Morning came too soon, heralded by gray light seeping around the door of our stateroom. If I wanted breakfast, I would have to get up. Rosie was asleep, her red evening dress still on the floor, a red exclamation point in the room. I dressed carefully. Miss Ford would find nothing to criticize about my attire this morning.
I stood for a moment in front of the stateroom mirror smoothing down my uniform. Even after five days on board ship, I was still self-conscious at its newness. I loved the feel of the heavy wool, the tailored jacked with its big patch pockets and the blue tabs that marked the canteen service. Even my height seemed an advantage in the belted jacket over the ankle length skirt. But the hat was the best of all. I had spent much surreptitious time in front of the mirror trying it on at various angles and had finally decided to wear it square on my head, the Red Cross insignia centered on my forehead. I felt that the uniform suited me, certainly much more than the frills, bows and lace of my childhood.
Those had suited Trixie perfectly, and in fact were selected just for that reason. When the dressmaker came for her twice yearly visit to the house, she, Mamma and Trixie would pour over pictures from Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue and Vanity Fair discussing the various fashions, and which colors and fabric would suit Trixie’s fair skin and dark curls best. The dressmaker would comment every year on what a pleasure it was to dress such a beautiful and fashionable young woman. I would sit in a corner, required to be in the room, but not really a part of it. I knew that whatever was chosen for Trixie would also be reproduced for me, but in the colors that Mamma felt went best with my red hair and hazel eyes, dark greens and more often than even I liked, brown in all its muddy shades.
The real excitement came for Trixie when the dressmaker appeared in a few weeks with the almost completed garments to be fitted. Trixie was willing to stand for hours while the dresses and gowns that so beautifully fit her slight and vivacious form were fitted to perfection. Then it would be my turn, and I would stand on the raised platform while the dressmaker circled me with her pins, commenting with yearly predictability, “such a tall girl” or “what broad shoulders” Mamma would sigh and say with resigned cheerfulness, “Just do the best you can,” with a knowing look passing between the two adult women.
Years later when I was the only female left in the house, I dispensed with the dressmaker and found a dress shop where I defiantly bought my own clothes. I insisted on severe blouses with a few discrete pleats but not one bow or piece of lace in sight. I then paired these blouses with severely cut black skirts with as little padding as possible. I also insisted that the long skirts have enough leeway so that I could walk with a stride instead of mincing steps. In addition, instead of the puffs and curls that Mamma and Nanny had labored over for so many years, I simply wore my hair in a long braid which I wound around the top of my head. For the first time in my life, I was comfortable.
When Nanny first saw me she was taken aback for a moment, and then titled her head to one side. “Why, Valerie, you look” she searched for a word “very handsome.” And then very softly, “I always told your mother than you were not Trixie, but she had her own ideas.”
I would never feel I was beautiful, for I knew I was not. That title had always been Trixie’s, but now I felt that, even more than my black and white ensembles, this uniform suited me. Looking one more time in the mirror as I left the room, I almost felt I was looking at a new person, even though the same green eyes, red hair and broad shoulders of which Mamma had despaired, reflected back at me
I gave one more quick glance at Rosie, her dark curls the only thing visible above her blanket, and quietly left the stateroom. It was almost like being married the way the Red Cross had paired us. We were a team, and were to stay together our whole time in Europe. My assignment might be unknown, but I knew my partner would be this small, dark-haired girl from New York.
I had first met her hours before the ship sailed. The Red Cross contingent had gathered in a room on the dock, and a dour Miss Ford had formed us arbitrarily into pairs. We had marched onto the ship two by two like so many animals entering Noah’s ark.
Rosie’s presence in my cabin, and beside me at every meal was unsettling. I wanted to like her if for no other reason than she was now part of the life I had deliberately chosen for myself. Her dark curly hair reminded me of Trixie and her bright, eager smile seemed friendly. But there had been a wariness on her part from our first meeting. I had proffered my hand saying, “I’m Valerie Winthrop, but please call me Val.”
