Lucette

By Donna J. Burr

Named after her mother, Lucette is raised by her maiden Aunt Sophie in New York City, her mother having died during the typhoid epidemic of 1906-1907. The story opens in 1923. Just having reached her majority, at twenty-one, Lucette is sent to Giverny, France, ostensibly to study garden design and gardening under the tutelage of Claude Monet's lead gardener. As a budding watercolorist, she looks upon this as an opportunity to explore her own artistic growth. Lucette is not aware of her Aunt Sophie's ulterior motive, that she learn of long-hidden family secrets, secrets that will change her life, and her own sense of self, and personal history. Added to the mix are Lucette's challenging encounters with the man himself, Claude Monet, at a difficult time in his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna J. Burr
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223587552

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

In the main, I am a tolerant person. One must be to survive the New York City cacophony comprised of rambunctious crowds and the constant drone of modern mechanical noises. Fortunately, as of this year, my forbearance had yet to be seriously tested. This was after all, 1923, and an exceptionally exuberant era in which to come of age at twenty-one. Hence, my new motto: Hang all remnants of Victorianism! Except, of course, for my dear Aunt Sophie Bellamy.

As a rule, I adore living with my aunt in New York’s Greenwich Village, the West Village to be precise, even if Aunt Sophie is overly protective and firmly old-fashioned. The Village is an excitingly bohemian place, overflowing with a mélange of ethnic cafés and bistros, artist lofts, and do not forget the smoky jazz clubs hidden in dark cellars. I am often enticed to pause and listen to soulful saxophone music floating out to the sidewalk from some cellar or another. I will not mention the forbidden speakeasies. Not a peep.

Avant-garde as the Village is, it never ceases to amaze that, thus far, we’ve not been overrun by the snobby, nouveau-riche, many of whom would arrogate anything new and exciting, claiming it their own invention.  

Aunt Sophie is well acquainted with a flock of those twittering uptown Grande Dames and socialites - nouveau-riche and old money alike. She does not discriminate. Figuratively speaking though, Sophie holds her nose to maintain those useful social contacts. In truth, she is not a featherbrain. Shall I say, she’s more akin to an intense, well-bred mule. Be that as it may and in the privacy of our home, I have been privy to Auntie’s use of a few graphic and inelegant descriptions of the Dames. With their dainty noses normally at a high elevation it is unlikely that those women are aware of my aunt’s cleverly masked antipathy.

Aunt Sophie and I have a special bond, in that I’ve always been treated as more mature than my years. Yet, I dare not voice my observation that her ostensibly close relationships with the Dames may place her on the brink of the hypocrisy she so scorns.

Imagine my surprise then, when she let slip that it may have been one of the Grande Dames who proposed that I pursue a course of study in France that could lead to a career. Did their alleged involvement bother me? Not at all. I can be practical when pressed, especially having achieved the age of majority. Women having a career, as opposed to a mundane job, was a relatively new theory, but a modern and growing concept at the time. I was game.

I must mention that years before the France scheme arose, I was extremely self-conscious. From early childhood until my nineteenth birthday I suffered from abnormal scrawniness, the most angular example of femininity. Sharp bones protruded everywhere. Even my long-lashed brown eyes appeared bulbously prominent in a too-narrow face.

I complained pathetically to Aunt Sophie, Where in my five-foot-five shell are these purported female hormones hibernating?

Though she and I shared the same height, Sophie was Rubenesque, and I was envious.

During my nineteenth year, my life transformed. Oddly, it was in the dead of winter that my lethargic hormones woke from hibernation and leapt into action. I began sprouting; a weed out of control. Aunt Sophie ruined several of her own shoes dragging me, monthly, to Macy’s to keep me properly clothed for polite society. All the same, our ballooning expenses were agreeably counterbalanced by my dwindling shyness.

To top it all off, as my former gaunt visage filled out, unexpected dimples appeared, and my large eyes added a satisfying symmetry. Mirror, mirror, on the wall now gave an acceptable answer.

Considering my recently acquired curvaceous, striking good looks – Aunt Sophie’s description - and considering the fact that my social standing precluded being a suitable match for any of the salivating sons of Dames, it was entirely conceivable that one of the upper crusts deigned to offer career advice.

I suspected ulterior motives on someone’s part; get the temptress out of town, though Sophie never specified which of the mothers it was. Since my blooming, some of the socialite’s boys had been sniffing on my heels, hot to trot. Not that I gave a fig about any of their dullard sons. The lot of them were infantile, more interested in boozing it up and maintaining their manicures than reading a classic or having an intelligent conversation. Based on our observations, my education at the Village West High School far surpassed their expensive preparatory academies.

Of my school, the socialites deigned to say ‘It is only seventy-five years old, hardly an established institution, darling.’

