Free Fair Weather by Richard Peck Page A

She spoke at length, banging the pulpit, and Aunt Euterpe was rapt.
    As we filed out, Aunty exclaimed, “If women voted, we would throw the rascals out. We would purify politics!”
    “Will we get the vote?” Lottie wondered.
    “Certainly not,” Aunt Euterpe said. “The men wouldn’t hear of it.”
    We narrowly escaped another lecture. It was Miss Frances Willard and the temperance shouters, calling for the prohibition of all hard liquor. They planned to pray the country dry.
    But Lottie put her foot down. First the model kitchen we’d never have. Then votes we’d never get. Lottie wasn’t ready to hear about pouring all the whiskey in the ditch, which nobody was going to do.
    Besides, Aunt Euterpe admitted it was teatime, and we’d missed our noonday meal. She claimed the best people took their tea at the Turkish pavilion. We strolled in that direction.
    Oh, it was nice inside Turkey—cool with all that tile work and a fountain splashing in the center. To our delight an orchestra played in the background—all the new songs we hadn’t heard: “In the Gloaming” and “Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight?” and “Seeing Nellie Home.”
    Ladies sat at small marble tables around the fountain. You never saw such hats. The elastic that held mine on cut into my chin. Aunt Euterpe cast veiled looks at our getups. A smudge had appeared from somewhere on my best gabardine skirt.
    “Make note of their posture,” Aunt Euterpe murmured. “Pay attention to the way they hold their teacups.” They were grand ladies, no question about that. And their corsets were so binding, they had no choice but to sit as rigid as the cavalry on parade.
    Men in turbans brought our tea: finger sandwiches tangled in parsley, little cakes like crescent moons. Nothing to stick to your ribs, but pretty on the plate. The teacups were gold-banded, and the brass teapot spout was the flaring hood of a cobra snake.
    Aunty couldn’t very well drink tea through her veil. She threw it back. And froze.
    Her gloved hand reaching for the teapot clasped her black bosom. “Girls, the table across the fountain,” she gasped. “Don’t look now.”
    We looked at once. Three of the elegantest ladies you ever saw sat around a little table. Their hat brims all butskimmed one another. Points of lace fell from their elbows. There were silk tassels on their reticules.
    “Girls,” Aunt Euterpe breathed. “That is Mrs. Potter Palmer.”
    We stared, and we weren’t the only ones. Everybody in the Turkish pavilion knew she was there. I suppose I thought she ought to be wearing a gold crown, as she was the queen of Chicago. But then, I’d never calculated to set eyes on her at all. She was speaking in tones so low and cultured, you couldn’t hear. Her friends leaned in to catch every word. I took them to be her ladies-in-waiting.
    “Mrs. Charles Henrotin,” Aunt Euterpe whispered. “Mrs. William Borden.”
    Mrs. Palmer was certainly something to see, though not a minute younger than Aunt Euterpe. The sun had never seen her skin. It was as perfect as the pearls that roped her neck. She looked to have an excellent set of teeth.
    “Only think, girls,” Aunt Euterpe sighed. “She sleeps in Louis the Sixteenth’s bed.”
    My land, I thought—though of course he’d be dead.
    “Her underwear and stockings,” Aunt Euterpe said barely aloud, “are catalogued for opera, carriage, and reception, for morning and evening.”
    Aunt Euterpe couldn’t touch a bite, though Lottie and I ate everything but the pattern on the plate. It was food and drink to Aunty just to breathe the same air as Mrs.Potter Palmer. This was by far the high moment of her day, and I wished for her sake it could last.
    They brought more hot water for our tea. The whole room was chained to their chairs, nobody leaving ahead of Mrs. Palmer.
    At last her party rose. When they dipped to retrieve their reticules and their fair programs, their hats were circular flower beds. Mrs. Palmer led