15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Margaret opened her bedroom door and immediately noticed Marjorie in a dress that stopped above her knees, her short hair perfectly curled.
She stood before the mirror, fastening diamond earrings—far too elegant for a quiet evening at Maplebrook.
Margaret shook her head in dismay and closed the door behind her.
“What are you doing?”
Marjorie jumped and dropped her earring. She looked back at Margaret sharply, her mouth hanging open. Margaret walked closer with her hands on her hips.
“If Daddy saw you, you’d be locked in the attic for life.”
Marjorie placed a finger to her lip and shushed. “Keep your voice down.”
“Not until you tell me why you’re dressed like that.”
Marjorie scurried to the door and locked it behind her. She turned to Margaret. “You’re not going to tattle, are you?”
Margaret raised a brow.
Her sister groaned, slapping her thighs. “Ugh, fine. I’m going to a club.”
“Alone? Dressed like that?”
Marjorie sat at her vanity chair and buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t think this far.”
“You know Daddy would disapprove, specifically without a chaperone present.”
Marjorie glanced up from her pouting position, her eyes wide and pleading like a puppy’s. “Please, will you come with me?”
The thought of wearing something so modern and against her father’s rules made Margaret’s gut uneasy, yet a night at the club did seem exciting.
She missed the jazzy upbeat music, the dancing, and the thrill of freedom.
However, she had once and gotten into trouble for having fun.
Her father had not minded Marjorie going to clubs before when a reliable chaperone was present. What was different this time?
“Fine, but you have to wear something else.”
Marjorie’s brows furrowed. “But I just bought this. Grandmama approved.”
“Grandmama isn’t Daddy. I will go if you at least cover your knees.”
Marjorie stood straight. “Well, lucky for you, I have backups.”
Margaret’s nose crinkled. “Backups?”
“Yes,” Marjorie said, opening her wardrobe. “You didn’t think I was dumb enough to buy something like this and not have a backup, did you?”
Margaret giggled. “You are impossible!”
Marjorie retrieved a sparkly crimson dress, the fabric shimmering in the light. Tassels fell at the bottom edges, long enough to cover her knees. “One day, Daddy will be forced to accept that fashion is changing.”
As Margaret studied the dress, she couldn’t help but think of her own attire. It seemed her entire wardrobe had been replaced with businesslike fashion. Now her clothing choices were just blazers and skirts.
“Try this on, Margaret,” Marjorie said, handing Margaret a dress that was still on a hanger.
The dress was a deep purple, coated with glamorous beads and sequins.
It wasn’t as elaborate as the midnight blue gown Margaret had worn to the ball, but it was striking in a different way—bold and daring.
It was a fashion choice she would have never considered, even if the opportunity had come sooner.
Margaret held it against her chest and felt the tassels tickle her leg.
“Are you serious?”
“I believe that color will suit you better than me.”
Margaret changed into the dress, discovering it was much tighter than her normal attire, hugging her hips just so. Her legs, paler from the lack of sun, seemed even more ghostly against the dark fabric.
Marjorie began styling Margaret’s hair, creating finger waves using a comb and a spray bottle.
Margaret deeply admired the style and had worn it often before she took the job at the loan office.
Now she wore simple styles that wouldn’t be too eye-catching.
Marjorie retrieved the hair dryer and began drying the wet spots.
“Have you thought about who our driver and chaperone will be?” Margaret asked.
“Mr. Agnes,” Marjorie answered without hesitation.
“And why are you so confident? Did you ask him?”
Marjorie giggled. “I have not asked him yet, but he’ll definitely agree. I plan to offer him a deal.”
“Deal?”
“I will offer to cover for him while he takes Evie on a romantic picnic.”
Margaret’s heart paused; her eyes widened. “Picnic? Romance?”
“Come on now, Margaret. I know you see it, too. They are smitten with one another.”
Margaret chuckled to herself. Marjorie was indeed right. Immeasurable tension lingered when they were in the same room. Whenever he spoke to the family at dinner, Evie would blush.
“So, have you heard from your mystery man, the one from the ball?”
Margaret bit her bottom lip. She had yet to speak to her sisters about Eugene’s true identity. The timing hadn’t been right—just as there hadn’t been a time for her to tell them about the will.
“I have.”
Marjorie squealed. “Margaret! You’re supposed to tell me these things! Who is he? Do I know him?”
Margaret couldn’t meet Marjorie's gaze. She looked away from the mirror and nervously braided the tassels on her dress. “He’s Lord Burton.”
