. So much in love, in fact, that his father had waited nearly thirteen years to remarry.

  “I thought he never would, but then he met Anna,” he said.

  “Are they very much in love, too?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I’d say so,” Alfred answered. “They were both happy in their independent lives—Anna wasn’t wealthy, but she was able to support herself and her son with her writing after her husband died. And my father seemed content with his life. But then they met at a dinner party in New York this spring, and it was love at first sight.”

  The idea th
at Papa might remarry flitted across my mind, and I could see my twin had the same thought. I wasn’t ready to imagine a new lady of Chatswood. I wanted Papa to be happy again, but if he remarried, I hoped he would wait as long as Henry Vandermeer had.

  “Are you looking forward to having a new mother?” Elizabeth asked.

  Elizabeth’s question made me realize something more. If Papa remarried and had a son with his new wife, then Maxwell wouldn’t inherit. Would he and Elizabeth still marry, or would they be free to marry other people? I wondered. My eyes flew to Maxwell, but he calmly waited for Alfred to answer my sister’s question. If he worried that Papa might remarry, he hid it well.

  Alfred nodded with a smile. “We’re all looking forward to having a woman in the house. And, of course, Anna is just wonderful.”

  “We haven’t met her yet,” I said quietly. I tried to hide it from Alfred, but my hurt feelings lingered.

  “Oh, you mustn’t be insulted,” Alfred said. “She gets carried away when she begins a new story, but she’s been looking forward to meeting you and your sister. I’m sure she’ll pull herself away from it this afternoon. I know you’ll love her as much as I do when you do meet her.”

  “Of course we will,” Elizabeth said. “I like her already just because she’s made you and your father so happy.”

  “She has,” Alfred said with a nod. “Uncle Willem is a little afraid that I’ll abandon the family shipping business under her influence and run away to be an artist. I’ve been so taken with Anna’s circle of friends.”

  “And will you?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes dancing.

  Alfred laughed. “I admire talent, especially painting,” he said. “But I’m afraid I haven’t any of my own. It’s the family shipping business for me. It’s a good thing I love the sea. But who knows what the future will bring. There might be new industries to invest in.”

  As we continued our tour, Elizabeth asked Alfred about the painter who had done his mother’s portrait—apparently the most famous portrait painter in America—and the two of them kept up a steady, easy conversation about the differences between American and English art.

  Maxwell and I prowled around the library, finding copies of books by an American author Maxwell was especially interested in—Edgar Allan Poe. His stories sounded dreadfully scary to me, but there was a copy of a magazine with one of Anna DuMay’s stories proudly on display. We made a plan to come back to the library as soon as we could for some quiet reading time.

  We spent so much time exploring the house that pretty soon it was almost time for lunch. Alfred and Maxwell were engaged for the afternoon—all of the men were going to the races—but our young host promised to show us the grounds and the ocean the next day.

  Elizabeth and I went to our rooms to freshen up for lunch. My sister took a few minutes to add some touches to her painting. She was just putting her paints away in the secret compartment in our trunk when there was a knock at my door.

  A young woman entered and introduced herself as Tabitha, Anna DuMay’s maid, and handed us a note. I read it aloud while Elizabeth looked over my shoulder.

  My dearest Lady Katherine and Lady Elizabeth,

  Please forgive my failure to welcome you to Vandermeer Manor yesterday. I’m afraid I’ve been caught up in wedding preparations and in writing a new story.

  I do hope you can join me for a private luncheon today in my quarters, where we can properly get to know each other without interruption.

  Sincerely,

  Anna DuMay

  “Please tell Mrs. DuMay we would be ever so delighted to join her,” I answered.

  Finally, I thought, I get to meet the author!

  At the appointed hour, Elizabeth and I made our way through the manor. As we walked, I marveled at my surroundings. There was so much about Vandermeer Manor that reminded me of home—beautiful paintings lining the walls and plush carpets underfoot—but then so much that was different. After all, Vandermeer Manor was so new, built only over the past fifteen years, whereas Chatswood Manor had been in my family for centuries. Tabitha had said that Mrs. DuMay’s quarters were at the very end of the hall in the manor’s north wing. Timidly, I knocked on the door, hoping that I wasn’t disturbing the writer at her work.

  “Come in,” called a cheerful voice.

  I opened the door and peeked in. A handsome woman stepped across the floor, a newspaper in one hand. “Welcome, girls,” she said. “I’m Anna. I am just over the moon that you could join me for luncheon today.”

  I immediately felt put at ease by Mrs. DuMay’s confident manner. “Oh, Mrs. DuMay, I have been so eager to meet you,” I blurted out. It was very much unlike me to do so, and I felt a little embarrassed by my outburst.

