Woman's Own Read online

  Emily smiled at them and shook her head. Had she thought to keep control? She, herself, had been impossible to control. Her parents before her had been headstrong, proud.

  “You needn’t look so frightened. As if I beat you.”

  They glanced at each other furtively, nervously. Emily had never lost her temper with them before.

  Emily went to sit on the edge of their bed. Would they ever know this apprehension? she wondered. The fear of telling daughters about the less tender parts of life?

  “I wonder if there ever was a daughter who listened to her mother’s advice,” Emily said. Patricia opened her mouth as if to speak, but Emily sensed that a flood of excuses would be forthcoming. “I know you do as you’re told most of the time, but do you really listen? I didn’t listen to my mother, and there were cold and hungry days when I regretted that.”

  Their worried eyes told her that even now they were merely bracing themselves for a lecture to precede a punishment.

  “You have many gentleman callers, Patricia. Some favorites among them, I think. But I have not yet met your future husband. Not Roger, or Arthur, or Arnold.”

  “Mother! Albert!”

  “Of course,” Emily said, her lips curving. Albert had been so singularly unimpressive that she had not remembered his name. “Albert,” she repeated. “When I was your age I had suitors also, though I can’t imagine that I was as careless with their feelings as you seem to be. But now, if I fail to convince you of the danger of these flirtations, of the peril you approach if you…” Emily stopped herself. Patricia’s face had lost color. “I know you’re a good girl, Patsy. The fact is that if your intentions are not serious and honorable, you cannot expect the behavior of these young men to be decent. Perhaps young men like Roger and Arthur seem harmless enough, but it is cruel to lead them on, to pretend to take them seriously when you do not. I know you’re only enjoying yourself. You met your match in young Mr. Montaine--he is not likely to patiently allow you to entertain yourself at his expense. And you are going to meet more young men of that temperament. There will be fewer overgrown boys like Roger and Arthur who are content to amuse you while you dally with their feelings.”

  Patricia’s mouth was open and Lilly’s ears nearly stood out straight. She thought this reprimand long overdue.

  “This discussion is for you as well, Lilly. You see, it is not enough to tell you to behave responsibly where men are concerned. You must begin to realize that when you have made your choice, you must not only lie beside that man every night of his life, but even if he is absent, even if he dies, your life will be changed forever because of that choice. You cannot undo it.”

  She then began to tell a story they would never have guessed. Emily Bellmont Armstrong had grown up in a mansion richer than anything her daughters had ever seen. Her father, whom she had adored, had come from a respected family. Amanda Chase Bellmont, her mother, had come from a family not only prominent but fantastically rich. Emily admired her mother, but the warm rapport she and her father had shared was precious. Richard Bellmont was a gentle and loving man, a man of staunch principles, ethical courage, and profound public conscience.

  Emily, raised as the only child of these two proud and dynamic people, had been surrounded by love and servants; she was indulged every minute and grew up very happily spoiled. Her dolls were created by French artisans, not made from sticks and rags as Lilly’s and Patricia’s had been. She had her own carriage and did not take the horsecar to a city school but was kept busy by tutors. She had not learned to sweep a floor or bake bread, but by the time she was ten she could converse in French. This she told her daughters, who listened, enraptured.

  “At sixteen I attended polo matches, lawn parties, afternoon teas, formal dances, and had a host of beaux. I confidently decided which one of them I would sit beside or honor with a dance. At seventeen my life changed dramatically when my father died very suddenly. He was a young man who had never been ill. My mother was an energetic, beautiful woman of only thirty-seven--pampered, aristocratic, very popular in her social circle. The shock of my father’s death was quickly followed by visits from solicitors who came to see my mother to explain that the Bellmont finances were in trouble. Now I realize my mother had never suspected that my father’s charity exceeded his purse and that his investments had been failing for some time. He was deep in debt when he died.”

  Emily, young and grief-stricken, had so ignored her mother’s anguish that even when she strained her memory to recall signs of it, she could remember nothing. There must have been anger as well, since the fortune Richard Bellmont lost had come from Amanda’s deceased family. A long while later Emily realized that the very thing for which she admired her father--his philanthropy, his social responsibility, his generosity--had probably measured significantly in the losses. But she had not thought of those things then. There is no creature, Emily had often thought since, more selfish than a seventeen-year-old girl.

  “I thought my mother’s absence of jewels had to do with mourning,” she said. “I didn’t know which kitchen maid had been let go or which gardener was sent away unpaid. My mother told me there was trouble with the will and debts, but I ignored her. We continued to live in the same house and socialize with the same families. But my mother was quietly dispersing property and possessions to pay debts, telling no one, trying to preserve some dignity for our family name. Then, when my father had been dead about a year, she allowed gentlemen to call on her. I was mortified. I hated her for it. I had no sympathy. It never occurred to me that marriage was her single resource. I also failed to see that she might marry a man she didn’t love for my sake--my comfort and survival must have been paramount in her mind. I only know this now, finally, because I am a mother.”

