The Lost Girl of Astor Street(10)

As Matthew steers us toward the Astor Street district, and as Lydia persists in drawing conversation out of him, my gaze stays on the choppy gray waters of Lake Michigan. The ache in my knuckles is dull despite the lashes Ms. Underhill inflicted today when my mouth got the best of me.

“What kind of lazy work is this, Miss Sail?” She had held up the mess of green fabric for the class to see. “Is this the bodice of a dress or a bird’s nest?”

Only dimwitted Mae Husboldt was rude enough to play along and laugh.

I took a measured breath, determined to behave in a way that would make Joyce proud. That wouldn’t make Lydia scold me afterward. “Yes, I believe I’ve made a mistake or two in my stitches.”

“A mistake or two? More like ten.” She had allowed a beat of silence in her abuse, as if anticipating Mae’s giggles. “Here you’ve sewn the right side together with the wrong side. You’ll have to take it all apart. Start over. There won’t be time for you to finish it for the fashion show, I’m afraid.”

This earned a reaction from the other girls—an exhale of horror.

She thrust the bodice back to me, and the haughty expression she wore made it seem as though she thought this might be a devastating blow to me. Like all my hopes were pinned on this dress being displayed in the Presley’s School for Girls Fashion Show, a long-standing tradition during the week of graduation. “Yes, Ms. Underhill.”

My meekness only seemed to spur her. “I wonder about your future, Miss Sail. Such a fine mind in there, and yet, what will become of you?”

“Well.” I pulled my seam ripper along the bodice, and the sound of severing threads filled the air. “I doubt I’ll be a seamstress.”

And it was no surprise to me when she ordered me to stretch my hand out across the table.

Lydia’s loud laughter calls me back to the car. Matthew, who’s normally so quiet, speaks with enthusiasm about something that requires a faux Irish accent. Not a bad one, either.

Somehow Lydia has managed to draw him out.

It’s funny. I’ve asked myself the same question that Ms. Underhill did today. What will become of a girl like me who lacks patience for sewing, who doesn’t understand the art of flirting, and who is more skilled with a right hook than the kind used for crocheting?

I’ve received my acceptance notices from Vassar, Smith, and Bryn Mawr, but what will the point of it all be? What do I want to do with my life? Despite my bobbed hair and beliefs that women should be equal with men, I wouldn’t describe myself as a flapper. Nor do I see myself as the happy housewife with a brood of children. These days, is there room for a place in-between?

And yet I’ve always thought I had Lydia pegged. I assumed she would marry early, to someone with bright prospects who worked in real estate or medicine. They would have babies for whom she’d knit booties and sweaters, but only after she’d held fund-raisers for the less fortunate in Chicago and attended parties with other socialites.

That Lydia LeVine would have a life like her mother’s, like my mother’s, has always seemed a given. Only now as I watch her send Matthew encouraging smiles, and as I think about how hurt she seemed at the clothing store when I had spoken against the two of them, the question seems to apply to her as well.

Lydia laughs loud, makes an excuse of brushing a bit of fuzz from Matthew’s shoulder.

Oh, Lydia. What will become of you?





CHAPTER


THREE


What’s this for?”

Walter’s voice calls me out of the confusingly romantic world of Catherine and Heathcliff. His broad shoulders practically fill the doorway as he holds up the shirt.

“It’s for wearing.” I turn the page. “They call it a shirt.”

“Pippy.” But his amusement leaks through his growl. “I told you that you didn’t need to replace it.”

“And I told you that I was going to.” I smile sweetly. “Anything else?”

“You’re a very stubborn woman. Are you aware of that?”

Bessie Smith’s “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home” crashes to a close, and I stand to flip the record. “I am. Have you tried it on? Does it fit?”

“Like it was tailor made. I don’t want to ask how you knew my size.”

“Because you don’t want to know that I snuck into your room?”

“No. I don’t want to know that.”

“Then it’s good you aren’t asking.”

“Pippy . . .”

The soulful melodies of Bessie Smith start up again, and I turn my back to the Victrola to smile at my worried friend. “I didn’t snoop at all, I promise. I only looked at your shirt to see what size it was, and I didn’t even think of hunting for your correspondence with Audrey.”

Now Walter smiles. “Well. Thank you. For the shirt and hat. You didn’t need to.”

I gesture to his attire—knickerbockers and gaiters. “You’re playing somewhere?”

Walter nods. “With Jimmy and the fellas. For old time’s sake.”

“Can I come?”

Walter glances at my pale clothing, hardly ideal for a baseball game. I smooth my cream skirt. “I could change quickly.”

Walter opens his mouth, but it’s Joyce who speaks as she comes through with a basket of folded laundry. “Your father wants you home for dinner tonight, Piper.”