Who Was Victoria Silkee

By Barbara L. Wyckoff

Can Mere Words Preserve a Bygone Era
And a Woman who was so Refined
She Became a Madam by Design
To Protect an Estate Forgotten by Time

The year is 1915 and Grace Irene Anderson had been given an assignment to write an article for an Ozark periodical. This was about a parcel of land and a home hidden away by the heavy foliage of the Southern Missouri Ozarks which time could have continued to overlook. That was until it came under the greedy eyes of the city fathers in the burgeoning city becoming a prime location for city expansion. Madam Silkee as she preferred to be known simply said, “No.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664147300

Barbara L. Wyckoff

About the Author . . . Barbara L. Wyckoff With her creativity, curiosity and constant quest for knowledge of bygone eras, Barbara L. Wyckoff is able to reach across time into the past. She writes with wisdom about the mountains, the streams, the rivers and a time that once was. It is with the greatest of sensitivity she writes of aging people, choices they must make for the uncertain future they face and the emotions of someone lost between two races of people.

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Copyright © 2021 by Barbara L. Wyckoff.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/19/2020

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Silkee Homestead A Time Past 1842

Chapter Four

Carriage House Dinner

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Dinner with the Ladies

Ladies From The Past

Imagery only in the Mind

A Heart Stolen

Solitude

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

1865 How the Heart Began

Chapter Nine

Faint Echo

Last Chapter

Epilogue

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~The~ Madam Victoria Silkee once said, For all the ladies who are, who once were and are no more, listen carefully. I tell you, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and morals in the mind of the believer, then belief in beauty is in the eye of the beholder where moralistic values can be revisited when the realistic truth about the person be known.

Chapter

One

Being a properly well-reared woman of the early 1900s presented rigid pathways to follow. It could be a woman’s choice, or a choice imposed upon her, to become an old maid allowing a certain status to mature into a spinsterhood with the passing of years. If this was the case, it was prudent she relied on the generosity of her father to provide for her. She might or might not have a dowry; however, it would remain untouched with the ever-fading hope she would have need of it if a proper suitor favored her. Her spinsterhood could lead her into being a nurse, a librarian or schoolteacher if she was of a working persuasion feeling it necessary to have her own means. No matter what, she was under all circumstances to remain chaste in thought, action, or deed.

If a woman was married, the intensity of this rigid womanhood was softened where she remained chained by the invisible bondages of a home with a brood of children laboriously produced from her husband. A husband not always of her choosing but many times the choice of her family who obviously knew best for her. A husband whose interests with her were primarily: church on Sunday where images were maintained, a tidy home where teas could be served to the ladies of the community especially from the church circles, occasional brandies to the menfolk, well prepared on-time meals, with sexual intercourse on occasion which produced the children who had to be constantly attended.

Grace Irene Anderson had been brought forth into the modest Anderson Family, reared and raised with all the turn-of-the-century great values with greater pretensions deeply instilled in every aspect of her life befitting the middle child of five children.

Her baby brother, Ernest, had died of pneumonia when only four years old. Her oldest sister, Susan, was safely married with three children plus a home of her own on the East side of Springfield across town from the Anderson’s original home out on Sunshine Road. This was where she served modest teas, dinners of proper aplomb sprinkled with a most refined dignity. Her younger sister, Julia, two years her junior, was struggling with school along with very much living at home. Then there was Rowena of whom the family rarely spoke except in hushed whispers.

Rowena had argued violently with her father regarding moral values on far too many occasions resulting in her finally moving out to live in a boarding house somewhere on the Southside. Her means of income were questionable and not spoken of at all.

Grace Irene had graduated high school, taken one year of a favorable finishing school but then to the chagrin of her parents, most graciously set aside the softened version of a young woman seeking marriageable suitors to protect her virtues, choosing to remain unmarried while she sought a career in journalism.

Grace I. Anderson had sought, and succeeded in securing, a post with a most respectful local magazine in the burgeoning, yet still sleepy mid-America City of Springfield, Missouri where she had been born into the staunchly solid Victorian Anderson Family.

