Hunter’S Hill

By Deborah Ballou

To Margie Sievers, life in Duluth, Minnesota is a wonderful mixture of excitement and security. Duluth is a city on the rise with everything from simple community gatherings to grand galas in gilded ballrooms. Rich Europeans and Eastern Americans spend summers in their elegant homes along the cool shores of Lake Superior.
On Hunter's Hill near her home Margie sketches her dress designs, hoping to publish them in the fashion magazines of the day and to see them transformed from paper to fabric. Into her secure, happy world rides Roman Greyson, a friendly, confident Englishman whose smile leaves level-headed Margie unaccountably flustered. Over the next two years they become good friends, but are they more? And is there a place for him in the plans she has so carefully made on Hunter's Hill?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468538564

Deborah Ballou

Im the kind of person that dresses in costume to go to the Renaissance Faire, says Deborah Ballou. I used to dress up in similar garb to teach Shakespeares plays to my high school students. They said it was a little embarrassing but they also seemed to enjoy that unit, and I sure enjoyed teaching it. Now Mrs. Ballou hopes that her readers not only enjoy the story shes written, but also will learn something about the pre-Victorian world of poetry ("Those poets were the rock stars of the day.") and the holidays of Great Britain that are still celebrated today. Mrs. Ballou lives in northern California with her husband where they are enjoying their empty nest. I miss my wonderful children, but I do get much less side-tracked from my writing. In fact, I have three other novels in process, so keep a look-out. Her website is www.DeborahBallou.com.

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© 2012 by Deborah Ballou. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 01/11/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3855-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3857-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3856-4 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963745

Printed in the United States of America

The illustrations on pages vi, xii, 15, 48, 74, 84, 120, 196, and 204, as well as those on the cover are fragments of ones by the wonderful turn-of-the-last-century illustrator, Charles Dana Gibson. His idealized rendering of the ladies of his day gave us the term Gibson Girl.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Author’s Introduction

Prologue

June 1893

Chapter One

July 1891—A Bathing Outfit

Chapter Two

A Top Hat and Silver-tipped Cane

Chapter Three

September 1891—Ribboned Seams

Chapter Four

An Emerald-Green Holiday Gown

Chapter Five

May 1892—Rhinestone Buttons

Chapter Six

A Lace-edged Handkerchief

Chapter Seven

Yellow Boutonnieres

Chapter Eight

A Diamond Ring

Chapter Nine

A Scarf

Chapter Ten

A Wedding Dress

Chapter Eleven

A Silver and Blue Jersey

Chapter Twelve

Fall 1892—A Buttoned Collar

Chapter Thirteen

A Shimmering Peacock Feather

Chapter Fourteen

Spring 1893: A Designer Layette

Chapter Fifteen

Graduation Shoes and Rolled-up Sleeves

Bits of History in Duluth, Minnesota

This one is especially for my mom who first took me to climb Hunter’s Hill when I was a kid. She loved growing up on Minneapolis Avenue in Duluth and passed that love on to me. Thanks, Mom. Your zest for life has always been an inspiration.

Special thanks must also go to my good friend, Judith, who has long been a supporter of my writing endeavors and who became my editor for this book. I didn’t always listen to her, but she tried. I only wish I’d asked for her help with my first three books.

God bless you, dearest friend.

Thanks again to my brother, Dean, who helped me with my covers. Without his artistic—and computer—know-how, I’d be lost and this book wouldn’t have the cover images I wanted.

Lastly I thank my husband for his constant support and tolerance during our three decades together. I hope that we have many more happy years ahead and that he feels for me the same fondness that William Wordsworth felt for his Mary when he penned for her the poem which finishes this book.

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Author’s Introduction

When I was growing up, my family went to Duluth, Minnesota every few years to visit my grandparents and the many other relatives who still lived there. One of the places we loved to go to was to my mother’s childhood neighborhood of Hunter’s Park, there to climb Hunter’s Hill as she had loved to do when she was a girl. It was a magical place to me and I know that I am not alone in that perception. Margaret Culkin Banning, Duluth’s prolific author of 38 novels, moved there in 1897 and describes her girlhood home thusly:

There was a field and a stream beside it, and beyond was a wooded hill, always known as Hunter’s Hill. To a child like myself it was as high as a mountain and as romantic as a forest. Someone with imagination had laid out paths to the top, which could be climbed easily, and had built two circular ‘summerhouses’ for the rest and pleasure of anyone who was making the ascent. One was midway up the hill and one stood on its crest. They were sturdy, roofed shelters, with wooden benches, and the old and the young of the vicinity made good use of them for more than two generations.