  Mrs. DuMay laughed heartily. “The feeling is mutual,” she assured me. “But you simply must call me Anna, my dear.”

  She gestured toward an area in a corner of the room with four comfortable-looking chairs all facing one another. It was the perfect place for a friendly conversation.

  “Now, how shall I tell you apart?” she asked once the three of us were seated. “I see that one of you is taller.”

  “I’m Elizabeth,” my sister said. “I’m taller by half an inch.”

  “And she’s older by five minutes,” I added. “And you can also tell which one is which by the pendants we always wear—mine is blue.”

  “And mine red,” Elizabeth added.

  Anna admired our necklaces, and I explained that they were a gift from Mama on our last birthday.

  “All the dearer to you, then, I’m sure,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You must miss her very much.”

  At that moment I realized that Alfred was right about Anna. She was warm and wonderful, and all of my hurt feelings about not meeting her sooner melted away.

  Anna gave us a tour of her quarters. The room we had first entered was a sitting room. Behind it there was a short hall leading to two bedchambers, one for Anna and one for her son, Samuel. Tucked away in a corner of Anna’s room was a quiet little alcove with a desk, a chair, and a stack of manuscript pages sitting on a steamer trunk in a style just like ours.

  “I can’t hear anything back here,” she said with a smile. “It’s as if the bustle of the house and all of its inhabitants disappear and the only things in the world are my characters and me.”

  We reentered the sitting room, and Anna rang for luncheon. While we waited, she waved the newspaper she was still carrying.

  “Did you girls hear about the Women’s Rights Convention that was held in Seneca Falls, New York, earlier this summer?” she asked.

  Elizabeth and I hadn’t.

  “Were you there?” I asked.

  “No, but I intend to join these women at the next one, and to work with them to promote the rights of women.” She rattled her newspaper again. “The New York Herald intends to poke fun at these women by printing their Declaration of Sentiments, but I believe the newspaper has only helped our cause.”

  Anna leaned in closer to me and Elizabeth, as if she were about to share a secret. “Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a great and brave abolitionist working tirelessly to end the practice of slavery, based this declaration on another great American document, the Declaration of Independence. She declares that women are the equals of men in every way and that we deserve all the same rights and responsibilities—including the right to vote. We must demand a right to have a say in the laws under which we live. It’s the very principle our country was founded on.”

  I was at once breathless and inspired. I had never given much thought to the power of the vote before. I had always relied on Papa to make the best choices for me and for our family. He had discussed issues with Mama and valued her opinion, but matters of money and laws were ultimately his decision.

  I remembered what Elizabeth had said on the ship, and I couldn’t help but think that Mama, like Anna, would have been a strong supporter of the Declaration of Sentiments. I found myself wishing that our stay in America might be exte
nded so I could attend the next convention along with Anna. It was just the kind of thing Mama talked about in her letter when she urged me to take advantage of all the new opportunities opening up to women.

  I was about to say so when Anna launched into an apology for not seeing us sooner. She had lost track of everything but her story. “When I begin a new piece of fiction, I get so caught up with my characters and the world I create for them that I forget everything else. My fictional characters become as real to me as flesh-and-blood human beings.” She laughed a bit. “Thank goodness Henry understands,” she said. “Much like the men who signed the Declaration of Sentiments, he encourages me to live a rich, full, and independent life. I believe we’ll have a modern sort of marriage. One in which we love and support each other without either one having to let go of our dreams.”

  My head was spinning with thoughts and ideas about women’s rights and marriage and independent lives. Plus, I hoped to learn more about the story Anna was writing now. Was it about these very issues? Would she let me read it in its current state?

  I was working up my courage to ask when once again she swept us along to a new topic in her speedy American way. She opened the doors to her armoire and showed us the most exquisite gown I had ever seen. “My wedding gown,” she explained.

  It was white silk with layers of lace adorning every edge, a fitted bodice and sleeves, and a long, flowing, full skirt. There were ruffles at the neckline, and the edges and hem of the long train were embroidered with flowers in pretty pastel colors.

  We had barely begun to admire it when Anna surprised us again.

  “Girls, how would you like to be bridesmaids at the wedding?” she asked. “I haven’t asked anyone else, and I’d love to have my new family members participate in what will be one of the happiest days of my life.”

  I gasped. “Bridesmaids! That would be such an honor,” I said. Then I could feel my face fall as I remembered one important detail. “But we’re unprepared,” I said. “We brought dresses, of course, but nothing special enough for a bridesmaid at your wedding.”