Pathfinding Women: An 1890s Mother-Daughter Novel: Waxwood Series

By Tam May

Sometimes the past refuses to stay in the past.

 

Waxwood, 1899: Vivian Alderdice is twenty-six, unmarried, and has no prospective suitors. Her brother's tragic plight the year before left the family on shaky ground in Nob Hill society. Their social position depends on Vivian capturing the heart of a wealthy Canadian bachelor determined to become a member of their exclusive society. But to win him, she and her mother must spend the summer in Waxwood.

 

Waxwood brings back memories of Vivian searching for her grandmother's identity and uncovering family secrets she wasn't prepared to deal with, but she's determined to leave all that behind her.

 

Then a young man she meets on the train brings those skeletons out of the closet again, and Vivian finds herself torn between her fulfilling her social obligations or tracing a past that might lead to uncovering more family secrets.

 

Will Vivian's summer unravel family truths that might destroy her family forever? Or will those months unearth a more authentic version of herself and where she stands as the new century approaches?

 

If you enjoy coming-of-age stories with a touch of romance and suspense, read the continuation of Vivian's story set in America's Gilded Age.

 

Get Pathfinding Women today and read about the summer that will change Vivian's life forever!

 

What reviewers are saying:

"This series is for those who love the era of gentile literature, the Jane Austen and Little Women-type stories of family saga, of noblesse oblige and grasping for status just before the rise of the middle class in America." - Lisa Lickel, author and blogger, Living our Faith Out Loud

 

"Vivian, the main character is definitely a voice of change and rebellion against the high society expectations that a young woman's sole purpose in life was to pursue and catch the best possible husband."

 

