Free A Proper Pursuit by Lynn Austin

vehicle would have looked completely out of place stopping at the elegant townhouse we visited first. A uniformed servant met us at the door and received our calling cards on a Chinese enameled tray. I wanted to gaze all around at the lavishly appointed rooms as he ushered us inside, but good manners forbade me to gawk. The small glimpses I did steal convinced me that this was the finest home I ever had visited. The servant led Aunt Agnes and me to the drawing room, where a handful of well-dressed women gathered around the tea cart.
    I walked into the room with practiced grace and faultless posture: back erect, shoulders straight, and head held high. I had spent hours at Madame Beauchamps’ school walking with a book balanced on top of my head before being allowed to graduate to the next level of difficulty. I then was expected to gracefully sit down while holding a cup of hot tea and still balancing the book on my head.
    “Ladies,” Aunt Agnes said in her cultured voice, “I would like to introduce my great-niece, Violet Rose Hayes. She’s visiting my sister Florence Hayes and our fair city of Chicago this summer.”
    The ladies greeted me with pleasant smiles and a chorus of lilting voices: “Hello … How nice to meet you … Welcome, Violet… .”
    “Thank you so much.”
    I paid very close attention as our hostess introduced each of the women to me, recalling Madame B.’s stern warning: “I cannot emphasize strongly enough the importance of remembering the name of each person to whom you are introduced.” She would place strangers’ photographs on a row of chairs and make fake introductions so we could practice recalling names.
    I had perfected my own secret system of memorization, fabricating scandalous stories about each person based on her name or physical attributes. For instance today, when our hostess introduced a Mrs. Smith, I imagined that the dear woman was having a secret romance with a large, muscular blacksmith.
    Our hostess served tea to everyone from an engraved silver teapot, and we all sat down to drink it. A thrill of anticipation coursed through me. So many of the things one learns in school are quickly forgotten and never used, but now, in this very room, all of my hard work and diligent study would finally be put to use. I had always feared that my impeccable training would languish from lack of use back home in Lockport and eventually go to waste. But thanks to Aunt Agnes, I had finally found my place in life.
    I spread the miniscule napkin on my lap, balanced the delicate teacup just so, and took the tiniest of sips. The afternoon sun dappled across the beautifully polished furnishings and exquisite carpet. I could get used to this life. I sat among some of Chicago’s most prominent women, the cream of society from one of America’s premier cities. Excitement filled me as I anticipated a discussion that would be both edifying and stimulating.
    “Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?” our hostess began.
    “My, yes. I cannot recall another June in recent years that has begun as lovely as this one has.”
    “Let’s hope the summer continues to be as nice.”
    “Mmm …” the ladies murmured in chorus, plumed hats bobbing. “Let’s hope so.”
    “I so dislike the hot, muggy summers we sometimes have in Chicago.”
    “I believe everyone does.”
    “Fortunately, we have a home on one of the Finger Lakes in New York State, so we can always escape.”
    “Yes, you are fortunate.”
    The conversation seemed to be rolling along nicely when suddenly, a brief lull occurred. I stopped breathing as the silence lengthened into several tense seconds. “One must never allow the conversation to lag,” Madame B. had instructed. “A lengthy silence spells the death of every social event.”
    But just as a bead of sweat began to trickle down beneath my hat, our hostess asked the other women, “What did you think of the thunderstorm we had the other evening?” My admiration for her