determination to become something better than what was expected, which in her case was to find a nice Polish boy with a career and to bear a succession of Polish Catholic grandchildren so her parents would have a legacy of little ones bouncing on their knees for the rest of their natural days.
That was not for Xenia, and she felt that this handsome, shy American, this collegiate man who she could tell was from an important and cultured family in the fabled and cultured New England stronghold of Boston was like a dream come true for the daughter of an ice-and-coal man from Pittsburgh. She had read of the great New England aristocracy, and Arthur seemed certainly to be one of these. His father owned a railroad company! It never occurred to her that his name, Shaughnessy, was one that, simply on the face of it, wouldn’t have allowed him to be a part of that rarefied class of Bostonians she’d read so much about.
Dressed now, Xenia bent to Arthur in the bed and gave him a long kiss. She could scarcely believe she had actually given herself to him—and after only ten days. But it all seemed right and true, and so she did not stop to dwell on the horror with which her parents would have greeted her behavior, let alone the Church.
“ Bonjour , darling,” she said, blowing a kiss, opening the door.
“I don’t know why you so worship the language of these people,” Arthur said as a parting shot.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Well, for one thing,” he said, “how can you have any respect for a man who, when his house catches on fire, he starts running around in the street shouting, ‘Foo, foo, foo’?”
She stuck out her tongue at him.
FOR HIS PART, ARTHUR had never met anyone like Xenia, either.
In his time with the Shaughnessys, he’d attended tea dances with the daughters of Boston’s lace-curtain Irish, smiling, snappy colleens who giggled and shrank back to their mothers and later, as they became adolescent, into the Church, so he could barely manage a kiss on the cheek. There were of course Protestant girls whom he’d met at day school or at his father’s bathing club near Gloucester, but they seemed stuffy and shy.
Then, during his short, dreadful experience at Groton, when they’d had swaps with Miss Porter’s and other boarding schools, the girls not only ignored him but in some cases most obviously whispered about him—tuned in, as they were, by his ruthless and mean-spirited classmates: “He’s Irish,” they’d say. “He’s an orphan and a mackerel snapper,” they’d say. “He was left in a basket on the Irishman’s stoop.”
In time Arthur managed to develop friendships with others like himself—the sons and daughters of wealthy Bostonians who were on the fringes of Yankee society like the Shaughnessys were and, because they weren’t born into it, would never be invited in, no matter how witty and charming they were, and so they formed their own outer circle with their own parties and dances at their own clubs.
But in all of this, Arthur had never met a girl to fall in love with. Perhaps he was too busy to fall in love—or even have a girlfriend. Mostly, what hours he did not spend studying or working at the rail offices of the NE&P he spent in a top-floor room of the Shaughnessy mansion with his collections.
When finally Xenia and her mother departed Paris several weeks later, Arthur promised to visit her in Pittsburgh on his return. When he got home to Boston the next month, there were numerous letters from Xenia, the last announcing that she was pregnant.
The Colonel and Beatie had had great plans for Arthur that did not include the daughter of a Polack from Pittsburgh. For her part, Xenia was faced with the nauseating prospect of informing her parents of her condition. Arthur, being the gentleman he was raised to be, visited Pittsburgh as soon as possible and on his return announced to the Shaughnessys his intention to marry Xenia Kzwalskci without delay. In the uproar
That was not for Xenia, and she felt that this handsome, shy American, this collegiate man who she could tell was from an important and cultured family in the fabled and cultured New England stronghold of Boston was like a dream come true for the daughter of an ice-and-coal man from Pittsburgh. She had read of the great New England aristocracy, and Arthur seemed certainly to be one of these. His father owned a railroad company! It never occurred to her that his name, Shaughnessy, was one that, simply on the face of it, wouldn’t have allowed him to be a part of that rarefied class of Bostonians she’d read so much about.
Dressed now, Xenia bent to Arthur in the bed and gave him a long kiss. She could scarcely believe she had actually given herself to him—and after only ten days. But it all seemed right and true, and so she did not stop to dwell on the horror with which her parents would have greeted her behavior, let alone the Church.
“ Bonjour , darling,” she said, blowing a kiss, opening the door.
“I don’t know why you so worship the language of these people,” Arthur said as a parting shot.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Well, for one thing,” he said, “how can you have any respect for a man who, when his house catches on fire, he starts running around in the street shouting, ‘Foo, foo, foo’?”
She stuck out her tongue at him.
FOR HIS PART, ARTHUR had never met anyone like Xenia, either.
In his time with the Shaughnessys, he’d attended tea dances with the daughters of Boston’s lace-curtain Irish, smiling, snappy colleens who giggled and shrank back to their mothers and later, as they became adolescent, into the Church, so he could barely manage a kiss on the cheek. There were of course Protestant girls whom he’d met at day school or at his father’s bathing club near Gloucester, but they seemed stuffy and shy.
Then, during his short, dreadful experience at Groton, when they’d had swaps with Miss Porter’s and other boarding schools, the girls not only ignored him but in some cases most obviously whispered about him—tuned in, as they were, by his ruthless and mean-spirited classmates: “He’s Irish,” they’d say. “He’s an orphan and a mackerel snapper,” they’d say. “He was left in a basket on the Irishman’s stoop.”
In time Arthur managed to develop friendships with others like himself—the sons and daughters of wealthy Bostonians who were on the fringes of Yankee society like the Shaughnessys were and, because they weren’t born into it, would never be invited in, no matter how witty and charming they were, and so they formed their own outer circle with their own parties and dances at their own clubs.
But in all of this, Arthur had never met a girl to fall in love with. Perhaps he was too busy to fall in love—or even have a girlfriend. Mostly, what hours he did not spend studying or working at the rail offices of the NE&P he spent in a top-floor room of the Shaughnessy mansion with his collections.
When finally Xenia and her mother departed Paris several weeks later, Arthur promised to visit her in Pittsburgh on his return. When he got home to Boston the next month, there were numerous letters from Xenia, the last announcing that she was pregnant.
The Colonel and Beatie had had great plans for Arthur that did not include the daughter of a Polack from Pittsburgh. For her part, Xenia was faced with the nauseating prospect of informing her parents of her condition. Arthur, being the gentleman he was raised to be, visited Pittsburgh as soon as possible and on his return announced to the Shaughnessys his intention to marry Xenia Kzwalskci without delay. In the uproar
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