The Light of Paris. Элеонора Браун

mother had been there, maybe her parents had even pleaded with him to take her on (that thought was too humiliating to linger on for long).

      Below, her father’s study door opened and closed, voices in the hall, this time calmer, more conciliatory. The door closing. Her parents’ voices now, just the two of them. Margie stood, unlocked her bedroom door, and then lay down on the bed again, bracing herself for their footsteps on the stairs, their disappointed arrival.

      No one came.

      Instead, she heard them move into the parlor, their voices becoming only the faintest sound in the still house. The maid and the cook had cleaned up after dinner, put the house to bed, gone to bed themselves. It was only her parents below, deciding her fate, and her, lying hopeless and powerless in her room, wondering what, exactly, was to become of her now.

      Finally, her mother flung the door of Margie’s room open. “Margaret Brooke Pearce,” she thundered, and her face was so tight with fury that Margie slid backward on her bed, as though she could disappear into the wall. “You horrible, ungrateful thing. How dare you refuse Mr. Chapman?”

      Margie opened her mouth, but all that came out was a squeak. “Do you think you are such a desirable property that men are lined up around the block for you? You are twenty-four and unmarried. Do you know what that means? The men who might marry you are taken. Every day you get older, and every day there are girls younger than you, prettier than you, and heaven knows more polite than you, who are making themselves available for marriage. This was your chance, Margie, and you have destroyed it.”

      “I didn’t want to marry him,” Margie said, her voice wavering on the edge of tears. “He doesn’t love me. And I don’t love him.”

      “Love. Love! I suppose you get these ideas about love from the books you are always reading. Oh, you think I don’t know what you do up here with your time, Margie, but I know how you waste away the hours dreaming. Other girls are bettering themselves. They do good works, they go to Temperance League meetings, and if they do read, it’s something edifying. They go to parties without complaining. And you’re shut up here with your books and these notebooks and the one time you get a chance at marriage, you ruin it.” Her mother’s fury arced up and she raised her arm, reaching out and swiping a stack of notebooks and papers off Margie’s writing table.

      Leaping off the bed, Margie stood up straight, her fists clenched by her sides. “You don’t care about me. You only want me to marry him because it will be good for Father’s business.” One of her notebooks had fluttered open on the ground and she lunged for it, closing it and clutching it to her chest.

      “And what’s wrong with that? Your father’s business is what feeds you and clothes you. That business is what you use to buy these precious books. That business is what will pay your way when we are gone and you are old and alone and unmarried.”

      A sob caught in Margie’s throat at her mother’s harsh words. “I’m not going to get married. I will pay my own way.”

      “How?”

      “I’m going to be a writer.” Margie lifted her chin defiantly, though she didn’t feel defiant. She felt like burying her face in the pillow and crying. It was all so unfair. She understood love didn’t have to be like it was in novels, but was it so wrong to want there to be something between her and the man she would marry? Something to look forward to, other than the cool, businesslike agreement her parents had?

      “A writer? A woman writer? What living would you earn doing that? Not one that could keep you in the style to which you’ve been accustomed, I can tell you. You are far too old for these silly, foolish dreams, Margie.” She looked as though she were going to say something else and Margie braced herself, then, as abruptly as her mother had come, she turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door loudly behind her.

      When her mother had gone, Margie unclenched her fists, looking at the pale moons her fingernails had carved in her palms. She felt, suddenly, very, very tired. She lay down on the bed again, staring at the ceiling, tears rolling down the sides of her face. There was no way out. She had everything, and she had nothing. She was going to spend the rest of her life like this, watching her mother pulling the threads out of her embroidery, sneaking up to her room to write stories no one would ever see, her parents bringing suitors to the table, digging closer and closer to the bottom of the barrel until there was no one left, and then Margie would be alone forever, and none of those foolish, lovely dreams would ever come true.

      Margie fell asleep in her dinner dress, her shoes still on, lying there on top of the coverlet. When she woke in the morning, she drew herself a bath and sat in the water until it went cold. She pulled her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck, dressed, faced herself in the mirror. She looked the part of the wretched spinster, she thought: pale, wearing a dark dress as though mourning the death of her own life. Well, this is it, she thought. And if they want me to marry him, I won’t. I just won’t. I’ll get a job, not even a fancy job, a typist somewhere—places are hiring female clerks more and more often now. And I’ll move into one of those boardinghouses, and I’ll only come over here for holidays, and we’ll all sit around the dinner table and be terribly polite, and then I’ll be happy because I’ll be free.

      Squaring her shoulders, Margie shook her head. She marched herself downstairs and into the dining room, where her parents were eating breakfast. As usual, her father was hidden behind a newspaper. Her mother was drinking tea and did not, to Margie’s surprise, throw it in her face when she slid into her chair.

      “Good morning,” her father said from behind his paper.

      “Good morning,” Margie muttered. She took a piece of toast from the toast rack and spread it with marmalade.

      Her mother lifted her eyes above her teacup, saying nothing. Margie chewed her toast, the crack of the crumbs between her teeth loud as artillery fire.

      Finally, her father turned the last page of his paper, folded it, and put it on the table. Margie swallowed hard, the dry toast scraping its way down her throat.

      “You’re going to Europe,” he said. Her father had the habit of starting conversations wherever his own thought process was, which generally caused a great deal of confusion and required catching up on the part of the listener.

      “I’m sorry?” she asked. Of all the possible scenarios she had imagined last night, many of them deeply melodramatic, inspired by Gothic novels and a handful of Valentino movies, being sent to Europe had not been high on the list. Hadn’t been anywhere on the list, really.

      “I’ll book your ticket today. Your mother will take you to New York and you will leave from there.”

      “I don’t understand.” Was this supposed to feel like a punishment? A banishment? Europe. Margie had dreamed of going, of course, but it had always seemed just that—a dream.

      “Your cousin Evelyn is going on her Tour.” Margie’s mother spoke finally. She lifted her napkin, dabbing carefully at the edges of her mouth, though there was nothing there, and Margie wished, sadly, for the millionth time, that she had been born with the tiniest amount of her mother’s poise. “And she’s in need of a chaperone. You’re to go with her.”

      “But,” Margie started to object, and then closed her mouth. Evelyn was eighteen and incorrigible. Margie and Evelyn, being the only two cousins close in age, had been thrust together at family gatherings for years, and Margie was ashamed to admit Evelyn had bullied her from the start. Spoiled, demanding, and domineering, Evelyn took great pleasure in ordering Margie around. In their games, Evelyn was the princess, Margie the lady-in-waiting. Evelyn was the knight, Margie was the steed. Evelyn was the brave hero, Margie the (actually fairly ineffectual) villain. Evelyn was greatly experienced in setting up situations to her best advantage, and Margie would rather have eaten broken glass than spend six months traveling with her.

      Except the alternative wasn’t broken glass. It was a lifetime with Mr. Chapman. And in contrast, dragging Evelyn to art galleries sounded like an absolute treat. And in Europe! London! Paris! Rome! The cobblestone streets, the cathedrals,