Regardless of my generally pleasant life with Aunt Sophie, I almost literally leaped at the chance to study abroad. The suggested break from routine, perhaps from each other, seemed opportune, if not wildly exciting.

The catalyst actually began three years earlier, after high school graduation, when Aunt Sophie allowed me a few months respite before addressing any further studies. I quickly grew bored, moping and under foot, day in, day out. She couldn’t bear my constant sighs and complaints.

Lucy! You must find something respectable to occupy your days and get out of the apartment for at least half of the week. Elsewise, I shall go mad from all of this moaning nonsense.

What I settled on had me out of the apartment, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, suitably mollifying her.

I am a voracious reader and enjoy learning, but do admit that hitherto, the horticulture classes that I chose to attend were a mere pastime. The classes were held in the glass-domed conservatory of the New York Botanical Gardens, a colorful and fragrant contrast to the city stone and grime. It was effortless to sit back, occasionally listening to the drone of the instructor, while surrounded by the spectacular forest of lovingly cared for plants. The setting was also a delightful, albeit steamy, reprieve from the temperamental New York weather.

In truth, and general horticulture aside, I unexpectedly became enamored with the idea of gardening, especially on a grand scale, and my sketchbooks filled with detailed floral illustrations and garden fantasies.

The horticulture instructor even commented on the remarkable realism of my drawings. Miss Bellamy, have you been studying the preeminent Sydney Parkinson, and the drawings he did on the Endeavour with Captain Cook?

No sir, I admitted. I hadn’t been aware of Parkinson and my later library research was a revelation.

It was also during the first warm season of these classes that our apartment balcony began filling with potted plants. Over time, my grand garden left little to no room for us to lounge outdoors in the evening and enjoy a sunset.  

Aunt Sophie was hesitant to complain, since it was she who insisted I find a suitable interest. However, in a forthright yet gentle manner, she did draw the line when over-watered flowerpots began appearing in the living room, a few leaking on our lovely, antique oriental carpets, or when bits of soil began staining the mahogany Empire-style tables.

From my earliest years it was also she who had stressed the importance of education and the pursuit of a career, though horticultural work for a woman seemed a bit outlandish to her. Nevertheless, I wanted to calm her irritation over the balcony situation.

Auntie, I explained, I realize that the idea of pursuing horticulture as a career possibility is new. Given my previous lack of focus I understand your skepticism. However, you do know that I am energetic when inspired, and the horticulture classes have truly enlightened and inspired me.

Her ambivalence was evident. "Well, possibly. Do think in practical terms about what you wish to pursue. I must remind you, and keep this in mind, we are merely comfortable, not wealthy. With care, we get by, she emphasized. Hopefully my investments, including your Trust, will remain sound, but those funds may not last for your lifetime. Women nowadays must work toward financial independence. Too long have we been subject to the whims of men."

Whims of men? To my knowledge, Sophie had never mentioned suffering any male whim. But then, . . . I’d never thought to ask.

Nevertheless, I was faced with a serious challenge. What to do with my life? Pursue something acceptably feminine - a librarian or florist, or God forbid, a nurse?

What then?

Something clicked into place when our mantel clock literally ticked over on the eve of my twenty-first birthday, the midnight chimes waking me from a sound sleep. It struck me that it was high time to tackle the major issues in life. No more dilly-dallying.

Unable to fall back to sleep, I lay awake for hours, pondering. For Sophie, my future financial security was primary. For me, prior to planning anything, it was high time to confront a more deeply seated and highly emotional question that plagued me; that of my origin. Who was I really? Over the years, questions had routinely bubbled to the surface. As it was, I knew little but my mother’s name, Lucette Bellamy, after whom I was named. Intuitively, I knew there had to be more to learn.

While growing up, I was perceptive enough to recognize that Aunt Sophie took great pains to keep my childhood carefree. Negativity and sadness had no place in our daily lives. And I was content, until I turned nine or ten and prematurely entered the pre-pubescent/thinking/analytical stage. Being a curious child, observing my friends with two-parents, while I only had a maiden aunt, questions were inevitable. For some reason, the subject had been taboo, my queries constantly met with diversions.

" I have to meet with the building superintendent about a potential plumbing problem should the temperature outdoors ever fall below freezing, or rise above ninety," was typical of Sophie’s unimaginative excuses. More commonly, my questions were met with sphinxlike silence.

By my thirteenth year, under duress Sophie relented somewhat. Fine! I suppose that you are old enough to hear some of the sordid facts.

Clear in my memory are certain details: 

Ten years older than her sister Lucette, Sophie had been a staid and responsible honor student, a delight to her parents. Lucette, on the other hand, had been a trial since birth. The girl hated school and stubbornly resisted rules. At their wits end, the Bellamy parents decided on a less formal approach to Lucette’s education. They appointed the very mature Sophie as chaperone to Lucette for an extended European tour. This was all the rage in some circles, touted as highly educational and rather affordable for the times.

