Between Earth and Sky(83)
The two third-year students did as she instructed, finishing off the four table settings. The double pendant lamp with its lace filigree gas shades had yet to be lit, but enough of spring’s afternoon sunlight spilled into the dining room from the hall to illuminate their work.
A shadow fell across the table. A soft ahem. “We’re having a dinner guest?” Alma’s mother said from the doorway. “I was not informed.”
“Yes. George. He’s . . . er . . . one of the former students here,” Alma said. “He asked to call upon Father, and Father invited him for dinner.”
Her mother shook her head. “Probably come to beg a recommendation for some position or other. I hope he is not in need of a loan. Wasn’t the whole idea that they be self-sufficient?”
Alma bristled. “He does very well at the Carriage Factory. I’m sure his business with Father is something else entirely.”
“Whatever it is, I shan’t bother with my formal toilette. And there’s no need to set out the china. Use the earthenware.”
The two young girls began to remove the plates before Alma could protest. As she watched her mother saunter away, a burst of anxiety clutched her. What would the woman say when she learned the real reason for visit? Alma gulped down a few breaths and turned back toward her pupils with forced ease.
She showed the girls how to fold the napkins and where to place the water and wine goblets. Her father insisted such domestic skills would prove useful to the girls someday, qualify them for service in even the most fashionable of houses. Alma knew the girls enjoyed the break from scouring pots or folding laundry, so she was happy to teach them. Still, she cringed at the idea of them making a living this way. Surely they’d been brought here to achieve something greater than servitude.
After a final survey of the table, she released the girls to play in the yard and hurried to her room. Excitement had returned, dancing in her stomach like a moth at a flame.
She pulled four different dresses from her wardrobe and laid each atop her bed. The occasion demanded modesty, nothing too fancy, nothing that would attract her parents’ attention. She held up one of the gowns—dark navy with a buttoned collar—and looked into the mirror. Modest, yes, but too much like her everyday attire.
Next, she selected a peach-colored gown with lace trim and scooped neckline. had seen her in it last year on the way to the Steeles’ spring ball. She remembered the way his eyes hung on her. he had told her afterward. Beautiful.
Her cheeks flushed and she returned the dress to the bed. Though she longed to hear him breathe that word again, tonight called for something less ostentatious. She rejected the next dress for the same reason and settled for a gown of soft blue silk, simple yet handsomely crafted.
Gay cries sounded from the front yard. “George! George is here!”
Alma hurried with her petticoats and buttons, her feet hardly touching the floor.
The front door whooshed open and a mob of footfalls spilled into the foyer. The other Indian students had always adored , especially the younger ones with whom he had sat at the front of the class. The din quieted and she knew her father had taken charge, dismissing the students to their dinner-hour chores. Her insides continued to rattle. She tidied her hair with sweat-slickened hands, then flew from her room.
She and had planned for this evening for weeks. What he would wear, when he should broach the issue with her father, what he would say—they had scripted every detail. Her mother, of course, posed the greatest obstacle, but once given, her father would not lightly withdraw his consent, even in the face of his wife’s hysterics. As long as George could consult her father alone and garner his support, all would be well.
She grabbed hold of the banister at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. With each step she descended, excitement overcame her nerves. She reached the parlor serene and expectant.
“Good evening, Miss Blanchard,” said with a bow.
His tense, upright posture made her smile. “George.”
She sat down on the couch beside her father. sat opposite them, clasping and unclasping his hands. Sweat dampened his hairline. His face had the look of one about to retch, but his eyes were steady, confident, ever glinting with a hint of mischief. She longed to reach out and still his hands with her own, but kept them prisoner in her lap.
To all this, her father appeared oblivious. “George was just telling me about a new spring system they’re using on carriages these days. Rubber tires, too, you say? Like those of a bicycle?”
“Uh . . . yes . . . it’s something they’re experimenting with.”
“You don’t say?”
“Some even talk of a motor engine.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of that. A Motorwagen they call it, made over there in Germany.”
“France too. Perhaps someday we won’t need for horses anymore.”
Her father laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, my boy!”
Each convivial word further quelled Alma’s nerves. hands relaxed and regained some of their color. She did not allow her eyes to rest on him for long, glancing back at her father whenever the older man spoke, but they lingered long enough for quick appraisal. His suit was clean and pressed, the shirt beneath so bright it must be new. He had not cut his hair, as she had prodded, but at least wore it neatly tucked behind his ears. His shoes gleamed from a recent polish.