While still a young girl, she recognized and appreciated her gift. A talent to put words together in a most fashionable way. She enjoyed her dolls and had imaginary tea times with her sisters. However, she much preferred a quiet spot, her tablets, and pencils where her creativity could spill out on page after page describing what she had seen or where she had been. Her early writings, often than not, were poetic in their colorful descriptive way. She slowly evolved into literary phrases and merged the two. While she matured, the result was intricately beautifully written.

After graduation, she had boldly approached The Ozark Monthly Gazette’s owner, Charles Dobson, who immediately recognized her writing abilities. In short order, her writings were well received in a bylined column written on topics of interests about affluent families of the Ozark Region of Southern Missouri along with their social events.

It was however, her secret, deepest desire to write poetry, hoping someday to publish a book of her poetic efforts. Grace felt she was good with her words of gentle rhyming but was hesitant to share them for fear of rejection.

Her byline, Ozark Shade gave her the sense of pride of accepted writing which had its rewards. Plus, the modest income gave her a sense of independence while she saved to hopefully, someday, see her way clear to seek the climes of New York City where she knew the Ivory Tower publishers had their refined offices. This was where true literary fame was achieved. This was what she thought she desired the most.

However, at 21 years old, Grace Anderson was honored to be writing, earning her own way, up to a point, while keeping her dreams of writing fame alive. She had been a bit surprised, silently a bit excited with more than curiosity when her editor had called her into his office to give her an assignment which he said would prove to be most interesting. Most unusual he had said

Ah, Miss Anderson, please come in, come in. Be seated.

Many folks who had met Charles Dobson, editor/owner of The Ozark Monthly Gazette {A Magazine for True Ladies}, found his demeanor to be affable, charming in mixed company, considerate but concise and deliberate with his words of worldly knowledgeable.

Grace agreed about the man’s reputation and she too found him to be affable, charming when he chose to be, considerate with her and all the staff; however, strict with his words, critical of her writing when she required it but completely untidy with his office which drove her to distraction. Nothing ever changed in this room no matter how many times she had entered and sat in the solemn, straight-backed chair across the paper and litter strewn desk where he purported to be busy with articles relevant to the magazine he owned.

Through the months, she had been employed by this man to write her column, Ozark Shade, she had learned the unmarried Charles Dobson worked at his long table by the floor to ceiling south facing windows where the light was the best. This was where he spent laborious hours proofing and editing every story, byline or column published in the exceedingly popular magazine he controlled. This was his job. He did it quite well knowing those who read his magazine, the affluent of Southern Missouri, to include his competitors, which would be quick to point out errors.

He found little to fault with G. I. Anderson her demeanor, values, or her writing. Those were the reasons why he felt confident the assignment he had for her would be perfectly written along with beautifully executed to the precise standards of The Ozark Monthly Gazette {A Magazine for True Ladies}.

Charles Dobson appraised this young woman, nodding his slightly balding head while he looked at her over his thick horn-rimmed glasses.

Grace Irene Anderson met his stare, all the while appraising the clutter on the desk noting new round circle coffee stains on papers lying on top of papers where he had set his coffee cups.

Miss Anderson, he began, Grace, he rephrased, I have a most important, rather unusual assignment for you. He stopped, cleared his throat, wet his lips, and cocked his head to one side appraising her most carefully. It was a delicate assignment and he wanted to phrase his words properly. He had listened to the scuttlebutt while having drinks with his journalistic acquaintances, however wanted the truth.

Miss Anderson, he began again. As you are aware, the standards of our magazine are quite high which gives us the better edge for our readership which is among the most prestigious in Southern Missouri.

Grace frowned a bit, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. She nodded her head slightly not sure where this conversation was going. He had merely been stating the obvious about the publication. She knew of no slight on her column Ozark Shade. Just the opposite. She was privileged to, in addition to her byline, responses to comment letters regarding the magazine. Good or bad. Comments for Ozark Shade were always good whereas other articles were sometimes found with fault by the readership. She waited while he shuffled a few papers around on his desk before continuing.

This affable, considerate man stood, opened a window before he lit a cigar blowing the bluish smoke to the outside world remaining by the window while he continued his reason for calling her to his office.