Sophie, however, was well aware that her parents were more than relieved to have a great span of time free from the intractable Lucette. The incorrigible girl had long been an embarrassment. She was often truant, and when in school, though highly intelligent, overtly cheated on her work, just for a giggle, or engaged in bawdy behavior with boys. Sophie, on the other hand, coped well with her little sister and secretly admired Lucette’s free spirit. Despite their age difference, the two girls were exceptionally close.

The extended educational European tour was truncated when word of a serious typhoid outbreak in New York City reached them. As luck would have it, they were situated closer to home, because quite early on during their tour, the girls had diverted from Europe to Ottawa, Canada. In Ottawa, they were hosted by old friends of their parents who were able to quickly secure train passage for the Bellamy girls to return home.

Return home they did. All three. Sophie, teen mother Lucette, and a weaned toddler, Lucette. Scandalous, yes, but not surprising. Around town, the most prevalent whispered observation was: What did one expect from that unmanageable Lucette Bellamy? As for the infant’s father? Unknown was listed on the birth certificate.

By the time Sophie and the two Lucettes arrived home the Bellamy’s cook/housekeeper had already contracted the typhoid contagion, left the Bellamy’s employment, and went home to die. Tragically, my mother, teenaged Lucette also contracted the same horrible disease, and died in disgrace, during New York City’s typhoid fever epidemic in 1906. My grandparents likewise perished, perhaps contracting the disease from their daughter. Blessedly, Sophie and I survived. I was barely beyond three, and have no memories of my mother, grandparents, or of that grave era.  

With no other known relatives, the choice was either abandoning me to an orphanage or adopting me. Sophie chose adoption. This was an oddity in that era, generally frowned upon for a single woman, even if we were related. Thankfully, her financial burden was relieved by the inheritance from her parents.

In my tender thirteenth year, hearing this history was a shock, and it was understandable that my aunt had sheltered me until then. I almost wished I’d never probed.

By my recent twenty-first birthday, Sophie’s reluctance to further enlighten me on the subject of my paternity had become a vexation. I wanted details and confronted her. "Why is father unknown on my birth document? How could my mother not have known? How did she, a teen girl, get pregnant while under your care, Sophie?"

I craved answers.

Not forthcoming with all the answers, Sophie finagled the marvelous diversion, which I was ever so happy to accede to.

As it happened, the contentious atmosphere that we found ourselves in, coincidently coupled with my recently developed interest in gardens, particularly French country gardens, settled my decision for study abroad. I wondered who deserved a thank you for suggesting Europe. No matter. It was time to spread my wings as they say.  Experience the world and find freedom.

Alas, my initial expectations were to be dashed. The zealously protective Sophie intended to travel with me to France.

Not as a chaperone, dearest, she stated, As a tourist.

I didn’t believe the tourist bit for an instant.

But then, as luck, or bad luck, would have it, she became incapacitated, having suffered a seriously sprained ankle during one of our early spring, sleety rainstorms. She had stepped off a trolley, misjudged the slippery footing, and weeks later still suffered with the ankle’s refusal to right itself.

Damnation! These wretched old bones of mine, she lamented, wincing at the pain and inconvenience.

I nodded, sympathetically. I guess when one has stumbled over the precipice of old age – her fifty-something year menaced - you’ve earned the right to grumble. Regardless of her condition, she insisted I go, and for her sake, I proclaimed disappointment.

Myself officially an adult now, I felt giddily confident to cope with just about anything. After all, aside from avoiding the docks and slum districts after dark, I safely roamed all over New York City unchaperoned.

This opportunity is not open-ended, Aunt Sophie exclaimed, time is of the essence! Perched on my bedroom vanity chair, her lame foot elevated on the bed, Auntie directed my hasty packing with all the fervor of a symphonic conductor. You’d think she was anxious to be rid of me.

Early the next morning we arrived at pier 53. I recalled that a mere eight years earlier, the ill-fated Lusitania had been berthed in the adjacent pier 54. Back then, we had never seen the marvel before, and out of simple curiosity, watched the magnificent ship leave port one day. Who could have foreseen that it was doomed? A bronze marker on the dock memorialized the lost ship.

The thought of my first ocean voyage, albeit on a slightly smaller craft, made my spine tingle. I tried not to dwell on the torpedoed Lusitania tragedy. After all, the war was well behind us and U-boats were a thing of the past.

Wait, wait, wait, Lucy, Auntie cried as I brought my luggage to the foyer, take my time-piece; you may need it. She unclasped her gold Cartier wristwatch and quickly fastened it to my wrist.

