doubt. Maybe the doctors had told him something they hadn’t told his wife.
Tempering, though, George said, “Who knows what a year might bring?”
“Life changes so fast,” Elvira said. “Look at me. I’m a totally different Elvira from the one who came to town. I don’t believe I’d know that girl anymore.”
He smiled. “You’ve grown up since you came to the store.”
“Well, I’ve been there two years now.”
“Only two years? So much has happened, I feel like I’m forty.”
After “Annie Laurie” and the “Blue Danube,” George returned Elvira to the dining room and poured her a cup of punch. “I’ll be back later for another waltz.”
Elvira watched him wander from the room, turning toward the back parlor, where men disappeared to smoke. The strains of “Annie Laurie” and the rumbling-tumbling words floating past were the same sounds she’d been hearing in her head for weeks. She felt a little faint.
Later, Elvira sat visiting with Cora. It was nearly one in the morning, and several guests had already said good night.
“I should leave, too. Nell will be waiting up to hear the gossip,” Elvira told her friend.
“George will drive you,” Cora said.
“No need.”
“At this hour? Don’t be silly. What kind of friend would I be?”
“You and Nell are the best friends anyone ever had,” Elvira said, grasping Cora’s hand. “And you will dance by next Christmas. I say so.”
Cora looked away. “We’ll see.”
A few minutes later, George arranged a fur robe over Elvira’s lap and around her legs, then climbed into the buggy and snapped the whip over the black mare.
The girl leaned back against the seat. “Thank you for the party. It was . . . splendid.”
“You were the belle of the ball. To quote father, ‘The girl’s a treasure.’ How many times did he dance you around?”
Elvira laughed. “Three or four.”
“Mother says you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did.”
“I’m straw masquerading as hay.”
George laughed, a sound rare and affecting.
Halting the buggy in front of Rabel’s, George saw Elvira up the outside stairs. In the parlor the lamp was burning and Nell sat dozing in the rocker, but started up when the two opened the door. “I fell asleep!” She set aside The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as George said good-bye.
When the two women were alone, Nell headed for the kitchen and lit the lamp over the table. “I’ll toss another bit of wood in the fire so we can each warm our brick for bed. Put on your nightgown and bring me your brick.”
Elvira did and, returning, said, “It’s 1:30. We’ll have to go to barmaid’s Mass.”
Nell adjusted the flue and left open the door on the stove. Elvira huddled beside her in front of the little blaze.
“So, the party—how was it?” Nell asked. When Elvira didn’t answer, Nell saw that the girl was wiping her eyes. “You didn’t have a good time.”
Elvira averted her face. “I had a wonderful time,” she countered.
“Then what on earth is wrong?”
“Nothing.” Shaking her head in seeming perplexity, Elvira said, “I do not know.”
Nell wasn’t sure she believed that. They were both silent, then Nell asked, “Should I make hot chocolate?”
“Not for me, thank you.”
Minutes later, Elvira said good night.
Though Nell was tired, she wasn’t yet sleepy. She made a cup of hot chocolate, carrying it with the Mark Twain to the bedroom. Even before the party, Elvira had been overwrought, restless, and preoccupied. Now, there were tears. Was she frightened? Angry? Sad? Well, yes, she’d said she was sad. But about what?
chapter thirteenchapter thirteen
IN EARLY JUNE OF 1904, George and Cora sailed to England, taking one-year-old Laurence with them—as well as Lizzie Jessup. Once again Elvira stewed. “That lump! And in England! She’s got the grace of a plowhorse, and she picks her nose. I’ve seen her do it. What if that poor little boy becomes a bumpkin like her when he grows up?”
But when George and Cora had settled into a small house in Surrey, postcards began arriving for Elvira. And finally, a fat letter. Here, then, was recompense for having to stay at home.
Dear Elvira,
I wish you could see our cottage and this village that looks torn from a children’s picture book. Such flowers! Such vistas of lush rolling green in every direction. What would I give to run across those fields!
Blessed George takes me for a drive every afternoon, and we’ve been invited twice for croquet and whist at “friends of friends.” Since croquet isn’t possible, I’m polishing my whist and becoming a cardsharp. The ladies are shocked, I believe.
Next week we’re taking the train to London so I can visit doctors and dressmakers. I have more faith in the dressmakers than the doctors. While we’re in the city, I will shop for a little London remembrance for you. You would lose your senses there, with so much to do and see. Theater and music and museums. Far more than Boston even. And so much history. Sadness, too—I mean, sadness in the history.
My great failing these days, Elvira, is that I get blue. I don’t think it’s my nature. I used to be a flibbertigibbet, always looking for fun. This awful seriousness has come on since the wheelchair. I try not to let George see; being blue is so unattractive. And George is the kindest, most loving husband—he deserves everything good and golden.
Forgive me, Elvira, for unpacking my blue laundry this way. I had not intended to. When I’ve posted this, I’ll be sorry and embarrassed, I’m sure, but I need your kind ear, and I trust you. Lizzie Jessup is a good girl and loves the baby, but I wish you were here, with your jolly enthusiasm.
Despite what I’ve written, I implore you not to worry. I have plenty of sunshine, notwithstanding the English climate. And if I learn to be a good person—a loving, generous, blithesome person—I can be a good wife and mother and friend. Isn’t that so?
Until later, Elvira.
With affection,
Cora Lundeen
P.S. George asks to be remembered.
Because Nell could keep secrets, Elvira felt no disloyalty in sharing the letter with her.
“Poor little girl,” Nell said when she’d read it.
“That business about having more faith in the dressmakers than the doctors—that worries me. How can I buck her up?” Elvira asked.
Nell pulled a darning needle through the heel of a stocking. “Tell her about the runaway horse on Main Street.” She knotted the thread and set the needle aside. “And try to reassure her without being obvious. If she’s embarrassed at letting down her hair, she won’t want to be