"This is a fascinating read about the challenge of being a woman who wants her freedom when societal expectations tell them that they shouldn't."

~~~

THE WAXWOOD SERIES

The Specter (Waxwood Series: Book 1)

False Fathers (Waxwood Series: Book 2)

Dandelions (Waxwood Series: Book 4)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreambook Press
• Release date: Sep 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780998338514

Tam May

Writing has been Tam May’s voice since the age of fourteen. She writes stories set in the past that feature sassy and sensitive women characters. Her fiction gives readers a sense of justice for women, both the living and the dead. Tam's stories are set mostly around the Bay Area because she adores sourdough bread, Ghirardelli chocolate, and San Francisco history. Tam is the author of the Adele Gossling Mysteries which take place in the early 20th century and features suffragist and epistolary expert Adele Gossling whose talent for solving crimes doesn’t sit well with the town’s more conventional ideas about women’s place. Tam has also written historical fiction about women breaking loose from the social and psychological expectations of their era. She has a 4-book historical coming-of-age series set in the 1890s titled the Waxwood Series and a post-World War II short story collection available. Although Tam left her heart in San Francisco, she lives in the Midwest because it’s cheaper. When she’s not writing, she’s devouring everything classic (books, films, art, music) and concocting yummy vegan dishes. For more information about Tam May and her books, check out her website at www.tammayauthor.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Want more feisty Gilded Age heriones who go against conventions? Love intricate mysteries with humor and a fun cast of characters? Then you’ll love my free offer at the end of this book! So don’t forget to check that out when you get to the end. Happy reading!

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The inhabitants of Washington Street, the bluest of the Nob Hill blue bloods, engaged in the most malicious gossip when one of their own got married or died, and Emma Miller’s wedding in the spring of 1899 was no exception. As Vivian leaned against the tree in Mrs. Bilton’s lavish garden, shaking away the hornets from the nest hidden among the overgrown vegetation, she marveled at how their words poisoned the sweet April morning. She was still recovering from the venomous talk at her grandmother’s funeral seven years earlier.

The current tongue-lashing was not toward any hitch in the wedding ceremony itself, for Mrs. Bilton helped Beatrice Miller to arrange everything, including the reception. Larissa, Vivian’s mother, had been eager to host the breakfast at Alderdice Hall where she had had the gazebo repainted that fall, and the flowers were just merging their delightful scents with the pleasant breeze of the early morning spring. It would have been, her mother said, a step toward reinstating themselves into the good graces of Washington Street society after what her mother had called that fiasco with your brother last year.

But Beatrice declined Larissa’s offer with a chilly apology, informing her Mrs. Bilton had agreed to set up the breakfast in her garden. Vivian wondered whether Mrs. Bilton did it deliberately so Beatrice could have the prerogative of refusing Larissa whom, Vivian had to admit, had always treated her distant cousin as if she were offering crumbs off her table.

Since the Washington Street magpies could not very well speak ill of a wedding reception arranged by one of their own shining socialites, they had chosen a more formidable target, the newly completed City Hall. The group near the gazebo comprised the original socialites and their daughters headed by Amber Griffith and Coleen Wingham, ladies still young, though not as young as the most recent wave of debutantes.

The plaza faces the entrance, Amber was saying. We need not bother with Market Street at all now.

Just as it should have been in the first place, Coleen said with a nod. She married Ezra Wingham only two years before but was already speaking as if she were native-born by latching herself on to Amber’s skirts. A city hall ought not to be part of the city landscape when it is so close to the downtown, as it’s in San Francisco.

That Gothic dome is very impressive, Mrs. Marsden, a timid woman, ventured.

Baroque, dear. Mrs. Breen corrected her as she corrected every affront to social grace that she deemed worthy of her attention.

Yes, yes, of course, the woman muttered.

After twenty-seven years, I think we deserved a new city hall. Mrs. Wingham helped herself to two lumps of sugar in her coffee. The old one was quite fine, but the new city hall—

Quite fine? Though Vivian had promised herself to remain silent, she couldn’t help but speak up now. It was a monument to this city’s blundering politicians!

All the ladies glared at her as if to remind her she and her mother had been asked to the wedding primarily because of their family ties to the Millers.

I’m sorry. She slunk back against the tree.

Rather blasphemous words coming from the lips of a young woman, grumbled Mrs. Breen. Your mother oughtn’t to allow you to read about politics and such.