I objected, I can’t guarantee that your precious watch will be safe, Auntie, I’m going to be in gardens and near dirt and water and, . . .

Never you worry. This old thing has survived more than dirt, and actually, I’d rather not look at it. I want you to wear it - it’s French you see. Now, no questions! Go!

The ocean-blue ship, the Galene, was aptly named after a lesser Greek goddess of calm seas, and I tingled with excitement as I climbed the gangway of the finely appointed and pristine craft.

After seeing me safely board the American steamship, Sophie hobbled back to the yellow taxicab where she sat in relative comfort and could watch the ship back from the dock, be nudged by tugs into the Hudson River and then steam out to sea.

I tried my best to keep eyes on Sophie’s cab despite the shifting fog and furiously waved my white hankie from the upper deck railing, along with countless others waving their white handkerchiefs. When her cab merged with all the other yellow taxis she was swallowed up in the gold metal stream.

CHAPTER TWO

Sophie

What seemed hours was a mere twenty minutes since my taxicab left the dock where I’d watched Lucy board. My linen handkerchief was tear saturated and needed a wringing out; completely useless for my dripping nose. Pawing through my purse for a dry handkerchief proved fruitless. How could I have been so utterly unprepared? I should have known that watching her leave would shred my heart.

The taxicab driver was saying something over his shoulder, but I could hardly hear the man through the painful hiccups that had followed my sobs. He burbled, Missus, yar is . . . blah, blah, or some such.

Ah yes, I mumbled, finally recognizing through bleary eyes that we were parked in front of my building. I gestured for him to exit the cab.  Reluctantly, he did. He opened my door and reached for my hand, which I withheld. My hands were too wet from the soggy hankie and I’d never allow anyone to touch these soiled hands, not even a cabbie.

I inched unaided out of the cab, keeping my tear-bloated face averted and managed to hand the appropriate fare to his waiting palm. He made no effort to subdue an annoyed, Humph, women! at receiving the damp one-dollar bill. How ungrateful – twenty-five cents of that was a generous tip.

Head held high and leaning heavily on a grotesquely ugly cane, I wobbled haltingly toward the building entrance then into the self-operated elevator to the third floor apartment we owned, and where I was born.

Once safely inside, I slung my shawl over a hook on the hall tree and peered into the mirror. Red puffy eyes peered back.

Lord, I’m a sight!

A second later my sobs resumed. Oh, God, she’s gone! I ran to the bedroom for a clean handkerchief and flung myself on the bed, bereft.  Lucy had never been away on her own, except for a rare overnight stay with one of her school chums and that hadn’t happened since high school. Those school day overnights were of no consequence; nothing worrisome since they were only a block or two away, with adults in attendance.

Right, right, right, get a grip, Sophie old girl, I mumbled, Lucy is twenty-one, officially an adult now.

Yet, . . . today I had delivered her to the steamship for a transatlantic voyage to France, launching her into the unknown, as it were. Ostensibly, it was for her advanced education, but I’d been dreading this possibility for ages. If she had decided to attend a college upstate, it would have been too far away - for me. France was entirely another thing. Nearly beyond comprehension.

Up to now I’d been procrastinating.  Generally, I am not one to withdraw from confrontation or from the unknown; my former suffragette work comes to mind. This though? Sending her into, . . . I really cannot know. Was I right to encourage this trip and for such an extensive time away from me?

I missed Lucy already. In reality, I began missing her as we packed her luggage.

When my tears and self-pity ran dry I galumphed through the apartment to the kitchen. Each step seemed to echo despite the floors being covered with thick oriental carpets. The apartment felt hollow.

I set a kettle to boil for a cup of tea then sat at the long kitchen table, thinking. Perhaps I should write a letter of inspiration to her. No! It was too soon. She might think that I have no trust in her. She might think that her Aunt Sophie was treating her like a child. Yet, I was concerned. What had I done, sending her?

The telephone in the hall jangled, startlingly loud in the silence.

I jumped up, almost upsetting my teacup. It could be Lucy. Heaven forbid! Barring an emergency, she was set to notify me only when she arrived at the final destination. I hurried as best I could to the telephone.

Hello? I squeaked, my voice harsh from the crying episodes. It was Olympia Osborne, one of my uptown friends. I barely suppressed a moan. I’d never get off the telephone with this chattering magpie.

Darling, she droned. "You sound terrible. Do you have the springtime sniffles? I pray not. I wanted to know if our Lucy is finally on her way to France to study until the end of summer, or is it into the winter? Isn’t today the day of departure, as you mentioned? My Theodore, sweet boy, was wondering when she would be back. I told him, ‘Teddy dear, Lucette Bellamy has plans; plans that do not include you. Be reasonable. You must get on with things. Call on that lovely Regina Whitney.