willing to discuss each type of bicycle and the challenges of riding each one. Mr. Henry is impressed with Charley’s quick grasp of the mechanics. He allows Charley to take a few spins out of sight of the rest of the crowd. The bicycle Charley chooses, ridiculous-looking by the day’s modern standards, is particularly difficult both to balance and steer, but again Charley takes to it naturally. Then Charley invites Mr. Henry into his confidence and asks his indulgence in helping with a bit of a plan. Upon hearing it, Mr. Henry laughs and says that if Charley promises to be careful, he agrees to be a willing participant in the scheme. And so it is that two days later, as Mr. Henry is using his best pitchman’s banter to draw in the afternoon passersby to take a look at the bicycles, Charley is scanning the street, waiting to give the sign.
cd
Emma is heading toward the knot of people that has been here all week, taking in the cycling demonstrations and browsing the temporary stalls that have sprung up. The square, with its wide expanse of grass, is a natural with couples, families, various organizations like the cycling club, and all manner of snake oil salesmen who regularly set up shop to sell their wares. Emma has looked on with mild interest as she passes by each afternoon, idly wondering what it would be like to ride one of the machines, which of course she would never do.
Suddenly, a collective whoop rises up from the crowd, then laughter and scattered applause. She glimpses a head, weaving among the onlookers, but has trouble making sense of what she is seeing. She slows down in time to see the crowd part, and in fact several people leap out of the way, as the laughter swells.
As soon as the cyclist is out of the knot of people, she sees who it is—of course it is; who else would it be?—and that he is heading right toward her. The contraption he is riding is one of the earliest models of bicycle, with the small wheel in front and the large one in back; it is a beast to control, and he is wild. She doesn’t believe it for a minute, though; he knows exactly what he is doing, and she is having none of it. She strides forward in determination, but he begins to circle her even as she walks. The crowd loves it as he spirals around her, and hoots and claps to egg him on. On his third pass, she raises her head and fixes him with a hard look; it is the first time they make direct eye contact. In that moment, he realizes that he has been duped; she’s been onto him all along. In the second before she breaks her gaze, he crosses his eyes and lolls his tongue from the corner of his mouth. He makes one more pass, and though her head is back down, he sees it: she smiles.
cd
The following Sunday afternoon, in the time between morning Mass and evening prayers, he knocks on the front door of the little row house on Washington Street. It is Emma who opens the door, and regards him without surprise. “I was beginning to think you would never come.”
Without another word, she turns; he follows her in, taking off his cap as he steps through the door. She walks him the two steps into the little parlor where Mary Miller sits in the sliver of afternoon light at the window, tatting. “Mother, there is a young man here to see you.” With that, Emma turns and leaves the room.
This stern-looking, white-haired woman looks up with some surprise, and spends a moment assessing him. “I’m sorry, I already have a boarder. We only let the one room.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d been informed of that. I have a room already.”
“We don’t welcome solicitors, then.”
“I wouldn’t expect you would, ma’am. I’m not here to sell you anything.”
Mrs. Miller looks hard at him, and he plainly sees where Emma gets her bearing, if not her appearance. “What, then?”
“Ma’am, I’d like permission to court your daughter.”
Charley can see that he’d have to think hard on it to come up with another sentence that would surprise Mrs. Miller even half so much. There is a long moment while she continues simply to stare at him. “Young man, how old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-six in September.” There is an even longer pause now. He is wondering what combination of words he can put together that will prompt her to invite him to sit, and to offer him some tea. But he can see that it will be dashed hard to charm this woman.
“How do you know my daughter?”
He wants to be careful here. “We see each other from time to time outside of work.”
“And where is that?”
“I work at Treasury, ma’am, in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.”
Of the next hundred questions wrestling with each other behind her gaze, the one that triumphs is, “Your name?”
“Charles Joseph Beck, ma’am, but everyone including my mother calls me Charley.”
“German?”
“Yes, ma’am, on both sides.”
“Emma?” Two beats pass before she walks back in, though both presume that she has been just outside the threshold the entire time.
“Yes, Mother?”
“I suppose you two have not been properly introduced. Charles Joseph Beck, this is my daughter, Emma Lucretia Miller.”
He almost extends his hand, but hers are firmly clasped together in front of her, and he feels certain she will leave him hanging. Instead he puts his finger to his cap, which is of course not there, and smiles. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Emma.”
She simply nods. “Mr. Beck.”
Mary Miller surveys the two. “Well, Emma, I suppose you’ll need to make some tea.”
She disappears into the kitchen, but still Mrs. Miller does not invite him to sit down. He is standing near the mantle, considering his next conversational gambit when he sees a picture of Emma. He has to stop himself from picking it up, but he can’t help examining it closely. There she is, perhaps in her early twenties, in the fancy dress fashion of the day: heavy taffeta with a pronounced bustle, a nipped waist, and lace at the throat and down the bodice. She is standing at an open wrought iron gate set into a stone wall with trailing vines, an elaborate prop in the photographer’s studio, no doubt. Her gloved hand rests casually against the stone doorway, and she is gazing just to one side of the photographer, which gives her an air of intrigue. Even here, she is no simpering ingenue, but it startles him to see her in so fashionable a pose.
“She had that photograph made a number of years ago, for a young man.” He is now doubly startled that Mrs. Miller is sharing this confidence, one that he feels sure Emma would not appreciate. “My daughter doesn’t like that I have it out, but I’ve always thought that it’s the best photograph of her that was ever made.”
“It’s impressive.”
There is a pause while he continues to examine the photo, and he can feel Mrs. Miller continue to examine him. He turns to face her. “You realize that my daughter is rather older than you—do you, Mr. Beck?”
“Yes ma’am, I expect so.” They consider each other; he knows she is challenging him, and he feels it’s crucial that he hold his ground.
“You walked through our neighborhood; this is where we live. You can see that we’re not rich.” The understatement doesn’t require a response; he simply nods once.
He can see her trying to puzzle it out behind her sharp eyes, why he is here, why the interest in Emma. “Mrs. Miller, I can’t say why no man has swept up your daughter to make her his own. It’s clear to me that she’s a strong woman who knows her own mind, and she holds a body steady in her gaze. Maybe that directness puts some off, but I see it as a mark of character. Something she’s gotten from her mother.”
It’s an obvious currying of favor, and Charley can tell she sees the joke in it. They look directly at each other and exchange a smile.
Emma comes in with the tea tray and arranges it on the ottoman that squats in the tiny space between the sofa and easy chair. Mrs. Miller moves from her spot near the window to the chair,