All the ladies turned as if one body to gaze at the corner not far away. Larissa had placed herself at the disposal of Mrs. Moodie, the groom’s rather elderly and deaf mother, whose age excused her lack of discretion.

My mother has given up trying to tame my tongue, said Vivian with a sweet smile. I don’t doubt my peers’ words are as blasphemous as mine, though they don’t speak about politics.

We at least don’t meddle with radical reforms, Vivian, Amber said in her ice queen way. Miss Moore’s opinions are not welcome here.

Mrs. Griffith, Amber’s mother, who had joined the group just in time to hear the conversation, agreed, adding, She has become too liberal with them as of late.

The blue-stocking of Washington Street has an ally now, Mother, Amber said.

Vivian’s head throbbed as it always did when something stirred the rage inside her like a hurricane. But she remembered her mother’s admonition before they left the house: We must tread with them as if they were eggshells about to break. So she continued to smile, saying nothing.

Beatrice came then, her bright yellow dress sending a streak of blinding light against the dark green hues of that overgrown corner of the garden. Her cheeks were like two cherries, and she had been out of breath all day, though her step was, as usual, slow. Doesn’t Emma look lovely? she gasped.

I told you the cream would suit her better than the white, dear, didn’t I? Mrs. Breen smiled, patting her arm.

And Mr. Moodie is so — so—

Refined, Lona Marsden Lenville, Mrs. Marsden’s daughter, supplied with a bashfulness equal to her mother’s.

Yes, yes. Beatrice grabbed her wrist. Thank you. She twittered away.

All eyes turned toward the bride, a rather scarecrow figure in her loose lace dress, the veil sitting a little tilted back on her head. Mr. Moodie, the groom, was, in contrast, a rather rotund fellow whose balding head shone like crystal under the morning sun, as he had taken off his top hat, holding it as if he were unsure of what to do with it.

Amber spoke first. They make a rather awkward couple, don’t they?

I’ve always been of the opinion one’s husband should look as if one belonged in his company, Coleen stated, not without a little pride in her voice. She and Ezra looked more like brother and sister than man and wife.

You mustn’t fault her, dear, said Mrs. Breen. After all, considering the circumstances—

Well, Emma turned twenty-eight last May, didn’t she? Mrs. Griffith asked.

She went about it rather cleverly, said Mrs. Breen. She got Mr. Moodie to stay in town after the New Year, just when Mrs. Lawrence insisted that he had to go back to see to his mother in Boston, and completely turned his head. Who would have thought?

When a woman is determined not to be a spinster— Amber’s eyes were like a fly’s.

Yes, she was rather keen on that, said Lona. "Well, she was the last of us without a husband and surely every set must have its old maid."

Here, Vivian felt they were all looking at her, although none of the heads turned in her direction. She bit her lip hard to keep from speaking out and, putting her hands behind her, began the ladder game where she counted from the thumb up to the last finger and down again. It did not have the soothing effect that it did when she was a child.

The tongue-lashing ceased, and the conversation switched to summer plans.

The Lawrences are going to Catalina Island. Mrs. Griffith pulled the lace jacket around her ample bosom. They say the fishing there is excellent.

It’s so hot down in the southern part of the state, said Mrs. Bilton.

Mrs. Lawrence, said Mrs. Griffith with authority, was telling me just the other day there are far too many tourists invading the city in the last few years.

"Well, that is a blessing for some, Leila," Mrs. Wingham pointed out.

Fieldstone has those salt baths, offered Mrs. Breen. Matthew has such a bad back from working at that bank all day, I think I ought to persuade him to take a few weeks off in August and join us there.

We're going to Fieldstone, Mrs. Marsden said with a quivering chin. There will be such a mad rush to the Cardinal. It's the best hotel in town, you know.

We know, said Mrs. Breen, glaring at her. Then, she turned to Mrs. Griffith, who was the leader of their society. What about you, Leila?

We’ll be going to Waxwood this summer. The woman picked up her teacup.

The mention of Waxwood made Vivian grab the rough edge of the tree, the wood splintering her hands inside her lace gloves.

Mrs. Griffith cast an eye toward Vivian. We had quite a lovely time there last year, didn’t we, Vivian?

A lovely time, she murmured.

The Tishers will be there again, said Mrs. Griffith. Fern has become quite the belle of the season in New York, so I’m told.

A shame your brother is away just now, or he might have caught her interest. Mrs. Bilton had now joined the party. Jacob is a good-looking young man, as I recall. She eyed her. He won’t be back this summer, I gather?

Vivian’s hand raked against the tree to keep from bursting into tears, but her answer was short and composed. No, ma’am.

I forgot you know the place well, Mrs. Breen perked up.

Not very well. She glanced at the corner where Larissa was still with Mrs. Moodie. As her mother reached toward the old woman with a fresh cup of coffee, Vivian realized her mother’s hand was a little unsteady.

