The Whispering Women by Trish MacEnulty

Author:Trish MacEnulty [MacEnulty, Trish]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-05T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

Louisa

“She accused you of theft?” Louisa asked.

“She did, indeed,” Ellen said, running her strong fingers through Louisa’s thick hair and pulling it back into a French twist.

“I don’t know what to say,” Louisa said.

“Nothing to say. I’ll be back home soon, begging for my supper,” Ellen said.

“When I see Hugh tonight, I’ll convince him that he’s wrong,” Louisa said.

“You may try, but I don’t expect you’ll have any success,” Ellen said, sticking the last of the pins in Louisa’s hair.

Anna wheeled into the room, the ginger cat draped over shoulders like a dingy stole.

“Whoever heard of an art show in an armory?” Anna asked, querulously.

“Technically, it’s not an armory anymore, Mother,” Louisa replied.

“Why would anyone go to this thing? It’s not like you’ll get to see a Raphael.” In Anna’s mind, there was no other artist.

“The winter season is over, Mother, and I’m excited about this show. I don’t get to see what the European artists are doing very often,” Louisa said.

“You should go to Europe again, dear. Every young woman should go to Europe,” Anna said, rapturously. Louisa topped her coiffure with an elegant hat and gave herself one last look in the mirror.

“I’m afraid you might starve to death if I left,” she said and kissed her mother on the forehead. Her mother’s hair smelled like lilac powder, and for a moment Louisa was reminded of her childhood when her mother was willowy and elegant and as sure of herself as the thoroughbred Meridian, when he broke records and sailed across the finish line at the Kentucky Derby.

She turned to Ellen, “We will get this matter straightened out. I promise.”

Louisa splurged on a cab as far as the Bloodgood home. Outside the house, a boxy carriage with large wheels and two robust horses waited. Natasha had declared she would never give up her pair and carriage. She didn’t care that the rest of the world had turned to the automobile, a noisy and inelegant contraption, she claimed. She’d sent a note to the paper inviting Louisa to ride with her.

The ancient driver sat on his seat, bundled in a coat and fur cap, whip in hand. He got down and helped Louisa inside, though he was so old and frail that Louisa thought she should be helping him. Natasha was already inside waiting.

“Good evening,” Louisa said. “It’s positively freezing tonight.”

Natasha didn’t respond. The carriage jerked forward.

“Is everything all right?” Louisa asked after several minutes of frosty silence.

“How could you?” Natasha asked.

“How could I what?” Louisa asked.

“You wrote that slumming article, and my daughter was the so-called companion.” Natasha pursed her lips angrily. “Beatrice Milton is a fiction!”

Louisa’s silence gave her all the ammunition she needed.

“How dare you encourage her to consort with gangsters!” Natasha hissed.

“I don’t think Dorothy can be encouraged or discouraged from doing anything,” Louisa said in a meek voice. “She always has done exactly what she wants to do.”

“And you,” Natasha said, pulling a hand from her fur muff to point a finger at Louisa.

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