  Filled with rage, consumed by loneliness, estranged from her mother, eighteen-year-old Emily was a perfect victim. She had plenty of suitors from good families, including several young men who would have supported her quite stylishly, beaux at least as dull as Roger and Arthur. It was an older, mysterious, and very handsome man who caught her eye and conquered her heart. Ned, more worldly, reckless, and exciting than all the others, said all the right things and was relentless in his seduction.

  “My mother tried to convince me to be careful--she worried that I might fall in love too easily because of grief. She was unsure of your father’s ability to keep me. She didn’t know his family or his background. I thought she was interfering, and I fell helplessly in love with him.”

  Emily had never before known her mother to be so cruel, so heartless. She called Ned a fraud, a philanderer. The more her mother protested, the more desperately Emily loved Ned. Much of that had to do with Emily’s despairing need for a man’s love, still more had to do with Ned’s skill at philandering. This she kept to herself.

  “Despite my mother’s warnings, I had never wanted for anything. It never occurred to me that your father’s land business might not be successful. He, likewise, called for me at a very rich gate and must have assumed there was money in my family. Tossing all practical considerations aside, we married. Very soon I found myself alone, my husband gone, my mother lost to me, and two babies to feed. We do not always choose our futures--we only make choices toward them, that’s all.”

  There was so much more, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell the girls. Ned Armstrong had chafed at Amanda’s reluctance to approve their marriage and he had laid siege. Emily was soon pregnant. He had been eager to confront Amanda then; he was quite confident.

  Still, Amanda held the trump card. Emily had listened at the study door while her mother and lover conferred over their predicament. There was no money, Amanda had told Ned. Nothing. They would be lucky to get out of the house without debts. Fortunately there was a buyer, not a common thing during such hard times; people were hardly shopping for mansions. He was shrewd, however; he had knowledge of Richard Bellmont’s financial debacle and knew how desperate Amanda would be. This buyer had made most of his own fortune by
finding out who was most vulnerable and preying on them. Did Ned want Emily, she asked him, knowing there was no dowry, no property, no stipend? Ned had been outraged. Even overhearing him declare his disbelief and denial, even hearing him slam the door as he angrily departed without her, Emily still wanted him. He had been like a sickness inside her; he had created a hunger in her that she could not satisfy.

  She had begged her mother to employ the last bit of influence she still had to bring Ned Armstrong to the altar. Amanda Bellmont might have lost her money, but she had many powerful friends in Philadelphia and reluctantly used them for her daughter’s sake; Ned was made to atone through marriage. “I hope this is truly what you want, Emily. There is nothing more I can do for you unless you will come away with me,” Amanda had said.

  Emily and Ned had lived in a two-room flat in the city. Patricia had been born with the assistance of a neighbor. Emily could barely serve her husband an evening meal, so ignorant was she of women’s chores. Though she tried desperately to please him, to win his love, Ned did not return for days at a time, getting his meals elsewhere and ignoring the needs of his family. Emily traded her well-tailored and costly gowns for simpler dresses so her neighbors would not be standoffish because she did not even appear to be one of them. Amanda visited after Patricia was born. Emily’s mother had disposed of all her material possessions; she had only her wardrobe, a fistful of invitations to visit friends in Europe, and a small sum of money. She begged Emily to bring the baby and leave Philadelphia. But Emily was far from giving up on Ned; it amazed her still how long she had embraced that lie, that delusion. She would not go. Amanda offered her half of what was left of Richard Bellmont’s estate, a paltry sum compared to what it had once been, but Emily was indignant. Pride bit deeper than dragon’s teeth, for Emily told her mother to keep it. Emily remained silent about these painful details.

  “Even though I had very little, I was so righteous,” she told her girls. “I still believed that love would mend our deeply rent pockets, making the whole world right. I knew my mother was going off to find another husband. Oh! I was so unforgiving. I told her to keep what was left for her retirement. I would rely on my husband.”

  Maybe they should know that their father beat her soundly for sending Amanda away with her money, a sum he said would have paid the rent for two years. Maybe they should know that Patricia was conceived on a lawn, and Lilly--ah! When she had crawled to Ned, begging him to forgive her for not accepting the money, his final gesture had been to give her Lilly. A week later he took her and a few belongings to a one-room shanty in the city, near the waterfront. She had gone back to their flat two weeks later, but it was vacant. He was gone. He had disposed of her quite deliberately.

  “There was war. There were many women alone, like me, without money or skills. It was hard for all of us. Do you remember Old Mary who gave us shelter? Or Nelly and Beth, the women from West Chester who came to Philadelphia to work in the factory? Or odd Mr. Conner, who allowed me to bring the two of you along to his house while I cleaned it? There were kind and generous neighbors along the way without whom we might not have survived. I could not find my mother; there was nowhere to turn. If telling you this will turn your head to practical matters, I will be satisfied. Had I listened to my mother’s advice, I might have suffered far less. There have been reasons why I’ve tried to teach you to find satisfaction in hard work--you might have to work hard to survive one day. I wanted you to have more than marriage as a means of survival. When I die, you have this boardinghouse. I’ve tried to teach you honesty, diligence, and decency--virtues that could save you when the money is gone. Without them no amount of money will ever help you.”