He was quick and to the point. There is a woman I want you to interview. She has a questionable ……. and he paused, choosing his words carefully, Dubious history but her heritage along with her family are of old stock I have been told. They were apparently some of the original homesteaders in this area possibly dating back to before the War between our States if my vague information is correct. Apparently, she is restricting progress in our city because of where her property lies. Springfield wants it. She is refusing to sell. My nose for news tells me there is more to this than just her refusal to sell.

Grace drew back a bit. She had not interviewed any of the old and older order of Springfield in quite some time being more persuaded toward the spring and fall cotillions, birthing of inheritors of estates, birthday events, tea parties, graduations, bridal and wedding showers, weddings and ribbon cutting events when some new structure was being opened all dependent on the hierarchy of those involved. Does this woman have a family name? she queried only too aware of the continual hierarchy surrounding where Springfield was situated on the continental map.

Dobson cleared his throat, stubbed out his cigar, for which Grace was grateful. He sat back down across the paper strewn desk. The family name is Silkee, spelled with two ees. Her name is Victoria. Yes, he repeated, Victoria Silkee of Silkee Estates. What I find intriguing is where this estate is located coupled with the fact no one seems to know who she is.

With the statement, he pulled a file partially hidden under a stack of papers and opened it.

Here is the city street map and platting of where this estate is showing Doling Park across the way. I have been to the park a dozen times over but do not recall an estate of any kind nearby. Must be well hidden back in there somehow at 22 LaRue Lane which I have never heard of either. But, according to this platting, it is right here.

Dobson pushed the folder across the top of a pile of loose papers causing some to flutter to the floor. Grace ignored the fallen papers not rushing to pick them up. She had seen this previously with piles of papers on the floor. They were of no consequence to him, at this moment but might be in the next minute. He was set in his own ways.

With her interest piqued she scrutinized the crossroads on the faded map. Mr. Dobson, I don’t believe I have ever heard of a 22 LaRue Lane either. My parents took my sisters and myself to the park on numerous Sunday occasions. Silkee Estate, she said her eyebrows arching upward toward her pinned back hairline. I am intrigued. You say the city wants this property. Do you know precisely why?

Relighting his cigar, he went back to the window to allow some of the smoke to waft away again toward the streets outside. Grace, he said watching an old farm truck loaded with corn slowly wind its way down the street and out of sight, It’s called progress and all cities around the world are filled with greedy men who want it all in the name of insidious progress. This woman who lives there, he turned seeing her where she still sat holding the city map, May be close to 70 years old. She and her property seem to be in their way. She probably wants to live out her years on this estate. But, my dear girl, I believe there is more to this Victoria Silkee and her estate than her refusal to sell. Precisely what I want you to find out. Who is Victoria Silkee? Why won’t she succumb to the powers of greed and the wonders of progress? It was within his knowledge if the money was high enough, those who controlled old plats of land were easily bought out by the city allowing the city sprawled.

Grace refolded the map and drummed her fingers lightly on the arm of the chair where she sat. Well and good enough, she thought but had not forgotten a word this chief editor of The Ozark Monthly Gazette had used to first describe this woman. You said she was of … how did you day, dubious character? Would you care to elaborate?

Charles Dobson cleared his throat and continued to look across the street outside the news building where The Ozark Monthly Gazette was housed. He felt his cheeks flush a bit. It is of a somewhat delicate nature. I do recall, being the young man I once was, hearing stories of what was politely referred to as ‘boarding houses’ in and around old Springfield.

Grace watched him while questions began swirling in her mind. It was not like this man to flounder compared to a fish out of water. She was not completely innocent of the world being aware boarding houses could be places of dubious natures to say nothing of nefarious pleasures. She had read her Gothic Novels and was historically literate regarding the placement of many retired Madams who bought boarding houses but richly came out of retirement when their endeavors proved to be less than profitable.

He turned back to again face his employee, this lovely young woman with a more than extraordinary gift of vocabulary along with a properly elegant way of capturing the reader with her words. She would be ideally perfect to interview whoever this older woman might be.