Marjorie almost dropped her hairpins. “What?”
Margaret’s cheeks grew warm. “I didn’t know it was him. He introduced himself as Eugene Ashcroft, and I thought he was just a simple man.”
Marjorie giggled. “My sister caught a marquess! I’m so jealous!”
“I haven’t caught him.”
Marjorie shook her head. “If you say so.”
An hour later, Marjorie was right about her plan.
Mr. Sidney Agnes drove them to the club without hesitation with a smile on his face.
The club was much bigger than Margaret expected.
The club name, Martina’s, gleamed in bright lights.
Women and men all stood in line, ready to dance the night away.
Jazzy tunes echoed through the streets, making Margaret’s heart thump with excitement.
Her arms blossomed with bumps as the music moved her.
She looked over at Marjorie, who was hardly able to stand still.
She grinned and elbowed Margaret. “I told you this would be a grand night.”
“Oh, come on, Roger! Just for once, admit I’m right.”
Roger stifled a laugh at Graydon and took another sip of his Coca-Cola as he sat back against the red leather booth. “Whatever you want to believe.”
“Jimmy Murphy is going to win the French Grand Prix. Just wait and see! I could bet my life on it!’
“I wouldn’t say life. Perhaps a hundred-dollar bill may suffice.”
Graydon held out his hand enthusiastically. “Deal!”
Roger shook his friend’s hand with a tight grip. “Deal.”
“And no refunds,” Graydon warned, holding up a finger. “When you hear over the radio that Murphy is nearing the finish line, you can’t back out.”
Roger chuckled. “I won’t.”
A jazzy saxophone solo interrupted the slow piano music, and the couples on the dance floor cheered.
The pianist threw off his hat and started jamming away.
Roger groaned, rubbing his temples, while Graydon clapped and joined in the cheering.
The blaring music only intensified Roger’s growing headache.
“He really knows how to play!” Graydon shouted.
Roger wouldn’t have been able to hear Graydon if he weren’t naturally a loudmouth.
Roger used to enjoy jazz. He liked tapping his foot to the beat and closing his eyes in relaxation, but it sounded like a bunch of noise now—too loud and obnoxious.
But Graydon insisted they come to the club for a night out, especially since it was a Thursday.
During their youth, they’d come to the club twice a week.
Roger would order a beer and enjoy the music—but that was before prohibition.
Occasionally he’d dance with a lady, but rather, he came for inspiration.
He remembered writing the first poem of his 1916 collection.
It’s the swing, the sway, the cool and the hot,
Jazz is a journey that never forgot.
The bluesy notes, the upbeat cheer,
A timeless magic, crystal clear.
So let the saxophones weep and wail,
In the heart of jazz, we set sail.
Roger would never forget the poem. It was a year before he joined the war—his last year of peace.
His friend whistled with a large grin on his face. He winked at Roger and leaned back against the booth. “My, my. Look at those ladies.”
Roger didn’t care much for Graydon’s admirations. The man always found a new woman to flirt with at each of their outings. He wasn’t much of a playboy, but his flirtations were uncontrollable. Roger had never been like him.
In the past, Roger had been too focused on his literary passion rather than giving in to romance.
He found it far more romantic to admire a woman from afar, where mystery and allure thrived.
This perspective fueled his poetry, rich with themes of longing lovers, secret affairs, and obsession.
He often pondered what it would be like to be so desperately in love that couples felt incomplete without each other’s company.
However, that was what poems were for—deep imagination and dramatic expression.
Roger looked towards the ladies this time, for Graydon would never stop bugging him until he did. When his eyes beheld them, he had to blink twice. It couldn’t be.
There stood Margaret Nicholson, his boss’s daughter.
What was she doing in a place like this?
Her father would never approve. The young woman next to her could pass as a twin if not for her short hairdo.
Then, Roger caught himself staring too long.
Miss Nicholson hadn’t noticed him, but Roger’s eyes remained glued.
She removed her coat, revealing her sparkly, deep purple dress, just slightly below the knee.
The stage’s radiant lights displayed upon her, casting a mesmerizing glow that seemed to emanate from within.
Her hands brushed against her forehead where a shiny silver headpiece rested, a violet feather poking out the right side.
As she walked, Roger caught a glimpse of her long legs revealing as her dress tassels gracefully swayed.
This was a side of her he hadn’t anticipated as he was accustomed to her wearing long stockings for work.