With a slight hesitation she had taken my hand and said only, “Rosie,” her hand cold and unresponsive in mine, although her smile had been friendly. I could tell that the shipboard life that was second nature to me, was foreign to her. Although we were not traveling as Papa would have wished, it was all familiar to me even though there were more uniforms in view, including ours, than on previous trips. Rosie was subdued the first few days of the crossing, speaking little to me although I tried to draw her out about her family and her reasons for joining the Canteen Service. I got the impression of a large family and a girl who was as eager to leave home at I had been. In one moment of confidence after the lights were out in our cabin on the second night, she had confided that she had bought her uniform with the money she had saved for her wedding.
“Are you engaged?” I asked, wondering that she would have left a fiancé behind.
“Oh, no! It was just hopeful money. I didn’t fancy anyone that lived around us. I wanted to do better for myself. That is one of the reasons I came. My family wasn’t too happy.”
And then with a note of bitterness, “My father and three brothers will miss the free maid service. At least if I am to cook and clean, I want it to be in my own home and with someone I choose.”
There was a long silence in the room, and then her voice came from the bunk below. “Why did you come?”
I was at a loss for a reply. I was beginning to realize that my life at home was a far cry from hers, or in fact from many of the other girls in this contingent. In fact, most of them would probably have given up this adventure to return to what I had left. I temporized, “My father did not want me to come either. I had to scrape together the money to buy my uniforms.”
“What do you mean scrape together,” said the voice in the dark suddenly flat and expressionless. “I’ve seen your underwear and petticoats. I probably won’t have as much lace on my wedding gown as you have on one of your slips.”
I could think of nothing to say, the distance between our two beds suddenly a widening gulf I could not cross with words. And I had thought my underwear as severe as I could make it. And the gulf only widened as the week went on. Rosie, without a care in the world, would take a compact out of her purse and powder her nose. I could hear Nanny’s voice ringing in my ears. “A lady never touches her hair and clothes once she leaves the confines of her room.” I could also see Nanny’s face frowning in disapproval at my partner as she chatted gaily with men to whom she had not been introduced, ate dinner with no consideration for which fork belonged to which course, and kept her seat whenever an older person walked into the room. It made me wonder for the first time how important were those things that had been drilled into me.
One evening she burst into our cabin as I was getting ready for bed.
“Miss Ford has gone to bed. I’m going to change into that evening dress I brought along. There is a dance tonight in the dining room, and I am going to go.”
My heart sank. Was there to be no escape? I hedged, “But we aren’t supposed to wear anything but our uniforms on the ship. Miss Ford was very specific about ---“
“Oh, forget that. You can even wear that dumb uniform you are so fond of.”
I blushed, realizing my preening before the mirror had not been as secret as I thought. I tried again, “But we are supposed to be in bed by…”
“Forget that too,” Rosie broke in. She hesitated and then said, “If you come it will go better.” I knew she assumed because of my ease with pursers, shipboard life, and dining room etiquette that I would be of service at a dance as well. If she only knew how untrue that was.
I looked into Rosie’s avid face, and it was no different from the faces of Cynthia Sharpless and Florrie Richardson who used to gather with Trixie and me in our tower bedroom. And those meetings had been about dances too. It was really Trixie that the two girls had come to see and gossip with. I was there only on sufferance as far as they were concerned. I would have been happier reading in the library, but while Trixie always wanted me there, it was an insisting Nanny that meant I had to be there. There had been one day when Florrie had closed the door to pass along a particularly juicy bit of gossip. Nanny had opened the door again without comment, but that night she had scolded me. “You ought to know better, a big girl like you. Ladies have nothing to hide. Only snails prosper in closed up places. See to it that fresh air is always coming in by an open door.”
That particular Saturday evening was to be Lydia Gate’s birthday party. It was to be just like a real grown up dance, and was to be held in Lydia’s own third floor ballroom. The invitations had come in double envelopes, addressed to the Misses Valerie and Beatrice Winthrop requesting the honor of our presence from eight to twelve. Cynthia and Florrie had been invited as well, and the conversation of the afternoon revolved around the dance.
“Her house is even bigger than yours, “Florrie said letting a critical eye drift around the room.
“I know,” said Trixie. “It’s bigger even than Grandpapa’s.”
“I think Lydia is pretty.” Cynthia looked challengingly around the circle.
“Two heads nodded in agreement.
