Chapter Four
Boston, Massachusetts, and Haven Point, Maine
ANNA
Anna sat in the conversation room at the Athenaeum Library, though she was not “in conversation” in any normal sense of the word. She was, rather, listening to Mr. Thatcher Winslow Wimborne, a foppish man of about fifty, as he talked perfect nonsense in his nasal, upper-crust New England accent.
“I believe there are many hidden Oriental influences in Boston architecture, and we shall begin by checking the curve of various banisters. I am persuaded there are also pagodas hidden in some gardens.”
So she was now to peer over garden walls? Anna would not be surprised. At this point, nothing this preposterous fellow suggested would surprise her.
And I thought I was so clever, too, Anna thought ruefully.
Weeks organizing the Margaret Fuller materials had taught her that she would not earn a dime from this project for years, and she would not even see that unless she could figure out a way to access resources that were not available at the public library.
When she saw the advertisement for a research assistant to an amateur historian, it seemed like the perfect solution.
The Athenaeum Library was so close to home, and while nonmembers could not check books out (and virtually no women were members), with Mr. Wimborne’s sponsorship, Anna would be permitted to review materials while she was on the premises.
Mr. Wimborne, however, had been evasive on the subject of sponsorship, and Anna had spent her time chasing one absurd idea after another—ships’ figureheads, tea chests, signal flags, and whatever whim bounced into the silly man’s disorderly mind—all vaguely related to his revered ancestors’ involvement in the China trade.
Worst of all, she had yet to be paid. Anna would soon decamp to Maine with her sister’s family, and she was determined to extract her payment before they left. She waited until his incoherent lecture was finished, and they were packing up their notes.
“Mr. Wimborne, you said that you would have my check this week.”
“Oh, come now. Why are you so eager for money?” he said, in the sort of teasing tone one might use with a six-year-old, before gently chucking her on the chin.
“I am eager to be paid for my work, per our agreement,” Anna said firmly.
“But you live quite comfortably with your sister. Lots of women who do not need the money are willing to donate time to an interesting project.”
“Where I live has no bearing on the matter,” Anna said, trying to keep the anger from her voice (and refraining from pointing out that, while bizarre, the work was not at all interesting).
Mr. Wimborne looked unmoved. Anna, her frustration increasing, added, “As it happens, I do need the money.”
“Whatever for?” Mr. Wimborne stopped putting his things away and looked at her, curious to hear the answer to what he seemed to believe was a perfectly legitimate question.
“If you must know,” Anna replied, her tone hinting that she did not actually believe he “must” know anything at all, “I need to buy my stepmother a birthday present.”
His eyes lit up. “Oh? Does your stepmother have good taste?”
Anna’s anger bubbled over. “No! It’s appalling,” she snapped. “She recently added a ‘Turkish corner’ to the parlor of my childhood home. Perhaps you should meet her, Mr. Wimborne. She insists she has a great passion for the Oriental.”
Anna regretted it instantly. She was prepared to give this job up today if she was not paid, but she meant to do so with professionalism and dignity, not intemperate sarcasm.
Mr. Wimborne, far from affronted, threw back his head and laughed. “Well, then, I know the perfect place! It’s just around the corner.” Noticing her hesitation, he said, “You will get your money, and I will pony up for the gift, too. Come along, girl.”
Anna was speechless, but she supposed if jumping through this hoop would get her paid, then jump she would. She sighed and followed him into the hallway.
To her dismay, as they were heading to the door, she saw Mr. Harley Lockwood, Eugenia’s older brother, at the receiving desk.
Anna had always been baffled by Eugenia’s worshipful attitude toward her older brother.
He was in the popular crowd at Harvard, and seemed like a typical frivolous, football-playing prankster.
Of more contemporary interest, while Anna was not certain of the exact nature of it, she knew he had been romantically involved with Lillian’s goddaughter, Judith Fairchild.
For all she knew, he still was. Anna had not only heard their names whispered together, but had also seen the two of them with her own eyes.
It was on the last night of Anna’s (long, painful) debut season. Clarissa had pressured Mr. Lockwood into signing Anna’s dance card. When the band struck up the first notes of the dance, however, Mr. Lockwood was nowhere to be found.
Anna had slipped out of the ballroom, afraid Clarissa would embarrass her by hunting the man down.
As she headed for the sitting-out room, she detected motion in the foyer.
