Free A Proper Pursuit by Lynn Austin Page B

were merchandise on display at Mr. Marshall Field’s famous store. Their comments were all complimentary until Mrs. Grant joined the discussion.
    “Don’t you think her complexion is a little dark? Violet has a bit of a gypsy look to her.”
    Mrs. Grant had come calling with two daughters of her own, Hattie and Nettie, who were close to my age. Her unkind remarks had the same effect on me as a shot from a starting pistol at the beginning of a race. I remained composed as I sized up my competition. Neither of the Grant sisters was as pretty as I was, even with my dusky skin. And their assets could have used a little plumping from Ruth’s Egyptian elixir. But we were in a race to the altar, and I wasn’t about to offer any advice to my rivals.
    “Violet is well aware that she needs to stay out of the sun,” Aunt Agnes said. “Aren’t you, dear?”
    “A parasol is an essential summer accessory for every woman,” I replied.
    “I find that her unusual coloring adds to her mystique,” my aunt said.
    “What about suitors?” my hostess asked. “Do you have any gentlemen callers, Violet?”
    I didn’t dare tell them about stodgy Herman Beckett, the shipping clerk from Lockport. Then, to my horror, I recalled giving the traveling salesman, Silas McClure, permission to call on me at Grandmother’s house. What on earth would I do if he showed up at my door with his garish plaid suit, flashy grin, and oiled hair? I couldn’t invite him in! His head would leave grease stains on our upholstery! Why, oh why, had I given him Grandmother’s address?
    “I’ve arrived in the city only recently,” I replied, dodging the question. “I’ve been away at Madame Beauchamps’ School for Young Ladies in Rockford.”
    “That’s a fine institution.”
    “Yes, wonderful reputation.”
    “Agnes, dear, why don’t you bring Violet to the fund-raiser for the Art Institute? I would like my grandson, George, to meet her.”
    My heart sped up.
    “And I would love for her to attend my soirée . My grandnephew Edward will be in attendance.”
    One of the Grant sisters gave me a malevolent glare at the mention of Edward. But soon the women lost interest in me, and the conversation shifted—or dare I say degenerated—into gossip. No one’s private life seemed off limits as they talked about who was courting whom, how the courtship was progressing, which gentlemen had proposed, which ones were never likely to, and so on. I stayed alert, cataloging the information, aware that my future success might depend on it.
    Later, as Aunt Agnes and I were taking our leave along with the other women, our hostess caught my arm and whispered, “Stay for a moment, Violet. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She beckoned to a serving girl, who hurried over. “Katya, please ask Nelson to come downstairs for a moment.”
    The serving girl hesitated as if she hadn’t understood the command. But her questioning eyes met mine, not Mrs. Kent’s. I had the distinct feeling that she was sizing me up the same way that I had sized up the Grant sisters. Katya was young—no more than seventeen or eighteen—and very pretty, with slanted blue eyes and wheatcolored hair and sharp, Slavic cheekbones. She dropped her gaze and curtsied.
    “Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.” I could have sworn I saw tears in her eyes.
    Of course! She was in love with her employer’s grandson, this Nelson whom she had been sent to fetch. Maybe he was in love with her too, but their love had to be kept secret because she was an immigrant serving girl and totally unsuitable for a man of his social standing.
    They met on back stairways and in the darkened garden after midnight, exchanging tearful embraces and passionate kisses. Katya had begged Nelson to run away with her, but he was torn between his love for her and his love of money. Then, one stormy night—
    “Katya emigrated from Poland,” Mrs. Kent explained while we waited. “She didn’t speak a word of