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  Miss Langley drew herself up. “Mrs. Lockwood, if I may, moderate exercise has remarkable curative effects—”

  “Curative? Look at her. Her face is flushed. She looks positively ill.”

  “She does now. She did not before you arrived.”

  “Your impertinence might pass for the voice of experience if you had children of your own.” Mother took Eleanor's hand. “Use better judgment in the future or you shall convince Mr. Lockwood that our trust in you has been misplaced.”

  Mother led her daughter away without giving Miss Langley a chance to reply. When they reached the house, Mother told Eleanor to go to her room, finish unpacking, and rest until supper.

  Eleanor did as she was told, listening through the closed door for Miss Langley. She had to pass Eleanor's room to get to her own, the smallest bedroom on the second floor and the farthest from the stairs. Although only a wall separated her room from Eleanor's, Miss Langley moved about so soundlessly that Eleanor rarely heard her. Miss Langley must have been able to hear Eleanor, though, for if Eleanor was ill or had bad dreams, Miss Langley was at her side almost before Eleanor cried out. Still, it sometimes seemed as if the nanny simply disappeared once she closed her door on the rest of the house.

  Eleanor had been invited into Miss Langley's room only a handful of times. The furnishings appeared neat but not fussy like Mother's parlor. A few framed portraits, which Miss Langley had identified as her parents and a younger brother, sat on a bureau; leafy green plants and violets thrived in pots on both windowsills. Displayed to their best advantage were two embroidered pillows on the divan, a quilt draped artfully over an armchair, and a patchwork comforter spread over the bed. The room was very like Miss Langley herself: no-nonsense yet graceful and elegant.

  Eleanor waited and listened, but Miss Langley did not come. Heavy-hearted, she put away the last of her dresses and climbed onto the bed, wishing she had not run off. She lay on her back and studied the patterns the fading daylight made on the ceiling, wondering if she should risk upsetting Mother a second time in the same day by leaving her room to find Miss Langley.

  She must have drifted off to sleep, because suddenly Abigail was at her side, her long blond curls swept back from her face by a broad pink ribbon. “Why is Mother angry?” asked Abigail. “What did you do?”

  Eleanor wasn't sure if it was more wrong to lie to her sister or to expose Miss Langley's deception, so she said, “Nothing.”

  “You must have done something, because I know I didn't.”

  Eleanor sat up and made room for her sister on the bed. “I went outside without asking Mother.”

  “Is that all? You must have done something else to make her this mad. Come on, tell me the truth.”

  Eleanor shrugged. Mother didn't know about the horses, so that didn't count.

  “You should have just finished unpacking, as Mother told us to.” Abigail climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged beside her sister. “If you would just obey her, you wouldn't get in trouble so often.”

  “I can't help it. I forget.”

  “You don't forget. You just don't think you'll get caught.” Abigail smiled, showing her dimple. “Maybe I should go downstairs and break some dishes or kick Harriet in the shin. If Mother's mad at me, she might forget what you did.”

  Eleanor was tempted, especially by the image of Mother's maid howling and clutching her leg, but she shook her head. “It wouldn't work.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I wish we had stayed at the summer house.”

  “Not me. I hate that place. The bugs, the wind messing my hair—and I hate seeing Father only on weekends.”

  They saw him so little on weekdays that Eleanor saw no difference between the summer house and home in that respect, but she knew better than to seem to criticize Father in front of Abigail. Eleanor hesitated to say anything negative about him at all, as if her very words would make him appear.

  “I bet the walk was your idea,” said Abigail airily. “Miss Langley wouldn't dare defy Mother except for you. You have her wrapped around your little finger. She treats you much nicer than she treated me when I was your age.”

  “She does not.”

  “It's true. She lets you do exactly as you please because you're the baby and you're …”

  “What?” Eleanor fixed a piercing gaze on her sister. “Go on, say it. I'm going to die. Right? That's what you were about to say.”

