my schoolmate Ted Shuetty. Says the boss will hold the job till I get there. Ted’s given him a pretty good spiel about how hard I work. Besides, I got relations near Harvester.” He spun Nell through a waltz. “Just stopping over a couple of days with cousins here in Woodridge.”
Two days later he asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Was love any part of it? She doubted.
But when they danced, the firm pressure of his hand on the small of her back had caused her to feel out of control. He’d had extraordinary hands. Nell turned on her side now, in her dark bed, with none but her own clumsy hand for excitement.
“ISN’T THIS EXCITING!” Nell said, settling into the rocker.
Late in May of 1902, Nell and Elvira received invitations to the June wedding of Cora Mary Pendleton and George Laurence Lundeen in the Methodist Episcopal Church of Harvester and to the reception following, at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Lundeen of 248 Catalpa Street.
An interview in the Standard Ledger quoted Miss Pendleton: “I want to acquaint myself with George’s world as quickly as possible, so I’ve chosen to be married in Harvester rather than Boston. George grew up here, and I know that I shall love it.”
The article further stated that a considerable number of family and friends would be journeying by train from the East. “The charming Miss Pendleton laughed, saying, ‘Daddy has pretty much booked up the Harvester Arms.’” It was noted that Miss Pendleton had graduated from the Greybriar School for Young Ladies in the Berkshires.
“This calls for new dresses,” Nell told Elvira, laying her invitation on the end table beside a stack of third-grade geography tests. “I haven’t had a new summer dress since I was married. Have you seen a fabric at Lundeen’s that you like?”
“Haven’t looked,” Elvira said without glancing up from the floor, where she and Hilly were building a house of blocks.
“I think it’s a good sign that Miss Pendleton wants to marry here, among George’s people,” Nell said. “It shows that she really loves him and wants to fit in.”
“What’s a ‘school for young ladies’?”
“A finishing school, I suppose. Where families send their girls to learn to be ladies,” Nell said, taking up the geography. “They learn French and German or Italian so they’ll feel at home in Europe. And I suppose they learn how to entertain and dress and carry on a conversation.”
“I used to speak a little German,” Elvira said. “We had a hired man taught me some.”
“It must be grand to speak foreign languages . . . like being able to play the piano or sing an operatic aria. I wonder if Miss Pendleton plays the piano.”
Rising from the floor, Elvira said, “I’ll start supper.” At the kitchen doorway she turned. “An operatic area?”
In Lundeen’s the following Saturday, Nell decided on ivory linen and lace to sew a boudoir pillow for a wedding gift, then chose a soft lilac yardage for her new summer dress.
“And a yard or so of lilac ribbon to trim your hat?” prompted Elvira, who was waiting on her.
“Perfect. But how about you? Have you found a fabric you like? The peach lawn is very pretty. I was tempted myself.”
“I don’t think I’ll go to the wedding,” Elvira murmured.
“Not go?” Nell was taken aback. But Marcella Kolchak was approaching with a packet of needles in hand, and Nell said no more.
Elvira had taken a sandwich to work with her, so Nell didn’t see her again until the store closed. The May evening was warm and Main Street was noisy with the Saturday-night crowd. Nell sat by Hilly’s open window, watching the throng below as it fetched and flowed, sweeping along smoothly here, eddying there, folks laughing and calling to each other as if Saturday night in town were the grandest regalement to be found.
The women in their Saturday best hesitated over a yard of lace in Lundeen’s, parted with a bit of egg money for a bag of horehound drops in Petersen’s, loitered in little clots along the walk, then gossiped in wagons and buggies. Nell longed to be down there, strolling among them, catching their fun, warming herself at their fever.
She needed to laugh. Some best part of herself—her wild humanity—was held in a closed fist, had been since . . . well, for a long time.
George Lundeen’s wedding would be her “coming out.” Nearly a year would have passed since Herbert’s death. After the wedding she would begin accepting invitations, should any come her way. She’d once known how to play whist. And though she had lived in Harvester for only three years and wasn’t universally acquainted, she hoped to cultivate a little social life, maybe with the other teachers.
Observing Elvira leaving Lundeen’s, slouching along Main Street looking like the frayed end of a rope, Nell went to the kitchen to fetch cold tea for them both. The day had been hot and dusty, hotter in the dry-goods store than anywhere, she didn’t doubt. Fortunately, the iceman had delivered a fresh block that day.
“You’re wilting.” She handed Elvira the tea as the girl let the screen door close behind her.
Elvira set the glass on the living-room table, sank into the rocker, and began unlacing her shoes, sighing and groaning as they came loose. When her feet were free and she had rubbed and stretched them, she took up the glass and drank.
“I’ll fix us bread and butter,” Nell said. “Brown sugar on it?”
“Mmmhmm.” Elvira rose. “I’ll shuck outta my dress.”
In that muslin nightdress she looks about fourteen, Nell thought, as Elvira slumped onto a kitchen chair. “When’s your birthday?”
“Same day as Mr. George’s wedding. June 16,” Elvira told her.
“Is that why you don’t want to go to the wedding?” Nell laid a plate of bread on the table.
“No.”
“Don’t you think the Lundeens will be hurt if you stay away?” Elvira shrugged and bit into a slice of bread.
“Is anything wrong at work?”
Elvira shook her head, then wiped her mouth. “I like the Lundeens. They’re good people.” She was near tears.
“Well, then?”
“I’m not a lady. I hadda leave school when I was twelve. I don’t know anything.”
Nell raised her brows. “You know how to keep house and care for a baby and work in a dry-goods store. You can read and write. You have curiosity. You have a good heart. Without that, any lady’s counterfeit.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better, and that’s because you’re a lady. . . .”
