A Proper Pursuit by Lynn Austin Page B

her dreamy smile. “Oh, how nice.”
    Birdie went to the secretary and removed an entire drawer brimming with photos and other mementos. She carried it over to the sofa and sat down beside me with a sigh. I wanted to root through the pictures quickly, searching for my parents, but Aunt Birdie seemed to have all the time in the world for this task. Shielding the drawer from my grasping fingers, she patiently pulled out each picture, one by one, and described it to me in excruciating detail.
    “This first one is my sister Agnes and her husband, Henry. She married Henry in 1847 … or was it 1848? His last name is Paine— Henry Paine. His people are very well-to-do, you know. Those are their two boys, Henry Junior and Michael. They’re grown now, of course, with children of their own. But aren’t they darling in this picture? I think little Michael must have been about twelve … or was he older? Let me think …”
    At the rate she was going, I would be grown and have children myself by the time we reached the bottom of the drawer. I decided to hurry things along.
    “It doesn’t matter how old he was, Aunt Birdie. Who is that in the next picture? Is that my grandmother?”
    “Yes, this is Florence and her husband, Isaac. Too bad he isn’t smiling—he looked much nicer when he smiled. But, then, Isaac never did smile very much. He was a minister, you see. One of those fire-and-brimstone preachers you hear so much about, and he never seemed to think there was much in this life worth smiling about. Now in heaven, on the other hand … He would preach about heaven too, once in a while… .”
    I gritted my teeth, struggling to be patient. We had reached only the third photo—one of Aunt Birdie’s father, taken shortly before he died—when I heard a horse and carriage drawing to a halt out front. I was afraid that it was my grandmother and that she would take away the photos or hide all the ones of my mother before Aunt Birdie could show them to me. I jumped up and parted the front curtain to peer out.
    An enclosed carriage, complete with a driver and a matched team of horses, had parked by our front walk. I couldn’t see the occupants, but the elegant vehicle was a far cry from the run-down hansom cab and old nag that my grandmother had hired to fetch me from the train station yesterday.
    “Does my grandmother—Florence—ever hire a carriage and driver?” I asked, ready to yank the drawer full of photos from Aunt Birdie and stuff it back into the secretary.
    “Florence rides the streetcar, dear.”
    “Well, someone is here to pay us a visit in a very expensivelooking rig.”
    “Oh, how nice.”
    The driver dismounted from his seat and hurried to open the carriage door. My suspense ended as I watched my great-aunt Agnes climb down. She was a stout woman, the most full-figured of the four sisters—and also the wealthiest. Prosperity, respectability, and the aura of riches hung from her like diamonds. She swept regally up the walkway, as if balancing a crown on her head. I could easily picture an invisible entourage of velvet-clothed pages rolling a red carpet before her and lifting a long, elegant train in her wake.
    “ Bonjour , my dears,” she sang as she flowed through the front doorway. An engraved calling card dangled from Aunt Agnes’ gloved fingertips. Madame Beauchamps would have praised the way she held her pinkie finger daintily outstretched. Aunt Birdie hurried out to the foyer to give Agnes one of her bone-crushing embraces.
    “Where is the tray, Bertha?” Agnes said, smoothing the wrinkles from her gown again. “I know you own a perfectly fine silver tray for receiving calling cards. I’m the one who bought it for you.”
    Madame Beauchamps had drilled into us at some length the importance of the calling-card ritual. I felt compelled to search for the lost tray immediately and correct this horrendous oversight. Since I had no idea what it looked like or where to find it, I turned in useless