She peered around a pillar and spotted Mrs. Fairchild clinging to Mr. Lockwood’s arm, staring up at him in a we are so star-crossed manner.
Mr. Fairchild had only just died, so Judith merely being out of her home was a shocking transgression, never mind this scene.
Now, as they passed the receiving desk, Mr. Lockwood looked up. His eyes took in Mr. Wimborne, then traveled to Anna. Clearly surprised, he quirked an eyebrow. Anna lifted her chin and ignored him.
They had just reached the vestibule when Mr. Wimborne realized he’d forgotten his umbrella. While he was inside fetching it, Mr. Lockwood came out, holding several books under his arm.
“Hello, Miss Bradley.” He nodded.
“Mr. Lockwood.” She nodded back.
“Wimborne just told me you were working for him. He called you his ‘library girl.’” He uttered the last two words with obvious disdain.
For the second time in twenty minutes, Anna felt herself on the precipice of losing the reins of her tongue. Before she could issue a sharp retort, reminding Mr. Lockwood that being choosy about professional opportunities was a luxury women could hardly afford, Mr. Wimborne appeared at the door.
“Come along, dear,” he said, taking Anna’s arm and leading her to the door. “Good day, Mr. Lockwood.”
An hour later, Anna was back at Elizabeth’s house, looking at the brass samovar that Mr. Wimborne had unearthed at a shabby little shop two blocks from the Athenaeum.
It was a perfectly hideous specimen that Clarissa would love.
True to his word, Mr. Wimborne had purchased it, with great good cheer, and had paid her for her work.
He had also given Anna a gratifying little tidbit.
“So, you know Lockwood, do you?” he asked, as they walked down Tremont Street. Anna replied that she did, and that their mothers had grown up together in Concord.
“Fine fellow, but I do feel some pity. What a coil, that situation with Mrs. Fairchild!” he said.
Mr. Wimborne was maddening and ridiculous, but his attitude toward Anna had been almost fatherly, so she was a bit taken aback by his mentioning the scandal.
Of course society had obviously deemed Mr. Lockwood and Mrs. Fairchild fair game for gossip, as evidenced by the fact that even Anna, who was not at all social, had heard the names linked.
“A coil indeed,” Anna said calmly, as if she were conversant in the subject. She was curious to know if Mr. Wimborne was referring to something past or current.
“Well, Mrs. Fairchild is a persistent little somebody,” he said. “And she certainly has her wiles.”
Present tense, Anna thought.
For some reason, she felt vaguely disappointed.
Two weeks later, Anna sat on the deck of a massive yacht, anchored in Haven Point’s small harbor.
Mr. Sears patted the arms of his rattan deck chair. “We thought Bertie had the right idea about painting these white,” he said, as if he and the Prince of Wales were great chums. “Nice effect, don’t you agree?”
They all nodded politely. Rhinelander Sears, Ambrose Lawrence’s cousin, and his wife, Vesta, had stopped on their way from Bar Harbor to Newport, and Anna was one of a group who had been invited to tour the vessel.
Mr. Sears had highlighted its many virtues—electric lighting, a grand piano, an auxiliary steam engine, and an array of additional features Anna could not recall, as she had lost interest at the very start.
(The tour began with a lengthy explanation of how they’d achieved the bright whiteness of the sails—something, boiling repeatedly, something else—which Anna felt any reasonable person would agree was empirically boring.)
That said, she could not help picking up a peculiar obsession with the various species of wood used throughout the interior.
Different in every room! Black walnut in the library!
Oak in the family salon! When they entered the dining room, Nora Graham leaned toward Anna and, with a look of feigned curiosity, whispered, “What sort of wood, do you suppose?”
Not thirty seconds later, Mr. Sears gestured grandly at the walls. “Hand-carved East India mahogany!” Anna and Nora assiduously avoided eye contact.
“So, how’s this little experiment of yours going, Amby?” Rhinelander asked, a mocking edge to his tone, as he waved a hand toward Haven Point.
“Quite well,” Ambrose replied stiffly.
“I heard Penrose and Williams had to pull out.”
“The panic, you know. We still have a number of the most select families purchasing lots.”
The most select families. Anna groaned inwardly. Such comments were unhelpful in the extreme, especially when George Graham had worked so hard to avoid such an outcome.
As wonderful as the past few summers had been, Anna was beginning to wonder if they were a flash in the pan.