Didn’t your grandmother have quite an adventure there a long time ago? Amber asked.

Why, dear, that must have been forty-odd years ago! Mrs. Breen laughed.

Forty-five, Vivian said in a quiet voice.

Oh, how clever of you to remember. The woman grimaced.

It's changed so, of course, said Mrs. Griffith. They’ve been making quite a showing in that little town in the last five or six years.

Yes, I’ve heard Waxwood isn't merely a drab summer hamlet, Mrs. Bilton said. They've made it into a rather succulent little resort place. Some businessmen got wind of it. That lovely little bay and the mountains and those too-ancient trees, what do they call them?

Wax wood trees. Vivian cleared her throat. They named the town after them.

Fancy you knowing that, Coleen remarked.

I enjoy knowing about places, Vivian snapped.

I’m sure you do. The young woman gave her a haughty look, as if knowing such things were beneath her.

It's become highly cultivated, said Mrs. Marsden. Clyde and I are seriously considering it for next year. If we hadn't planned to go to Fieldstone this year— She sighed, clicking her tongue.

I’m sure we shall not lack for amusement, said Mrs. Griffith. I don’t believe we were bored for a moment last year.

They say the town has attracted quite a following in the arts, Mrs. Bilton chimed in.

Oh, certainly, there are at least a dozen galleries there now. Mrs. Breen said. It’s developing quite a reputation for exhibits and art shows.

Perhaps you ought to write to Jacob and tell him, Vivian. Amber’s eyes were as sly as a fox.

Vivian eyed her back. Jake wouldn’t even think of returning to America until he finished his studies.

Rather a shame, said Mrs. Griffith. We had quite a little coterie there, didn’t we? She did not wait for an answer. This year promises to be even better.

Vivian noted her mother had left Mrs. Moodie’s side and had been silently looming near the group for some time. Her eyes were elsewhere, but Vivian knew her ears were keen on the conversation, for the muscles of her neck were strained.

That sounds rather mysterious, Leila, Mrs. Breen said as she put down her cup. As if by instinct, all the ladies, young and old, leaned a little forward.

Mother only means because our cousin, the Canadian buccaneer, will be there to look for a wife, Amber said in a confidential tone.

The ladies all rumbled in the uncomfortable garden chairs as her mother chided her, "Monte Leblanc is not a buccaneer, dear. He came by his fortune ruffling no feathers."

Mrs. Breen said in a mild voice, I heard they’re a little wild in Canada.

Nonsense, Mrs. Griffith scoffed. Monte and his father have traveled all over the world. And I’m hoping to persuade them to build a house on that vacant lot at the end of the street. Then she said, He and I were inseparable as children. It was a surprising revelation, considering everyone on Washington Street knew Mrs. Griffith was rather self-conscious about the fact that she had spent part of her childhood away from San Francisco society.

I heard he’s frightfully rich, Hannah Breen, Mrs. Breen’s daughter, who had been attacking the fruit bowl, spoke up for the first time.

And frightfully old, Coreen said under her breath, too far away for Mrs. Griffith to hear, but close enough to earn a giggle among the younger set.

But Vivian had to wonder if Mrs. Griffith hadn’t heard her, as she now admitted, Monte isn’t so young, of course. Two years shy of fifty.

And widowed twice, her daughter added.

Oh, I remember now! Mrs. Marsden exclaimed. We met them at the Baroness Ozelthorpe’s villa several years ago, didn’t we, Lona? As I recall, he was quite taken by you, but you were engaged to dear Gus by then. She stole a glance at her daughter, who, with her silvery blond head tossed with curls over her forehead and blue eyes cut into her delicate face, always grabbed any man’s attention. Vivian glanced at her too, remembering how Lona had always used those tossed curls and eyes to ensure all male eyes were on her when they were both debutantes. That she had married Gus Lenville, a rather frumpy young man with a bobbing Adam’s apple who hovered around her, did not surprise Vivian.

Mrs. Griffith said in her confidential way, He and his father want to get into society here in the city.

Larissa had now come closer to Mrs. Breen and Mrs. Marsden. Mr. Leblanc has had a roaring success with lumber mills out in Canada, hasn’t he?

Indeed, Mrs. Griffith said with the same air of authority. "He retired from business some years ago. Monte just adores travel."

The well-traveled man is a blessing in any society, Mrs. Marsden ventured.

Both his wives died young, poor man. Mrs. Griffith sighed. This is the first time he’s thought about taking another.

I should think so, Coleen said with indignation.

If he’s looking to get into society, Mrs. Breen said, he couldn’t do better than Sophie Barnsdale or India Dunstan.

Vivian thought about the two young ladies she had seen only once at a recent ball. They reminded her of cranes, the way their long necks stretched over the crowd of dancers, their eyes popping, their gazes so calculating, she knew they were both engaged in guessing which of the young men would ask them to dance next. She had been introduced to both of them, and they had curtsied to her as they would to a woman twice her age, then turned their backs and began speaking in low voices in the broken French of girls taught the language by a governess only for gossip. Vivian had moved away, stung in spite of herself, as she had understood a word here and there and knew that they were speaking of her and her mother.

