Chapter Two
Boston, Massachusetts
ANNA
Anna Bradley entered the house on Commonwealth Avenue, just as her sister, Elizabeth, emerged from the parlor, where she was directing preparations for her mother-in-law’s birthday luncheon.
“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth said, eyeing Anna’s soaking wet gown.
“I know. I was two blocks away when the sky opened up,” Anna said. “I might as well have stood in front of a fire hose. I wish I were a dog. I’d just shake.”
Elizabeth smiled sympathetically. “I’ll send Millicent up. She can help you get ready.”
Anna headed upstairs, almost grateful for the sorry state of her gown. Had she been outwardly presentable, Elizabeth might have detected her rather wretched internal state.
Three days ago, Anna’s father, a professor of philosophy at Harvard, had told her he was retiring.
“Does that mean you’ll be able to devote more time to our book?” Anna asked, a hopeful question that was belied by the stab of anxiety she felt in anticipation of the answer.
“Oh, no, I’m afraid I won’t be continuing with that, dear,” he said blithely. “You’re welcome to complete it yourself, of course.”
For years, she and Father had been working together on a scholarly biography of Margaret Fuller, the great thinker and writer from the intellectual heyday of Concord, Massachusetts.
This book was everything to Anna. Completing it would establish her as America’s preeminent scholar of Margaret Fuller.
The rewards she would reap—magazine articles, lectures, textbook consultations, and more—would not make her wealthy, but they would give her the independence she craved.
Working together, she and Father could have finished the book within a year.
It would have been done ages ago, in fact, had Anna’s stepmother not thrown up so many roadblocks.
Ignorant, possessive Clarissa resented how much time and energy Father devoted to his career, and particularly this project, which honored a woman whom Anna’s late mother had idolized.
Anna had no idea how long it would take her to complete it on her own. The prospect had left her in a rather despondent state, which was exacerbated by an extremely unpleasant morning.
There was no time to wallow now, though. Anna had to get ready for the luncheon for Elizabeth’s mother-in-law. When she entered her room, prepared to submit herself to the ministrations of Elizabeth’s maid, however, Anna found she had company.
“Hello, Jules.” Anna smiled, her spirits rising at the sight of her nearly five-year-old niece. Julia was lying in her favorite position—on her back on the floor, feet resting on the seat of Anna’s desk chair—but her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyes narrowed.
“Hi, Anana,” she grumbled, using the contraction for “Aunt Anna” she had invented when she was littler and not yet relinquished. “I am hiding.”
“Have you been up to some sort of roguery?”
“No ro-gree!” Julia replied, indignant. “But everyone is cross.”
“Everyone meaning William?”
“Everyone everyone. Even Rosemary.”
“Well, that is something, then,” Anna acknowledged. Unlike her ancient and short-tempered predecessor, whom Elizabeth had ejected in a rare show of defiance, Rosemary had the minimum requirements for the job of Julia’s nurse: youthful vigor and endless patience.
Julia always ran instead of walked, and never on the ground if some higher avenue was available—a wall, a fence, and once, memorably, a cow.
Anything that resembled a foothold she considered an invitation to climb.
At two, she fell while scaling the bookcase in the library, bringing herself and several shelves of books down with her.
(Unhurt, but afraid of a scold, she hid under a rug.
Evidently she thought because it was flat, she would be, too, rather than the Julia-shaped lump that Elizabeth found when she heard the noise and came to investigate.)
More recently, Julia had developed a bad case of sticky fingers.
Her older brother, William, was her most frequent victim.
Yesterday he burst into Anna’s room, where Julia was taking refuge, and demanded she return his fire truck.
Julia disclaimed knowledge of its whereabouts, but she scampered out the door when William threatened to look in her room.
Knowing she would retrieve the toy, put it under his bed, and claim he had merely misplaced it, he gave chase.
“Why do you have to be so freakish?” he yelled, as he raced down the hall after her. “You shouldn’t play with fire trucks anyway!”
Despite her daring gymnastic feats and occasional petty theft, Julia was a true original, and quite the most popular member of the Demarest household.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to see your grandmother?” Anna asked.