I will not say, he emphatically stated, this woman, this Victoria Silkee may not be anything less than a true lady of our times and apparently the legal owner of the estate where she apparently has resided for many years. However, and he paused. My sources tell me, there do seem to be some rumors being bantered about because her name and the parcel of land which has come to the attention of our, how do I say it? Our founding fathers who would like to ‘found’ a bit more. They want her out threatening condemnation of the property if the money won’t achieve their ends.

Grace closed her eyes sucking in her breath deeply.

You can decline the assignment if you feel ill at ease, he added and sat back down. His prime journalist might be young in her years, but she was well advanced in professionalism and seeking truisms for her authorship.

Grace’s curiosity was racing far ahead of any rationality about what might or might not be prudent for her or professional truisms regarding this woman who lived at 22 LaRue Lane near Doling Park. Truth be upfront, she was a bit bored with the virtuous continuance of Missouri’s Southern Ozark’s debutants and upper stratums. Being intrigued, she was more than a little interested in securing an interview with Victoria Silkee. Somehow a little of her rebellious nature surfaced and she thought it most interesting to possibly put a tiny thorn in the side of public policies and politics.

She stood up, breathing quite easily, letting the expression on her face put Mr. Charles Dobson, her employer, at ease. I will send my calling card with a request for an interview immediately. We do not know who this woman is or was, or what this Silkee Estate is all about sitting in the way of Springfield’s growth. Mr. Dobson, your nose for news rarely, if ever, fails you. Something tells me, there is more than just a story of an aging matriarch to be found.

Turning, Grace walked to the door and looked back. Perhaps, I will shock the old order of Springfield’s aristocracy.

He dismissed her by saying, Miss Anderson, you are certainly an asset to The Ozark Monthly Gazette. Thank you. The man looked down at the disorder on his desk. Maybe, those old prunes will have something more to prune up about," he mused and began trying to sort some of the papers strewn on his desktop. Failing to make sense of his task, he swiveled around in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and let his mind wander away from the magazine and to a truly young time in his memory.

He had not been entirely honest with Grace Irene Anderson, but then, he was not 100% sure of the vague memory he had but the mist surrounding the memory was lifting.

Chapter

Two

It had been a difficult task but not an impossible one for Grace I. Anderson, a journalist with the well-received by-line in The Ozark Monthly Gazette, to find LaRue Lane. After driving around Doling Park twice, directing her attention along Talmage to Grant all the way to Kerr Street and back around again, she had finally spotted a slightly hidden, small driving lane going off Grant under a strong canopy of massive oaks and towering cottonwood trees combined with a total tangle of briers and scrub weeds.

At first, the lane was rough in the ruts which appeared to have been there forever. Grace was a skilled enough driver due to navigating many lanes and drives to sometimes rather distant estates many obscured by the Ozark hills where those of affluency chose to build. This though was different. This estate, if it was at the end of this lane, was fairly close to the middle of Springfield situated somehow apparently butted up to Doling Park. How could it be so overlooked by progress and the passing of time? She was extremely determined to find out.

I have got to be close, she thought judging the distance. She surmised if she drove much farther, she would be in Doling Park. Then appearing around a rather large sweeping curve, she saw what she assumed to be the Silkee home. She stopped the car to stare in amazement.

In front of her across a well-manicured pasture sat a two-story limestone house with large dormers framing double high arched windows and huge moss-covered overhangs shading what appeared to be a porch walkway surrounding what part of the house she could see. Behind the house were more of the huge cottonwood trees seeming to touch the sky. Below these massive trees were flowering dogwoods and she thought she saw a mulberry tree or two. It was no wonder this home, this estate was so secluded. Unless you were on this LaRue Lane, you could not see it from any angle outside the acreage.

Surrounding the pasture was a split rail fence where someone had strategically planted clumps of cardinal flowers, primroses, and purple cornflowers. These plants were all in various stages of bloom. This was also a well-manicured area.

On a well-placed post was a weathered sign with the number 22 and the words LaRue Lane carved into the wood and painted a dark rose color. She had found it. The street which was not on any map.

She slowly drove on up the lane but did not see a place to park other than in the middle of the lane until she was parallel to the house. It was here