By the time my mother was a girl in the 1930s, the summerhouses had fallen down, and when I first saw anything of them in the 1960s, all that remained were two-foot-high rings of lichen-covered stone. To me they looked like the ruins of castle turrets. The romance of the area, and its ability to stir the imagination, was as potent to me as it had been for my mother and for little Margaret Culkin in the 1890s. Years later she wrote:

The past that Hunter’s Park gave us could not be lived again. But often, even now as I drive through the spreading, well-populated suburb, threading through its traffic, I think that Hunter’s Park is like a woman who has a fine bone structure. She may look older, but it is still possible to see what she was like when she was young.

In Hunter’s Hill I have tried to give my readers a look at that young woman and at a younger America, too. I incorporated many of the historical events and developments that would have had an impact on the lives of my characters in the early 1890s. (See Bits of History in the back of the book.) I hope you enjoy reading Hunter’s Hill as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Deborah Ballou

Both quotations are from Duluth, Sketches of the Past, Hunter’s Park As the Century Turned, by Margaret Culkin Banning.

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig my grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This is the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Map%20of%20Duluth.jpgHunters%20Margie%20on%20the%20Hill.jpgblack.jpg

If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,

. . . Go to the woods and hills! No tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Prologue

June 1893

Margie lifted the front of her skirt to avoid getting it caught in the new growth of thimble berries that lined the uphill path. The sunlight of the late Minnesotan spring softened as it filtered through the new green leaves on the birch and elm trees around her. The pastel wildflowers, nestled in the thin, new grasses, were fading but still lovely. The more brilliant reds, oranges, and blues of the summer flowers were only hinted at in their still unopened buds.

Margie walked uphill with a fierceness that would have surprised the people who knew her. Her eyes gazed straight ahead of her, taking no notice of the beauty that usually filled her heart with joy. There was no smile to match the bright day, no peace of mind to match the serenity of the gentle wind through the flowers. She was taking her favorite walk out of habit, not desire, hoping to receive that solace that Hunter’s Hill usually gave her. Now, as she neared the top, she realized it was a fool’s errand, that she would not find the peace she sought.

I should have known, she scolded herself aloud. There wasn’t anyone to hear her today. Becky was home with a cold and Jeannine was shopping for shoes for the graduation ball in two days. Margie knew she should be more excited about graduating in a week, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Why are parents always right? she asked herself, half angrily, half in self-reproach. He isn’t coming back to me. Until a few months ago, she had been certain that he would. His letters had spoken of his fondness for her, of his anticipation of seeing her again when he returned. She had even believed that they might have a future together someday. It had been a hope too grand to be true, she knew that now. Her mother and father had warned her about him. Just a summer friend. Unreliable. Not one of us.

An earl in love with me?! Saying it aloud made it sound as stupid as it was. So silly to believe such an impossible thing. She tried to laugh at the very idea, but her attempt ended in sudden tears. It always happened when she thought of him, which had been often in the last few weeks.

She had nearly reached the clearing but had to stop to catch her breath. Why does it still hurt so much? she sobbed to herself, sitting down heavily on a fallen tree and hiding her face in her hands. Why can’t I just forget him?

From farther up the hill she heard the sound of hooves.

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I love you as I never loved before

Since first I saw you on the village green.

And every year I grow to love you more.

I love you as I loved you…

When you were sweet sixteen.

James Thorton

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Chapter One

July 1891—A Bathing Outfit

From somewhere down the path that led to Woodland Avenue came the sound of a galloping horse, and Margie looked up from her drawing pad with alarm.

It had been a quiet summer morning, if a bit too hot, and she had climbed the hill to sketch at her favorite spot beside a little, round summerhouse—a stone rest station that had been built for the use and enjoyment of the community. Her usual companions, Becky and Jeannine, had decided not to walk with her on such a hot day, so she sat alone, enjoying the unusual solitude.