Older men do marry ladies young enough to be their daughters, Mrs. Marsden lamented.

I don’t think Monte is looking for a young woman necessarily, said Mrs. Griffith. "Not so young, anyway."

Then if he wants our society, he really has only one option, doesn’t he? Amber remarked.

Again, though heads did not turn and eyes did not fall upon her, Vivian felt as if she were trapped under a disguised gaze of intention. She turned sideways, staring into the wrinkles of the bush near the fence, its blank green glowing a little with hues of small red fruit.

Amber’s voice rose again with its raucous note. He may suit you admirably, Vivian, if you care to show any interest.

Vivian turned back around and said in a jaunty voice, If he’s a buccaneer, as you say, why wouldn’t I? My grandfather was such a man, wasn’t he? It did him no harm to marry my grandmother, did it?

This shut Amber down, but Vivian realized her mother was giving her a snappy look. She met Larissa’s eyes. The blue that had been more shaded like the sea in the past year now held again their fine sparkle.

She and her mother left the wedding breakfast early because Larissa claimed a headache. As they made their way to the street, Vivian glanced back and saw blurred impressions of the silk and lace skirts, the button top of one man’s hat, and the cream train following the bride around like an incessant puppy. It was as if they had stepped out of a painting.

At least they’re no longer gossiping about us the moment they think our backs are turned, Vivian remarked as they began the short walk from Mrs. Bilton’s house to Alderdice Hall.

Yes, they’re starting to lose interest in us as fodder for their talk, her mother said, relieved. Mrs. Griffith even said to me, ‘We hope you’ll consider coming to Waxwood again this summer’ before we left.

I’m rather surprised at her being so generous, Vivian remarked. We haven’t had many invitations this season, have we?

Mrs. Griffith has never behaved in the appalling manner of the others, Larissa insisted. She was with us last year, remember. She knows what a trying time we had with your brother.

Vivian grasped the edge of her parasol, feeling the heaviness of the wooden handle hard against her hand. Mother, you’re not thinking of going?

Going where?

To Waxwood, of course. She watched as one of the new automobiles whizzed past them on the other side of the street, leaving clouds of dust in the air.

Seven years ago, you went there willingly, against my wishes, even, said Larissa. Then, last year, you practically refused to go, and now you sound horrified even at the idea.

Seven years ago, I was looking for something, Vivian said quietly.

Yes, and you found it. Her mother gave her a shrewd look.

Which is precisely why I don’t want to go now! Vivian stopped and looked at her mother. That place is evil for us, Mother.

Don’t be ridiculous, said Larissa.

It ruined our social standing, Vivian pointed out.

Her mother began walking again. I’ll admit our position is a little precarious at the moment—

Waxwood ruined Jake’s life! Vivian felt herself choking.

Larissa looked straight ahead, her eyes a stinging blue. I told you never to mention that.

Put it away and don’t think about it? Vivian mocked, fighting back the tears.

They reached the gate of Alderdice Hall, and her mother glanced over her shoulder as she entered. I don’t think it’s wise for us to remain in the city this summer when no one else will.

Since our position is so precarious? Vivian growled

Precisely.

They entered the front hall, and Vivian watched as her mother laid out her accessories on the table as she always did when she returned from a party. Vivian gazed down at the velvet bag, the pince-nez her mother had carried with her since last winter, though she hardly needed them, and her fan. She suddenly saw how much Larissa had aged in the past year. She still had that regal pose that made the most of her unusually tall figure, but the lines showed around her eyes and lips, and there was a hardness set in her jaw now, as if she were perpetually preparing for tragedy.

Vivian gently laid a hand on her mother’s wrist. Perhaps you’re right, Mother. We can’t let them reject us over what they don’t know.

That’s right. They don’t know, do they? Larissa’s voice echoed in the dim hallway.

Pan, Vivian’s Scottish terrier, pranced in, bobbing his head in greeting and giving a deep roar of a bark, despite his small stature.

I hardly relished secreting myself in this dismal house for the entire summer, anyway. Vivian peeled off her gloves.

Larissa glanced at her as she lingered on the stairway. Your grandfather spent two years and quite a lot of money building this ‘dismal’ house.

And Grandmother hated it, Vivian reminded her. She said we would one day be buried alive in it. And she wasn’t far wrong, was she, Mother, considering what we’ve been through this year? That’s a burning of a sort, isn’t it?

You’re talking in circles, as usual. Her mother ascended the stairs.

I mean the way we’ve buried ourselves here since Jake went away.