Julia’s face darkened. “Why doesn’t William have to go?”
“Because it’s a ladies’ event, and he is not a lady.”
“I’m not a lady either!”
“Well, you’re a female, and that’s close enough. You need only to come in and greet your grandmother, and then you can be on your way.”
“Grandmother Lillian will be cross, too.” To some extent, Julia was just sticking to a theme she had warmed to—in this case, crossness—but Lillian was often cross with Julia.
“If you are worried your grandmother will be cross, perhaps it’s time for…” Anna waited for Julia to finish the sentence.
“Princess Phronsie?”
Anna nodded. She and Julia had invented the game together. Anna came up with the story, while Julia had supplied the name. (Or, rather, the book The Five Little Peppers supplied the name. Phronsie was the baby of the Pepper family.)
Princess Phronsie knew that preparing to reign over a great kingdom required many daring adventures, but the people of the kingdom, including the king and queen, seemed not to understand this.
They expected a princess to behave with perfect decorum.
Her adventures, therefore, had to be kept secret.
Publicly, she would display pristine manners.
The game was more fitting than Julia realized.
The First Families of Boston, of which Lillian was a member by both birth and marriage, operated like an alliance of hereditary monarchies.
Given the keen interest in the royal progeny, meddling grandparents were hardly unusual.
And since Lillian was widowed after producing one son, Elizabeth’s husband, Jerome, this household had the dubious pleasure of all her concentrated attention.
That said, Lillian’s criticisms of Julia went well beyond the already excessive standards of the Boston Brahmins, and Anna had noted with some dismay that they were only intensifying with time.
Though Julia was irked at times by her grandmother, thus far she did not seem in the least intimidated by her.
Anna would not wish it otherwise, but Lillian, who lacked the coercive power of an actual monarch, relied on fear and intimidation to get her way, so Julia’s nonchalance only contributed to her agitation.
Anna adored her niece’s independent spirit and mostly let Julia do what she wished within the confines of this room.
And while Julia could not perfectly adhere to the Princess Phronsie program, it had helped her manage creditable demonstrations of etiquette during many encounters with her grandmother.
“Shall we try walking?”
Julia nodded and stood up straight. Eschewing the book they ordinarily used for such purposes, Anna placed a red felt slipper on Julia’s head. Soon they were both laughing at Julia’s attempts to move while keeping the rebellious object in place.
After this enjoyable interlude, Julia resumed her earlier position, on her back with her feet on the chair, just as Rosemary appeared, with Elizabeth’s maid Millicent hovering behind her, prepared to make Anna presentable.
“Come, child,” Rosemary said, holding out a hand. Julia arched her back for an upside-down assessment of the nurse’s mood.
“I will come if you will not be cross,” she said, a wary look in her eyes.
“I will be genial.” Rosemary smiled. Julia groaned, got up, and let herself be led away. Forty-five minutes later, with Millicent’s help, Anna was in her simple navy silk dress, with no adornments other than a small pearl bracelet.
Anna considered it fortunate that she was plain—medium height, with medium brown hair and an unremarkable complexion.
Her only redeeming feature was a pair of large brown eyes (“speaking eyes,” Mother had always called them).
Anna did not doubt that Elizabeth was happy to have her, but four years in this house had taught her a good deal about the complex architecture of this family.
She knew her continued welcome required blending into the woodwork.
An hour later, Anna sat at the long dining table, thinking about the final conversation she had with her mother.
“I hope the traditions live on,” Mother had said.
She was referring to the traditions of her own family—the Newbolds, from Concord, where she had grown up among the Emersons, Alcotts, and Ripleys.
When Mother was little, her family even lived on the Transcendentalist commune, Brook Farm.
She raised Elizabeth and Anna to revere simplicity, nature, and beauty, to reject materialism, and to believe that women deserved equal rights and opportunities.
“You will help Elizabeth, won’t you?” Mother asked.
“Of course,” Anna had promised. But now, surveying her sister’s home—the blood-red silk walls, Gobelin tapestries, and the table adorned with silver bowls and Royal Worcester china—Anna reflected that she’d had no idea what she was signing up for.