  “Mama, why didn’t you go back to your old neighborhood when Papa was gone?” Patricia asked. “Wouldn’t your friends have helped you?”

  She had gone back, to the home of Lucille Sinclair, someone Emily had considered a friend. Her eyes misted as she remembered. She had not seen Lucille in over a year, but desperate and frightened, she went. She remembered her mother’s comments about the odd cousin who seemed to be present in every household--the spinster or widow, down on her luck, too close a relation to toss out, not close enough to actually be one of them. Not much more than an extra eye for the children, an additional servant, better clad than the staff, perhaps, but ranked with the governess or housekeeper in a class just lower than the family who took her in. Emily, at that time, would gladly have taken such a post. Her clothing was clean but far less natty than what could be seen on the Sinclair maids. Her face was swollen from pregnancy and her hair, once so prettily coiffured, had lost its luster and shine and was tacked into a lopsided bun. She had insect bites on her hands and neck, and she dangled a child on her hip while another swelled in her middle. Lucille didn’t bother with her for long. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lucille had said. “Emily Bellmont has gone with her mother to Europe.” Lucille turned away in disgust.

  “Pride, I suppose,” Emily finally answered, brushing the tear away.

  “Didn’t your mother ever try to help you again?” Patricia asked. Emily smiled. Patricia always had a dozen plans to back up the first.

  “Your grandmother. It was wrong of me to tell you we had no family, but my mother and I couldn’t find each other for years. I always meant to tell you. Your grandmother is alive and well. She writes to me now and then, but our parting was bitter and angry and it was eight years before I had the courage to go back to the house of friends and ask if they had news of my mother. May you never know the agony of facing someone’s pity! They offered to take me in or give me money! And by that time I was proud of the respectable life I had achieved. I learned where my mother was and wrote to her. She was living in England then and still does. Our lessons come so late, so painfully--even though you were the center of my life, I had not considered how my mother would worry about me.

  Amanda had confessed in her first letter that she had hired Pinkerton men to find Emily, but they had failed. With the war they were so ineffective that Amanda had reluctantly dismissed them. Damn those Pinkertons, Emily had frequently thought.

  “Mother had done as I expected; she remarried. I wrote that I was widowed and living happily with my daughters. She wrote that she was busy and content. It was not a settlement from the government that bought this house, but money from your grandmother, money that this time I accepted because I had finally learned how hungry one can be while feasting on pride.”

  Emily smiled a bit wistfully. Her opinion of her mother had gentled over the years. “She is now married for the third time. I wrote and asked her why she kept marrying. I had just learned that she had been widowed and remarried in the same letter! Even though I never proved myself any smarter than my mother, I never stopped being critical. She wrote back directly,” Emily said, laughing. “She wrote, ‘Be easier on me, Emily. I have no experience in being poor.’“

  “Is she rich now?” Patricia asked.

  “She is married to a wealthy man, but if he is anything like the last, his money will one day belong to the children of an earlier marriage.” She shook her head, smiling, as she noticed their astonished stares; they would not understand the difference between having money and living among the rich. People who were born into wealth knew how to trade their dignity to remain among their class, even if they had far less than their peers.

  “Why doesn’t she visit us?” Lilly asked.

  “She is proud, Lilly. I don’t think she’ll return to Philadelphia until she can come back here with her head high. The Bellmonts and the Chases before them were high families, Philadelphia belonged to them.”

  Amanda had once lectured Emily, “Don’t speak loosely of society, dear. There are four societies. There is the first, the workers with muscle, the heart of society, for their muscle and toil makes the clock tick and makes it possible for some to rise to the top. And the second, the society of the parvenu, who will somehow achieve that amount of wealth necessary to buy entree into luxury. His ambitio
n becomes the arms and legs of society. And the third, the person who perceives himself an aristocrat, who was born to wealth and privilege, whose education was begun four generations before his birth--he is the blood of society. He neither works nor notices work and he resents the entrance of the parvenu into his clubs because he is afraid--he knows the parvenu wants what he has and doesn’t know what that is.” Emily observed then that they must be of the third society, but she was immediately corrected. “We are Bellmonts,” Amanda said. “We work, but we need not speak of our work because we are secure in it. For the worker we have grave respect--his labor is worthy. For the parvenu we have suspicious respect--his ambition is not always honorable, yet it is ambition alone that will lead to progress. For the aristocrat we have guarded respect--we can appreciate his heritage yet be impervious to his hauteur. The fourth society, Emily, values work, pride, dignity, and success; it is the soul and conscience of society. And the soul is unafraid.” Unafraid? asked Emily later. Then why did she leave Philadelphia, impervious as she claimed to be? “Because, my dear, I had nowhere to live in Philadelphia.”