Her mother’s eyes wandered to windows facing the front of the house. The curtains were open because of the temperate morning sun, but Vivian could not see the features of her face. There was a catch in her voice, as she said, You’d better take that dog of yours out into the garden before lunch. Pan whimpered, his head tilted back. He was always looking at Larissa with attentive eyes, as if trying to offer her a sympathy she didn’t want. Larissa looked at the dog for a moment, then continued up the stairs.

The abelia had blossomed all at once, and they gave the place the scent of spring in a more congenial way than Mrs. Bilton’s overpowering roses. Vivian sat on the grass, though she could imagine the disapproving glance that Mollie, her maid, would cast upon the green stains on her skirt later that evening. Pan was wagging his spear-like tail and looking at her with his sensitive eyes. She found a stick and threw it toward the lantana bushes on the other side of the garden, watching as he ran to retrieve it.

Her mind wandered to the wedding and the satisfaction she had seen on her cousin’s face as she walked down the aisle. She recognized that look of achievement, as when one held a winning hand of cards. Even if the hand one played was just barely won, the fact that one had gained a perspective above the others at the table was enough of a victory. Emma, with her large hands and feet, her crooked smile, and her plain features, had once confided in Vivian as they watched the debutantes who had come out the same time they had, taking their vows one at a time that she feared the dye was cast upon her. They’re like dominos falling in succession, she had remarked. Once one steps forward, the others follow to keep in line. I don’t want to be the one standing at the end of the line.

She couldn’t help but frown at the sun. Emma was the last, or almost the last. It was now she, Vivian, who was the last domino, the one that remained standing.

Pan returned with the stick in his mouth and dropped it in front of her on the grass, tilting his head with his affectionate, wise eyes, as if soaking in her contemplation. She nuzzled the dog’s head. Sometimes in the past year, especially when they returned from Waxwood in the fall, and the house echoed with their hard heels, a reminder that only she and Larissa were left of the Alderdice family, when Pan had been her only comfort. What an irony that the man who caused the most harm to her brother was responsible for this one solace!

Despite her determination that past year to forget Harland Stevens, the memory of the man assailed her at the oddest moments. She could see the outline of the towering figure, his head raised above all others, his flaming red hair and his burning coal eyes. She had imagined that calm smile, that charming, mild voice that hid something more vicious and frightening. She loathed him as one loathed Lucifer and, indeed, in her eyes, there was no difference.

Pan struggled to get away from the embrace that had become too stifling. He paddled around the lawn, sniffing at various flowers, drawing away from the lavender as if it were on fire. She recalled the stalks of lavender at the church, the way they had given off their tangy scent, sending a wave of perfume over everyone’s heads. Until Vivian smelled the lavender, she had not realized she was sitting with both her hands wringing her handkerchief. Watching Emma standing at the altar, she wanted to be her. Despite her escape into books since her husband Miles had died, aching in the back of her mind had been the idea imposed upon her since she came out at eighteen: she had duties to fulfill, expectations from both the Alderdice specters and Washington Street blue bloods. The thought of those duties at the wedding had filled her with determination, but now they frightened her as much as the day of her debutante ball, when she had held her grandmother’s pink pearls in her hand, when the weight of them had reminded her of the weight of those expectations.

The door to the yard opened and Missy, the scullery maid, toddled out, carrying a tin of refuse from the lunch preparations. She gave a respectful bow to Vivian and, as she did so, Pan flew into the house through the door she had left open. Vivian rushed in after him amidst Missy’s hasty apologies.

Vivian could hear Pan’s scruffy barks in another wing of the house. She called to him, but he only barked in return. She reached the stairs and went up to the second floor, where Pan’s roar echoed down the hall. Vivian passed through the corridor, catching sight of Annie, the housemaid, with the dust rag in her hand. Reaching the end, she found Pan there, his neck craning to look up at two large double doors that led into the east wing.

She realized the dog had not been idly rushing through the house. He had been following the same sense of ghostliness that had been filling her with apprehension as they neared the summer. Those doors led through a wood-paneled wing and onto a marbled floor where Ancestor Hall lay.

The place that had meant so much to Jake, with those lamb-faced portraits, had done as much damage to him as Mr. Stevens had. More so, perhaps, because they still hung in Alderdice Hall. She had pleaded with Larissa to take them down when they returned from Waxwood, all but Great-Grandfather Merton and Grandfather and Grandmother.

