and Matt fell in love. Oh my, she was so in love!”
“What happened?”
“It turned out he was a thief,” Aunt Birdie whispered.
“What do you mean, a thief ?”
“Well, a thief is someone who robs people of their money and all their valuables and—”
“Yes, yes, I know what a thief does , but what kinds of things did this man steal? And how did Aunt Matt find out about it?”
“Why, she found out when he stole her heart, of course.”
“But—”
“Oh, good. There’s the postman,” Aunt Birdie said as the daily mail suddenly fell through the slot in our front door with a plop. “I do hope I get a letter from Gilbert today. He hasn’t written in ever so long.”
I studied Aunt Matt’s picture, unable to get over the enormous change in her. Aunt Birdie was right: Robert Tucker was a thief. He’d stolen Aunt Matt’s smile and all of her joy … along with her heart.
Chapter
8
Saturday, June 10, 1893
M adame Beauchamps had prepared us for a variety of occasions and circumstances, including how to eat snails and nibble caviar, but she had never warned us that being sociable could be so exhausting. I found out just how tiring it was on the evening of the fund-raiser for the Art Institute of Chicago. Aunt Agnes and Uncle Henry took me to the gala event, and from the moment we strode through the door, the evening felt like a test of physical endurance combined with one of Madame’s grueling final examinations.
I also discovered the extreme pain involved in the life of a socialite. I acquired rows of welts around my middle from lacing my corset too tightly and bubbly blisters on my feet from dancing in delicate silk slippers all evening. My head throbbed from staying constantly alert, remembering dozens of names, and keeping the conversational tennis ball in play. But the part of me that ached the most was my face. Holding a mysterious smile in place for four or five hours was very hard work.
My evening did not get off to a very good start either. Aunt Matt happened to be standing in the foyer when I descended the stairs in my finery, and I knew from the frown on her face that I had disappointed her.
“So. I see you’re still running around with Agnes.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Matt.” I felt the need to apologize, but I didn’t know why. “She and Uncle Henry are taking me to a fund-raiser for the Art Institute. Aunt Agnes says they’ve opened a new building on Michigan Avenue recently, and now they’re raising money to expand their art collection.”
Aunt Matt clucked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s just a veiled excuse for Agnes to find you a rich husband. Listen to me, Violet. Agnes married Henry Paine for his money. So before you blindly follow the path she took, I suggest that you ask her how happy her marriage has been.”
“That’s a rather personal question, isn’t it? I-I really wouldn’t feel right asking her such a thing.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Henry keeps a mistress.” If Aunt Matt intended to shock me, she had succeeded. She had also given me more information than I cared to know.
“Oh … I see.”
“Wealthy society men all have them, you know. They marry a suitable woman—whom they don’t love—for propriety’s sake and keep a mistress on the side. Nobody ever talks about this dirty little secret, though, do they?”
“No,” I said quietly. I could feel my cheeks burning.
“If you’re going to run with Agnes’ crowd, then you need to know the truth about them.”
I wanted desperately to change the subject. “But the Art Institute is a good cause, isn’t it? Art and culture aren’t frivolous.”
“No, they aren’t frivolous. But I would be willing to bet that very few of the funds they raise will be used to support female artists. It’s all right for a woman to be the object of art, but that’s all she’s allowed to be—an object. It’s too bad, because there are some very fine female artists, you know. The American painter Mary
“What happened?”
“It turned out he was a thief,” Aunt Birdie whispered.
“What do you mean, a thief ?”
“Well, a thief is someone who robs people of their money and all their valuables and—”
“Yes, yes, I know what a thief does , but what kinds of things did this man steal? And how did Aunt Matt find out about it?”
“Why, she found out when he stole her heart, of course.”
“But—”
“Oh, good. There’s the postman,” Aunt Birdie said as the daily mail suddenly fell through the slot in our front door with a plop. “I do hope I get a letter from Gilbert today. He hasn’t written in ever so long.”
I studied Aunt Matt’s picture, unable to get over the enormous change in her. Aunt Birdie was right: Robert Tucker was a thief. He’d stolen Aunt Matt’s smile and all of her joy … along with her heart.
Chapter
8
Saturday, June 10, 1893
M adame Beauchamps had prepared us for a variety of occasions and circumstances, including how to eat snails and nibble caviar, but she had never warned us that being sociable could be so exhausting. I found out just how tiring it was on the evening of the fund-raiser for the Art Institute of Chicago. Aunt Agnes and Uncle Henry took me to the gala event, and from the moment we strode through the door, the evening felt like a test of physical endurance combined with one of Madame’s grueling final examinations.
I also discovered the extreme pain involved in the life of a socialite. I acquired rows of welts around my middle from lacing my corset too tightly and bubbly blisters on my feet from dancing in delicate silk slippers all evening. My head throbbed from staying constantly alert, remembering dozens of names, and keeping the conversational tennis ball in play. But the part of me that ached the most was my face. Holding a mysterious smile in place for four or five hours was very hard work.
My evening did not get off to a very good start either. Aunt Matt happened to be standing in the foyer when I descended the stairs in my finery, and I knew from the frown on her face that I had disappointed her.
“So. I see you’re still running around with Agnes.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Matt.” I felt the need to apologize, but I didn’t know why. “She and Uncle Henry are taking me to a fund-raiser for the Art Institute. Aunt Agnes says they’ve opened a new building on Michigan Avenue recently, and now they’re raising money to expand their art collection.”
Aunt Matt clucked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s just a veiled excuse for Agnes to find you a rich husband. Listen to me, Violet. Agnes married Henry Paine for his money. So before you blindly follow the path she took, I suggest that you ask her how happy her marriage has been.”
“That’s a rather personal question, isn’t it? I-I really wouldn’t feel right asking her such a thing.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Henry keeps a mistress.” If Aunt Matt intended to shock me, she had succeeded. She had also given me more information than I cared to know.
“Oh … I see.”
“Wealthy society men all have them, you know. They marry a suitable woman—whom they don’t love—for propriety’s sake and keep a mistress on the side. Nobody ever talks about this dirty little secret, though, do they?”
“No,” I said quietly. I could feel my cheeks burning.
“If you’re going to run with Agnes’ crowd, then you need to know the truth about them.”
I wanted desperately to change the subject. “But the Art Institute is a good cause, isn’t it? Art and culture aren’t frivolous.”
“No, they aren’t frivolous. But I would be willing to bet that very few of the funds they raise will be used to support female artists. It’s all right for a woman to be the object of art, but that’s all she’s allowed to be—an object. It’s too bad, because there are some very fine female artists, you know. The American painter Mary
Similar Books