“She has stick-out teeth,” I said, not willing to play the game.
“Why Valerie Winthrop.” Florrie’s horror mirrored society’s reaction to anyone as rich as Lydia. “Her father is president of a bank.”
“And my father says he has more money than almost anyone in the city,” Cynthia said.
I stood my ground as a small amused smile played across Trixie’s face. “That doesn’t help her teeth.” I stood my ground enjoying the momentary fuss.
But then Trixie stepped in. She usually liked it when I stirred the pot, but now she wanted to return to the discussion of the dance. “We four are lucky to be invited. We’re the only ones from our high school.”
“I wish I hadn’t been,” I sighed. “I hate dances.”
Florrie, getting her revenge said, “I would too if I were you. It’s no fun if you don’t dance.”
Trixie glared at her. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“It may not be easy for you either, Trix,” Florrie said. “Lydia’s friends are not the boys you know.”
Trixie’s head went up. “I don’t have to know people beforehand. I’ll be asked to dance. You’ll see.”
“If it’s so easy for you to get partners, why don’t you get Val some then?”
“I would, but she doesn’t want me to, do you, Val?” Trixie smiled over at me. I knew she would throw the cloak of her social success over me if she could, but we both also knew, although unspoken, that even Trixie could not have achieved the impossible.
I shook my head and then, since they were waiting for me to say something, “Boys don’t know how to dance. If there were one that did, that would be different.”
Florrie was searching for another remark, but Trixie spoke first. “All the boys from dancing school will be there, and Mr. Fayette is going to lead the cotillion. Mr. Fayette told Mother that Val is the best dancer in all his classes.”
‘Just being a good dancer doesn’t get you anywhere,” said Cynthia.
“But it’s important,” Trixie said. “The man I marry will have to know how – I mean really. And he – and he will have to be good looking, awfully good looking, tall and dark-haired.”
“Why that’s just what mine’s going to be,” said Cynthia as if Trixie had actually taken something already hers. “But besides that, I want him to be very polite, always holding open doors, and helping me on with my coat. He’ll stay home every evening too, and read aloud – love stories and poetry.”
Florrie laughed. “You can have that sissy. I don’t want any old stay-at-home. My husband will take me out places – the theater and the opera and to big restaurants for supper. He’ll have lots of money, and everyone will think that he is really important.”
I became lost in thought as the girls talked on. What would I want in a man? And why even think about it when no one would even dance with me at parties. Did I really want to be married? It was certainly the destination towards which every mother and daughter of my acquaintance was striving including Mamma and Trixie. And yet what were my choices. I sighed, and Florrie looked over at me in pity as if she had read my thoughts.
It was growing dark outside and Nanny came in to remind the guests that it was time for them to go home. It was time too, for us to bathe and dress. It took both Nanny and Mamma to get us properly into our dresses, our hair done, gloves buttoned, and capes placed carefully so as not to crush the chiffon --- Trixie’s green and mine blue.
All too soon we arrived at the Gates’ front drive. Trixie was sitting forward lightly on her seat, her eyes alight, the color flaring in her cheeks – eager to get out. She looked beautiful. I sat well back in my seat. I really did not want to go in, and yet in spite of myself a tiny spark of hope flickered. Maybe tonight it would be different, maybe tonight in the blue dress…
There was an awning at the entrance, and a footman to open the carriage door. Going up the steps into the magic of blazing chandeliers and hurrying servants was exciting without being pleasant.
In the cloakroom, Nanny handed our wraps to a maid. “I’ll meet you here when it’s over,” she said. “Be sure to greet your hostess when you go in and thank her when you leave. Valerie, put on your gloves and try to talk. Don’t stand around like a post.” Nanny then headed off to the room put aside for the chaperons.
I wished fervently, as I followed Trixie up the wide staircase, that I actually were the solid post to which I was forever being compared.
Mrs. Gates stood at the door of the ballroom looking very pretty in a velvet gown. Beside her, Lydia was shaking hands with her guests as they entered, and walked self-consciously across the room, the girls to join a group of girls at one end and the boys to a group of boys at the other.
“Good evening, Beatrice; good evening, Valerie,” Mrs. Gates said smiling pleasantly.