You can’t possibly want to maintain the façade now, Mother, she had said, her eyes burning with tears.

But her mother remained adamant. We need something to hold on to, Vivian. Now, perhaps, more than ever.

Pan scraped at one of the doors. Vivian tried the handle, but it remained firmly in its place. She tried the other one, but it would not yield. She could almost hear the echo of the specters tapping on the marble floor beyond.

She picked up the dog and began walking back to the major part of the house. So, Larissa insisted on holding on to those Alderdice martyrs, but she had locked the door. A pain in Vivian’s chest eased. The specters were locked in now, and perhaps they could begin again in the same place where she and her mother had ended last summer.

The dining room at lunchtime looked twice the size it had been when Vivian was a child. She had once read that rooms grew smaller through adult eyes. But as Basset served the soup, she looked at the cupboard that took up the entire wall, noticing how the ferns hovered with their delicate leaves near the window, and the candelabra glowed at the center of the table. It was then she realized why the room looked so large. It was because the dining room table was so empty, emptier than it had been all year. Larissa had come into the room for lunch and taken the place where Grandfather had sat at the end nearest to the window, the chair elevated slightly. Vivian, without realizing it, had taken her place at the other end facing her. She was staring at her mother as if at a doll, and she didn’t wonder that Larissa saw her in the same way.

Mother, I’d like to move to my old chair, if that’s all right with you, she said. She had a sudden fear her mother could not hear her, so far off.

Larissa answered, If you wish, dear.

Vivian slid the chair away and took the one on Larissa’s left side. Pan, who had wandered into the dining room, though he was forbidden to sample the meal, settled under the table near her feet. Her mother sat upright, her ankles crossed, the spoon clanking against the rings on her fingers when she lifted it to her lips.

I think we ought to go to Waxwood, just as Mrs. Griffith suggested, Vivian began.

Larissa peered at her. You mean you’ve changed your mind?

Don’t you remember Grandfather’s wish for me as he lay dying? As she said this, it was almost as if the croaking words echoed in the massive room: Rissa, see that she marries again.

I didn’t think you remembered, Larissa said softly.

He wanted no more running off in the family, said Vivian. This Mr. Leblanc wouldn’t run off, if he’s so eager to get into Washington Street.

You’re willing to entertain the idea of marrying again? The idea struck a note of hope in her mother’s voice as some lines from the last year disappeared from her face.

It’s been five years since Miles had his accident, Vivian said. I don’t even take a widow’s name. You insisted on that, remember?

Only because I thought Miss Alderdice would be much more enticing to an eligible young man than Mrs. Caulfield, Larissa said. Not that it seems to have done much good.

Well, I think five years is ample time to recover from the sudden death of one’s husband of ten months, don’t you?

Is that what you’ve been doing burying yourself in books? Her mother raised her eyebrow. Trying to recover?

Vivian grimaced. The problem with being locked in a house with only one other person for so long is that you get to know them too well. You’re right, Mother. I never really had time to know Miles, so how could I be the grieving widow?

Larissa wiped her lips and motioned for Basset to take away the empty soup plate.

Aren’t you pleased? Vivian observed her.

Naturally, she said. But you’ve always had a strong sense of allegiance to your family. I knew you would come around once you realized your place.

My place as a socialite, you mean? Vivian glanced at her.

I mean your place as an heiress.

Not entirely, Vivian said. That rather depends on Jake, doesn’t it?

Your brother has made his choice. Her mother’s voice was wispy.

There’s always a hope he might change his mind, isn’t there?

We’re not discussing that, said Larissa. We’re discussing the future of this family.

I thought that’s just what I was discussing!

They both remained silent as Basset slid in and served the Cornish hens and rice and Brussel sprouts. When he withdrew, her mother patted her hand. Vivian could feel the cold bands of her rings tapping against her skin. I’m glad to hear you intend to get serious about your future. And I think you’ve chosen your suitor wisely.

You say that without knowing him, she said.

He’s a relative of Mrs. Griffith’s, however distant, said Larissa. That’s enough for me. And I’ve seen a few things in the paper about the Leblancs. Enough to know we needn’t be ashamed to cast our lot with theirs.

He’s not yet my suitor, said Vivian with a little laugh. With all the younger girls flittering about the way they have this season, I’m not at all certain I have a chance.

You come from more original stock than they are, dear, Larissa insisted. I’ve no doubt Monte Leblanc will see that.

Vivian shrank back, playing with the Brussels sprout at the end of her fork. Pan whimpered near her feet. You make me sound like a prize cow,