  “You're not going to die.”

  “You and Miss Langley are the only ones who think so.” But Eleanor knew Abigail didn't really mean it.

  Timidly, Abigail said, “You won't tell Mother I told you?”

  Eleanor sighed and sat up. “No.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I think Mother's more angry with Miss Langley than you.”

  That was nothing new; Mother became displeased with Miss Langley over the littlest things, while Harriet could oversleep or lose Mother's best gloves and Mother would forgive her. Once Eleanor overheard the cook say she thought it a wonder that Miss Langley had not resigned long ago, but Miss Langley did not seem to mind Mother's tempers as much as Eleanor did.

  Eleanor remembered her warning and asked, “Do you think Mother will send Miss Langley away?”

  Abigail shrugged. “She might. You're too old for a nanny, anyway.”

  “Maybe they want her to stay in the family in case they have another baby.”

  Abigail giggled. “I don't think that's very likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you can't figure it out, you're not old enough to know.” Then a puzzled frown replaced her grin. “I wonder why Mother said Miss Langley had no children of her own.”

  “Because she doesn't.”

  “That's not what I heard.”

  “What?”

  “Promise you won't say anything.”

  “I promise.”

  “I heard Mother tell Mrs. Newcombe that Miss Langley had a baby. It was ages ago, when she was just a few years older than I am.”

  “But she's not married.”

  “That's why she had to leave England. Mrs. Newcombe said that Mother was a model of Christian charity but that she herself would not trust her menfolk with a fallen woman in the house, however humbled and redemptive the woman might be.”

  Eleanor did not want to believe it, but Abigail had mimicked the haughty Mrs. Newcombe perfectly. “If that's true, where's the baby?”

  “It died when it was only a few hours old.” Abigail regarded her thoughtfully. “Maybe that's why Miss Langley is so fond of you. Maybe you remind her of her baby, because you're so frail.”

  “She would have told me.” Miss Langley did not lie, but as far as Eleanor could recall, Miss Langley had never explicitly denied having children. Eleanor had never thought to ask. “Why didn't she tell me?”

  “You're just a little girl, and she can't tell anyone. Can you imagine what a scandal it would be if everyone knew the character of the woman who practically raised us? No one would ever want to marry me then.” Abigail flung herself back against the pillows. “Sometimes I think you're the lucky one. You don't have to worry about learning to dance and sing and act like a lady. You don't have to worry about your beauty or your reputation or marrying into the best family. You never have to leave home or Father, not ever. Sometimes I think it would be so much easier if I could die young, too.”

  Eleanor nodded, but her mind was far away, imagining Miss Langley cradling the cooling body of a brown-haired infant daughter. The woman Eleanor imagined did not cry. She had never seen Miss Langley cry.

  When Mother's maid, Harriet, came upstairs to tell them to dress for supper, Abigail bounded off to her own room. Eleanor dressed more slowly, wondering at Abigail's enthusiasm. Father expected children to be silent at the supper table and absent shortly thereafter. He might give Abigail an indulgent smile and a pat on the head when she asked to be excused, but nothing more than that. Only when he was in a particularly leisurely mood would
he linger at the dinner table to enjoy his cigar and brandy in their company instead of retiring to his study. On those occasions he would reminisce about his childhood or tell them stories about the company.

  Father's two passions were his business and his horses. Mother had once remarked that she was fortunate her husband did not decide to combine his two passions, or she might find herself married to a groom or a jockey, or worse yet, a gambler. Father had chuckled and said, “I am content to befriend grooms and jockeys, and yes, even gamblers, since I cannot become one myself.”

  Mother had sniffed. She disdained “horse people,” as she called them, and her mouth set in a hard line whenever her husband announced one would be their guest. “I cannot bear to entertain another one of his pets,” she had complained to Mrs. Newcombe when Father invited Mr. Bergstrom to spend a weekend at their home. The horse farmer had brought his son with him, a boy named Fred, only two years older than Eleanor, and he had stayed inside to play with Eleanor when Mother insisted it was too cold for her to go out. Eleanor never had friends visit, and she was grateful to Fred, for she knew how much he had wanted to see Father's horses.