Lydia shook hands. “It’s so nice of you to come.” Her voice sounded anxious.
Trixie squeezed Lydia’s hand. “It’s such fun,” she said and you could tell that she meant it. Her joy was infectious.
Mrs. Gates heard, and patted her on the shoulder and Lydia laughed as though something had suddenly made her happy. Even I could smile for a moment forgetting what lay ahead. As we walked over to the group of girls, Florrie came out to meet us. She was so excited, that she was rolling up her handkerchief into a ball. “Guess what? Lydia’s older brother Jack is at the party. He’s home for spring vacation. He’s at Yale.”
We all watched as Mrs. Gates and Mr. Fayette went over to the boys and began talking to them. Presently the tallest one came walking across the room towards us. Awed female voices whispered, “That’s Jack Gates.” He did not hesitate. Straight as an arrow, he walked up to Trixie and bowed a small bow. With an encouraging smile over her shoulder at me and a slight hesitation, Trixie put her arm in his and they walked around the room, laughing and chatting, having lots to say to each other. After that, one by one, the other boys chose girls as the couples fell in behind Trixie and Jack, who were leading the grand march.
The orchestra began to play. As the group of girls thinned, panic seized me. Soon I would be alone, standing, conspicuous and awkward, in a blaze of light with the eyes and attention of everyone focused on me. Desperately, I counted the remaining boys – four, and noticed that two girls still stood beside me, a very small one in pink and a bigger one with glasses. At least we would all be taken. But no. Three of the boys suddenly turned and hurried from the room. The fourth one came towards us. For a fraction of a second I met his eyes, tried to hold them, failed. He took the small girl.
Without looking at each other, the girl with glasses and I walked across the wide shiny floor to the wall and sat down. Mr. Fayette blew his whistle. The grand march was over. Soon the empty space was filled with dancers, turning and circling, mercifully taking attention from us.
At first I felt relief to be out of it, an onlooker instead of a player in this unfair competition. I leaned back, watching the faces, the dresses, the flying feet. Then a slow anger kindled. Why must I suffer this sort of thing? I, Arthur Winthrop’s daughter, was not as fortunate as Sid, the boy who delivered groceries to the back door, or the policeman on our street, who would never be invited, with double envelopes, to make themselves the laughing stock of their friends. I was not as comfortable, sitting on this hard chair, as the horses outside, who could doze and dream while they waited.
The girl beside me rose, walked rapidly across the room, dodging the dancers as she went, and disappeared. Probably she had gone to hide in the girl’s dressing room. I wished I had spoken to her and made friends, so we could have taken that walk together and sit, cozily and quietly, in the dressing room for the rest of the evening.
A dance ended. Couples strolled about, sat down, collected in groups. The chaperones went from one to another, making introductions. I hoped no one would notice me, and wished I had been as clever and brave as the girl with the glasses. Laughter became part of one of the groups. Laughter and a green dress. The boys were teasing Jack because he would not give Trixie up. Fascinated by the play among them, by Trixie’s poise, I realized too late that Mrs. Gates and a chaperone were talking to a boy on the opposite side of the room. They seemed to be arguing with him. At last he stood up. They pulled down his jacket and kept on talking. He was buttoning his gloves. Then, with a lady on each side, he began to walk. He was coming across the floor. He was looking at me. My heart almost stopped beating. They were bringing him to me. Halting her two companions before me, Mrs. Gates smiled and with a graceful flip of her train kept it from entangling the boy’s feet.
“Valerie, dear, this is Tommy Dwyer. He is so anxious to dance with you.”
Conscious of the effort, I got to my feet. Mrs. Gates was beautiful and trying to be kind, but this was a dreadful thing she had done. My lips felt stiff, but I made them smile. I could not look at Tommy. I felt his arm around my waist, my hand in his. We began to dance.
I could look down on the top of his head, and everyone in the room could see mine above his. He could not dance much less keep the time and rhythm of a waltz. Grasping a handful of my dress just over my left ribs, he shoved me violently backward, following with a tramping step like a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow. Once around the room. Would it go on forever? Over my partner’s head I caught Mr. Fayette’s eye. As we stomped past, he tapped Tommy on the shoulder.