She often stopped drawing to look down the hill at the red rooftop of Gibson’s Grocery. Gerry was there working, she knew, earning money he didn’t need. Mr. Countryman could well afford to send his son to the University of Minnesota in the fall, but Gerry had insisted on working. Can’t have Daddy paying for everything, he had smiled, then kissed her on the cheek. Besides, I want you to be proud of me.

How could anyone not be proud? she thought, and smiled to herself. Could anyone compare to Gerry Countryman? He was so handsome, so polite, so kind. His eyes were so brown and warm, his smile…

The sound of galloping hooves had startled Margie out of her daydreaming. She leapt to her feet in alarm as a horse and rider appeared from around the trees and pulled up in a scuffle of dust.

Hello there, a young man greeted her with a big smile as if nothing whatsoever were the matter. He dismounted and patted the side of his horse’s neck fondly, then looked at her again. Fine day, is it not?

What do you think you’re doing? she scolded.

The man’s smile disappeared. I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to disturb you.

You shouldn’t be riding up here like that. The children play on this hill. You could hurt someone.

The man’s smile had returned a little as she spoke. You’re right. Sorry. Didn’t know about the kiddies. I assure you, it won’t happen again.

It was then that Margie noticed his accent. British, she thought. She suddenly felt embarrassed for yelling at this stranger. I’m sorry, too. I take it you’re not from around here.

Hardly, he laughed with what sounded like Margie to be scornfulness. May I sit a while? If it wouldn’t disturb you?

Margie nodded. How could she say no? He walked past the blanket she had spread out in the sun and sank down wearily in the shade of a tree, leaning against its trunk with a sigh.

How can you sit in the sun today? It’s much too hot. Ah, how my bones ache, he grimaced, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Margie stood for a moment, uncertain of what she should do. Should she go back to where she’d been sitting before he’d arrived? That seemed unfriendly, but perhaps more proper.

You must not be used to riding, she said, finally sitting down on the grass under the tree a careful but polite distance from him.

Oh, riding’s not the problem. Bicycling. That’s the villain. I’ve discovered it uses a whole set of muscles that I didn’t even know I had until they started to hurt.

Margie laughed and the man’s smile broadened. Roman Greyson’s the name, he said, leaning forward to offer her his hand.

Margery Sievers. She could feel the heat of his hand even through his riding gloves.

Well, Miss Sievers, we’ve established that I’m not from around here. But what about you? You are, by your accent, an American. But are you from some Eastern city, here on holiday in Duluth to avoid the Eastern heat, or do you actually live here?

Margie couldn’t help laughing again at his reference to her accent. I live here. Or actually, I live in Hunter’s Park, she said, pointing down the hill. We’re not quite a part of Duluth yet, but Father says we soon will be. They’ve even just put a streetcar line up to here from downtown. She noticed he had leaned back against the tree and shut his eyes. Perhaps I’m boring him.

A streetcar, he said dreamily, his eyes still shut. How wonderful. To sit and ride with ease on an actual chair rather than on that blasted bicycle. Do you bicycle, Miss Sievers? he asked, opening his eyes again.

When I was little.

Ha! And how long ago could that have been?

Many years now. I just turned sixteen, Margie said defensively.

Roman frowned and looked at her more closely. Really? Well, he said, leaning back and closing his eyes again. You don’t even look that old, Miss Sievers.

Margie looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. He was a handsome man, she had to admit, though his hair was an odd mixture of blond and dark brown, the latter showing up in his brows and side-burns. He had been friendly enough to her so far, but she didn’t like the way he said things—Hardly from Duluth. Don’t even look that old. There was an air of arrogance about him that made her feel she should be defending Duluth, herself, or… She shook her head in silent exasperation and decided she should just go back to her sketching and ignore him. As she drew, her former tranquility slowly returned.

Are you drawing me? he suddenly asked.

The sound of his voice after so many minutes of silence made her jump.

Sorry, he said with another smile. Can I see? He reached out for her drawing pad, but Margie moved it away and closed the cover.