  Mrs. Newcombe had consoled Mother with reassurances that no one would think less of her for these strange guests; the Bergstroms had traveled all the way from Pennsylvania, after all, and they must stay somewhere, and besides, everyone knew the invitation had been another one of Father's whims. “No man can completely forget where he came from,” she said, patting Mother's hand.

  Mother's mouth turned sour, and she declared that it was beneath the Lockwood family to have people who were little better than common laborers sit around the same table where the Astors, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, and William McKinley himself had dined. It was bad enough that Miss Langley dined with the family rather than in the kitchen with the rest of the help, but the children were fond of her and Father appreciated her international perspective on politics, which he said was remarkably keen, for a woman.

  “I am sure it is her international perspective he appreciates,” said Mrs. Newcombe dryly, then she and Mother remembered Eleanor, reading in a nearby armchair, and changed the subject.

  Eleanor had heard Father recount his self-made success so often that she thought she could have repeated the tale from memory, but she never tired of hearing it. Even before marrying Mother he had contrived to start his own business, a respected department store specializing in women's fashions. When Grandfather died, Father invested Mother's inheritance into buying out several of his smaller competitors and opening a dazzling, modern Lockwood's on Fifth Avenue. True, the Panic had hit them hard, but they would come back, Father said, and had been saying for as long as Eleanor could remember.

  She wished she could make her own way as Father had done, but when she told her sister so, Abigail tossed her head and said, “Business isn't for women. Did you ever hear Mother talk about sales or fuss over an inventory? All we have to worry about is marrying a prosperous man and hoping that he is also handsome and kindly. Have you seen Father's friends? They're odious, except Mr. Drury, and Father says he's a fool.”

  For once, Eleanor pitied her sister. “They're old, too.”

  “I won't marry one of the old ones,” snapped Abigail. “Honestly, Eleanor. Maybe you can't help being jealous, but you don't have to be spiteful.”

  Father would not have been pleased to hear his eldest daughter speak favorably of Mr. Drury, his chief competitor and bitter enemy. Mr. Drury had been Father's rival for more than twenty years, ever since Mr. Drury had rejected Father's offer to purchase his company. Even worse, Mr. Drury had responded by snapping up several smaller stores Father wanted for himself. Three times Mr. Drury outbid Father and convinced the seller to sign a contract before Father could make a counteroffer. If Father did not exactly blame Mr. Drury for his current financial problems, he did see him as an obstacle to getting clear of them.

  As much as Father loved horses and horse people, Eleanor knew he would never leave his store and become a groom or jockey. He had spoken too often of his struggles to build his company, and he surely loved his work, too, because he often left for the office before the children rose for breakfast and did not return home until supper, after which he retreated to his study until long after Eleanor had been sent to bed. Sometimes he worked so late he fell asleep there. Eleanor knew this because several times she had passed his door at midmorning to find the maids gathering up rumpled sheets from the leather sofa.

  On their first night home from the summer house, no guests, “horse people” or otherwise, would join them for supper. When Miss Langley at last rapped on her door, Eleanor accompanied her to the dining room and seated herself only moments before Father entered. “Confounded radicals,” he grumbled as he strode into the room. He paused to kiss Mother's cheek before taking his seat at the head of the table. “How was your trip home?”

  Mother beckoned for the meal to be served. “We are not confounded radicals, but our trip was uneventful, thank you.”

  “I was not addressing you, and you're quite right to point out my rudeness. Darling, girls, Miss Langley, welcome home.”

  “It's good to be back, Daddy,” said Abigail.

  “I do hope you'll cheer up before eight,” remarked Mother. “We have a party at the Newcombes' this evening.”

