Storing Up Trouble, стр. 20
“Does my mother know you’re a suffragist?”
“Hard to say. With me being so much older than Annie, we don’t actually have that much contact with each other.”
“But I thought Mother sent me here to keep me well away from anything related to the suffragist movement.”
“And that very well could be, but by sending you here, she’s clearly expecting me to use my own judgment as to how your time should be spent.”
“And how do you want me to spend my time?” Beatrix asked slowly.
“I’d like for you to find your true purpose in life because, what with all the shenanigans Annie told me you’ve been involved with over the years, I’ve concluded that you’re floundering.”
“Floundering?”
“Indeed. You lack true commitment to any cause.”
“I most certainly do not lack commitment,” Beatrix argued. “I assist at numerous missions, support the suffragist movement, help out my friends, and I even volunteer at Grace Church, teaching lessons of faith to the children.”
“All very commendable acts, my dear, and I don’t want you to believe that I find any of that objectionable. However . . .”
“Why do I get the distinct impression I’m not going to enjoy hearing what you’re about to say next?”
“Because it’s occasionally painful to have truths pointed out to us. And your truth is this—while you’ve thrown yourself into philanthropic endeavors, your privileged life has left you at a distinct disadvantage. So in regard to the suffrage movement, I don’t believe you truly grasp the reason why women are so desperate to obtain the vote, no matter that you want to support the movement by attending rallies and marches.”
“I understand why women want the right to vote.”
Aunt Gladys inclined her head. “In theory perhaps, but you don’t know what it’s like to be at the mercy of an employer who can level abuse on you at his whim, and you have no alternative but to take it because you have mouths to feed or rent to pay. That right there is why I’ve decided that the best way for you to spend your time in Chicago is to take up a position.”
“A position, as in . . . a position of employment?”
“Quite right.” Aunt Gladys gave Beatrix’s arm a pat. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted to learn that I’ve arranged for you to have an interview with Mr. Bailer at Marshall Field & Company. He’s expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.”
Chapter 8
Norman had the uncanny feeling someone was watching him.
Lowering the newspaper he’d been reading in the breakfast nook of his mother’s grand house, he discovered a young boy gazing back at him from across the table.
Norman set the paper aside, took a sip of coffee, and frowned.
“Do I know you?”
The boy nodded, a less-than-helpful response if there ever was one.
“We’re not related to each other, are we?”
“Of course you’re not related to him, Norman. That’s Oscar Weinhart.”
Looking past Oscar, Norman found one of his sisters, Constance Nesbit Michelson, bustling into the room, dressed in a gown of green, paired with an enormous hat that had four birds with different colored feathers attached to it.
“Am I going to suffer a lecture if I admit I still don’t know who he is?” Norman asked, which earned him an eye roll from Constance as she helped herself to a cup of coffee from the silver pot resting on the buffet table.
“He’s Marian’s son.”
“Still don’t know who he is.”
“Do not tell me you’ve forgotten that Marian is my best friend, have you?”
“I’ve not forgotten that you’re friends with a Marian, but that Marian’s last name is Shaw and you stated this boy’s name is Oscar Weinhart.”
“Because Weinhart is Marian’s married name. Surely you must remember her getting married twelve years ago because you were present at her wedding.”
Norman raked a hand through hair that was longer than ever, him having neglected to make time to visit his barber since he’d returned from New York, unsurprised that his sister was watching him as if she were afraid he was suffering from some dastardly illness.
He couldn’t say he blamed her because he wasn’t one to forget events he attended, but he’d obviously forgotten all about Marian’s wedding. The only explanation for that curious lapse was that he was apparently still suffering from the effects of his encounter with Beatrix Waterbury, even though it had been seven days since he’d parted ways with her, a sufficient time to recover, but . . .
“What’s wrong with you today?”
Shaking himself from his musings, Norman found that Constance had abandoned her coffee and was advancing his way, determination in her every step. Norman summoned up a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with me, and of course I remember attending Marian’s wedding.” He turned and nodded to Oscar. “I’m sure I just didn’t recognize you because it’s been ages since I’ve seen you, but you must be friends with my nephew Christopher.”
Oscar immediately looked disgruntled. “Christopher’s only four, Mr. Nesbit. I’m eight and friends with Gemma—your niece, if you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten who Gemma is, but she’s a girl.”
Constance released a snort. “Of course Gemma’s a girl, Norman, but I don’t understand why you find it surprising that