I haven’t drawn much in this one yet. I haven’t finished…

That’s all right, he urged.

Reluctantly she let him take the pad and watched uncomfortably as he opened it.

A fashion plate? he asked in surprise. I was at least expecting a landscape. Why do you draw clothes?

I like to try new designs.

And then you sew them up?

Margie shook her head. No, not yet. But Father just bought us a sewing machine—a Singer—so maybe someday soon. Or maybe The Ladies’ Home Journal or Goodies or a pattern magazine will think my drawings are good enough to print and someone else will see them and sew them up… She paused, suddenly self-conscious about sharing so much with a stranger, especially since that stranger was smiling at her with unconcealed amusement.

Then Roman nodded and looked back at her sketch. Well, this one is very good. I’ll wager you could get this published if you submitted it. Perhaps you’ll be America’s version of Anais or Heloise Colin someday. Have you studied art?

No, but I’d like to. I’d like to go to the Art Academy in Chicago, maybe after high school.

You may not need to, though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. You have a natural talent, Miss Sievers. He closed the pad and handed it back to her. Your proportions are especially good.

Thank you, she said softly. She thought it was amazing that he would even know about the Colin sisters let alone guess about her secret dream to become as great as them and the other ladies of Paris who had been drawing fashions for the last half century. How many times had she stared at their work in magazines and the seamstress’ pattern books and imagined her own drawings there someday? Widowed at a young age, Anais Colin Toudouze had even been able to support herself and her children with her fashion drawings. Margie had always loved to draw and she wondered if the people who had praised her drawings were right. Was she good enough to make it on her own?

Do you come up here often? he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

All the time. It’s my favorite spot to draw.

Then you were raised around here?

No, in Chicago. We just moved here two years ago, but I feel as if I’ve lived here forever. I love Duluth.

It felt odd to hear herself saying that. She had hated the idea of moving from Chicago to the town of loggers and trappers she had studied about in school. But Duluth of the 1890s was nothing like the grubby frontier town she’d learned about. It was very much the leader of culture west of Chicago. It had an opera house, many carefully designed and well-kept parks, and stores brimming with East Coast goods that came in through the Duluth-Superior harbor. Its mild summers attracted people from everywhere, even Europe, and the shoreline and hills were covered with beautiful homes and summer estates. There was even a boat club out near Minnesota Point, the long spit of land that jutted out across Lake Superior to form the large harbor.

Yes, Duluth was a growing, vital city. Her father’s real estate business was doing even better than he had anticipated. He had chosen for his family a large, comfortable home on one of the tree-lined streets of Hunter’s Park. Away from the lake, it was already populated by many of the important men of Duluth, including the men for whom Hunter’s Park had been named, Ronald and James Hunter. Their homes marked the boundaries of Hunter’s Park, large redstone mansions along Woodland Avenue and Roslyn Drive. The mayor, the school superintendent, the president of the bank and several city councilmen all lived in the growing neighborhood of Hunter’s Park.

But the best thing about Hunter’s Park in Margie’s opinion was Hunter’s Hill. She knew all its paths and overlooks. She knew its seasons. She walked it in sunshine or wind, alone or with friends. She’d sledded its slopes, picnicked in its meadows, even climbed a tree or two when no one was looking. And on it she sketched and dreamed. Someday she would design gowns for the wealthy ladies. Someday…

I know what you mean. The people here are quite friendly. This is my first summer here, actually, but my father and uncle have been coming here for nearly a decade. They like it better than our home in Northamptonshire. Uncle Bailey has a home down this hill and stays here year-round now. And Father built a home years ago, down along the lake shore, in part to convince the rest of us to summer here, too. I’ve already made some close friends. Do you know the Gregors or, let’s see, the Butler family?

Margie shook her head.

It’s odd you don’t. They’re regulars at the Northland Club. Very outgoing people, but then, most Americans are. He smiled more broadly at this remark. And since you live so close…

We aren’t members of the Northland Club, Margie said, feeling defensive again. The Northland Club was an expensive country club in Woodland, membered mostly by wealthy out-of-towners with nothing better to do than play golf and tennis or shoot trap. The Countryman’s were the only people Margie knew personally who belonged, but even they seldom used the place except when