  “Good. I need to talk to Hammond about these blasted union organizers.”

  Mother's smile tightened. “Why can't a party be merely a party? Must you conduct business everywhere?”

  “If you want me to keep a roof over these children's heads, I must.”

  “Are the union organizers the confounded radicals you spoke of?” Miss Langley broke in.

  Father dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and held up his other hand to forestall her lecture. “Let's not spoil your first night home with another argument. The men on my loading docks aren't paid any worse than those at my competitors.”

  “Yes, but they aren't paid any better, either. Your workers built your business. They created your wealth, and they're entitled to share in it.”

  Mother's laugh tinkled. “My husband is better qualified than you to decide what his workers should earn.”

  “They do share in it,” said Father to Miss Langley. “You seem to think their share should be as great as mine.”

  “Or greater,” said Mother.

  “I founded this company. I managed fine without unions, and so shall my successor.” He smiled at Abigail. “Whoever the lucky fellow to marry my beauty shall be.”

  Miss Langley asked, “What will you do if the workers strike?”

  “They wouldn't dare,” declared Mother, but when Father said nothing, she added, “Surely they aren't talking of a strike.”

  “Merely rumors,” said Father.

  “If your informants have heard talk of a strike,” said Miss Langley, “it's likely the planning is well under way.”

  “I won't cave in to threats. First they'll want higher wages, then fewer hours, and eventually they'll demand enough to drive the company into bankruptcy.”

  “Not if they have a share in the company's good fortune. If their success is tied to yours, not through obligation and fear but ambition and loyalty, your employees will work harder and better than your competitors'. You will attract the best workers, and they will be more productive because they have a stake in the outcome of their labors. The evils of capitalism are great, but not insurmountable. Is it more important that you make enormous profits, or that you treat your workers like human beings?”

  Mother's voice was ice. “You have been told repeatedly not to air your radical ideas in front of the children.”

  “I have to stand firm,” said Father to Miss Langley. “I pay fair and honest wages. I don't hire children. I provide for any worker who is injured in the service of my company and I don't fire them if they fall ill. You see how they thank me-they take those agitators' handbills and listen to their speeches. The business owners of my acquaintance already accuse me
of weakness on these facts alone. I will not give them more reason.”

  “If you lead, others will follow,” said Miss Langley. “We are moving into a new century. You can either ride the crest of the wave or be swept away by it.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” said Mother. “Darling, what would Mr. Corville think if he heard you were considering allowing a union to organize at Lockwood's?”

  “I am not considering it.”

  Miss Langley sighed so softly that Eleanor doubted anyone else noticed. She did not understand why Miss Langley provoked Father so, and why he permitted it.

  “Finish your supper, girls,” said Mother.

  Eleanor picked up her fork, her appetite spoiled. She wished they had never left the summer house.

  Later that evening, Eleanor and Abigail watched from their hiding place on the upstairs balcony as Father escorted Mother, clad in a new Lockwood's gown and wrap, outside to the waiting carriage. “If all you do is talk business, we're coming home early,” they heard Mother say before the door closed behind them.

  “If she doesn't want to go, I will,” Abigail said. “Father is a fine dancer. I wouldn't care if he conducted business as long as he danced with me now and then.”

  Eleanor thought that if Mother refused to go, Father would be wiser to take Miss Langley in her place. Miss Langley knew how to talk with important people, and Abigail giggled too much. Mother loved society gatherings as much as Father loved horses, however, so Eleanor couldn't imagine Father could conduct so much business that Mother would refuse to go.

  “You'll be allowed to go when you're sixteen,” she told her sister.

  “That's three years away. I want to go now. Why should I take dancing lessons if I'm only to stay home?”

  “To improve yourself?” suggested Eleanor, wearily. It was a response Miss Langley often used with her. At the moment, it seemed especially good advice, and Abigail the least likely person to accept it.