“May I?” he asked, taking me in his arms without waiting for an answer.
Mr. Fayette had danced with me at dancing school when checking my proficiency. He knew I could waltz. He took the center of the floor and, one by one, the other couples, thinking it was an exhibition, stopped dancing. Soon the teacher and I were alone, whirling in great circles, round and round. There was no time to be afraid or to worry about what other people thought. As the music ended, we stopped opposite the ballroom door. Mrs. Gates led the applause, in which everyone joined. Mr. Fayette bowed and said: “Now you have seen the most beautiful dance in the world danced to perfection.”
That was all I heard. As he turned to bow again, I slipped through the door, and ran down the hall into the first lighted room. It was a little den with a couch and deep chairs. The room was empty. Fearing pursuit, I dropped down on a small hassock behind one of the chairs and waited, holding my breath. I would never come to another dance. Never! Why should I have to go through this? It was all right for Trixie, she loved it, was good at it. But why did I have to be here? What purpose did it serve? I clenched my fists. Someday I would be old enough to run my own life and make my own rules. Someday.
And someday was here in the form of Rosie, “Come on Val. Be a sport. It’ll be fun. I promise.
I tried again, “But you’ll get caught being out after hours.”
“No I won’t. Miss Ford has gone to bed and I’ll blend in better up on deck in an evening dress anyway. Here, help me with these buttons. Remember we are volunteers, and we can leave any time we want to.”
With a sudden rush of emotion I said, “But I don’t want to leave, and I don’t want to go to a dance.” I was done with that, but I was not about to explain myself to Rosie. I had been humbled enough in the past.
But Rosie, her buttons done, turned around to face me with her hands on her hips. “I know what it is. You’re stuck up and you don’t want to be seen with the likes of me. Well, I’m going to that dance, and I am going to enjoy myself, and you can sit down here by yourself and be perfect.” And with a swish of her evening dress, she was gone.
And in the sudden silence of the room, I remembered the end of that long ago evening. I had read until I heard the party breaking up. Back went the book, and quickly and quietly I slipped out of the room and into the crowd that was moving down the stairs. The lower hall was full of people, putting on coats and laughing, saying goodbye. Cold air blew in gusts as the front door opened and closed, now magnifying, and now muting the voice of the footman as he called carriage numbers. Three steps up I paused to look over the crowd. Nanny had said to meet her at the cloakroom. Where was Trixie? Not in sight. Peering over the banisters, I suddenly saw her, seated on a small sofa in a nook around the corner from the cloakroom. Beside her, Jack Gates, head bent, talked earnestly. I watched fascinated and alarmed. There was something about his posture, something about Trixie’s. Why was she not going to meet Nanny? Perhaps I should call her, warn her, go to her. Anything to interrupt that encompassing conversation. But I was out of my depth. All I knew was that neither Mamma nor Nanny would approve of this intimate tete-a-tete. Then, thank goodness Trixie stood up. Jack did likewise. He seized her hand. At first Trixie pulled it away. Then, going in close, she reached up, and stroked his cheek with a soft, swift gesture. Then she came quickly towards the stairs.
In an agony of apprehension, I made a swift survey of the space behind me. No peeping chaperones in sight. My hand, which had been gripping the banister relaxed, then gripped again. There, at the corner of the wall, stood Nanny, the two cloaks over her arm. How long had she been there? She must not know. She must not know that I had deserted the dance floor for the whole evening and left Trixie to Jack Gates.
Seeing me, Nanny beckoned, her eyes betraying nothing, and soon she was herding us through the door and into the waiting carriage.
“Sit on the forward seat you two, so as not to crush your dresses,” she said.
John put the horses into a brisk trot. We were all in a hurry to be home and in bed --- everyone but Trixie.
“I wish it would never end,” Trixie said, leaning her head against the side of the carriage and gazing out at the night sky ablaze with stars. “I wish we would drive on and on and never go home.” In the lamp and starlight her face was white and so beautiful and so happy that suddenly I did not care what had happened. It was all right as long as no one else knew.
And now there was another girl, this one in a bright red dress, pursuing the same elusive thing that Trixie had pursued. And this time I would not lose my heart over it.