teacakes from a tin box on the counter. “Of course I will. What kind of show is it, Emma? A play? A musical review?”
Emma reddened a little and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “It’s burlesque,” she admitted. “I told Mama and Papa it was a rendition of Macbeth —I do hope neither of them see the bills the company has been posting around town.”
Standing at the stove, Tess looked at her friend and shook her head. “Emma Hamilton, you amaze me sometimes. Lying to your mother and father! It’s a wonder you haven’t been sent off to boarding school long before this.”
Emma shifted in her chair, her plump little body stiff with determined defiance. “Are you going with me or not?” she demanded.
Tess retorted with a question of her own. “Don’t people take their clothes off in burlesque?”
“I don’t know,” Emma answered, with a converse sort of certainty, “but I surely intend to find out.”
“Your parents will be furious!”
Emma shrugged. “For an hour, a day, a week. ButI’ll remember seeing a show on a real riverboat all my life! No matter what they do to me, it’ll be worth it!”
The coffee came to a boil, and Tess reached for a potholder before grasping the handle, filling a cup for Emma and one for herself. In a way, she agreed with her friend—interesting experiences were rare enough in Simpkinsville, and something as wondrous as a professional burlesque show would probably be well worth the average punishment.
“I told Mama I’d be spending the night here,” Emma imparted, as she was about to leave. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
Tess nodded. Derora would not care, as long as she was up and about her chores first thing the next morning. Her only reservation was that Roderick might spend the night again and shatter the romantic fancies Emma was no doubt entertaining.
“I’ll bring my things over after supper, then,” Emma said, again speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “The show begins at eight.”
“Eight,” confirmed Tess, hiding a smile. When the door closed behind her friend, she immediately plunged a hand into her pocket and drew out the photographs. Laying the one of Joel Shiloh on the table before her, she cupped her chin in her hands and tried to will herself into it. She would travel with him, as his wife, selling medicines from door to door, farm to farm, lumbercamp to lumbercamp. They would have a cabin for winter, a cabin with gingham curtains at the windows. And perhaps a plump baby would play on the hearth ….
“You’re as bad as Emma,” Tess scolded herselfaloud, putting the photograph back into her pocket and standing up. Full of silly dreams, that’s what she was. And the reality was that Joel Shiloh would go away and she would stay here, dusting and cooking and changing bed linens. Occasionally she would hear a lecture. She would take her photographs and ride her bicycle—dear Lord, she would go mad if she couldn’t do those things—and eventually she would be married, probably to an ordinary, hardworking man like Mr. Wilcox, the boarder who worked in the sawmill.
Patently depressed, Tess cleared away the cups, put the few teacakes that had not been consumed back into the tin breadbox, and went upstairs to her room. She had barely had time to hide away the cherished photograph of Joel Shiloh when a furious tapping sounded at her door.
“Tess!” cried Derora, from the hallway, “open this door!”
I wouldn’t have thought she’d miss a few teacakes, Tess marveled to herself as she obeyed. Derora looked outraged, but it was a studied sort of look, like Roderick Waltam’s smile.
“What’s going on between you and that peddler?!” her aunt demanded, waving an exact duplicate of the photograph Tess had just secreted away in her bureau drawer. “And where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him since this morning!”
Confused, Tess resisted an urge to snatch the picture from Derora’s fingers, and said, “He’s
Emma reddened a little and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “It’s burlesque,” she admitted. “I told Mama and Papa it was a rendition of Macbeth —I do hope neither of them see the bills the company has been posting around town.”
Standing at the stove, Tess looked at her friend and shook her head. “Emma Hamilton, you amaze me sometimes. Lying to your mother and father! It’s a wonder you haven’t been sent off to boarding school long before this.”
Emma shifted in her chair, her plump little body stiff with determined defiance. “Are you going with me or not?” she demanded.
Tess retorted with a question of her own. “Don’t people take their clothes off in burlesque?”
“I don’t know,” Emma answered, with a converse sort of certainty, “but I surely intend to find out.”
“Your parents will be furious!”
Emma shrugged. “For an hour, a day, a week. ButI’ll remember seeing a show on a real riverboat all my life! No matter what they do to me, it’ll be worth it!”
The coffee came to a boil, and Tess reached for a potholder before grasping the handle, filling a cup for Emma and one for herself. In a way, she agreed with her friend—interesting experiences were rare enough in Simpkinsville, and something as wondrous as a professional burlesque show would probably be well worth the average punishment.
“I told Mama I’d be spending the night here,” Emma imparted, as she was about to leave. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
Tess nodded. Derora would not care, as long as she was up and about her chores first thing the next morning. Her only reservation was that Roderick might spend the night again and shatter the romantic fancies Emma was no doubt entertaining.
“I’ll bring my things over after supper, then,” Emma said, again speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “The show begins at eight.”
“Eight,” confirmed Tess, hiding a smile. When the door closed behind her friend, she immediately plunged a hand into her pocket and drew out the photographs. Laying the one of Joel Shiloh on the table before her, she cupped her chin in her hands and tried to will herself into it. She would travel with him, as his wife, selling medicines from door to door, farm to farm, lumbercamp to lumbercamp. They would have a cabin for winter, a cabin with gingham curtains at the windows. And perhaps a plump baby would play on the hearth ….
“You’re as bad as Emma,” Tess scolded herselfaloud, putting the photograph back into her pocket and standing up. Full of silly dreams, that’s what she was. And the reality was that Joel Shiloh would go away and she would stay here, dusting and cooking and changing bed linens. Occasionally she would hear a lecture. She would take her photographs and ride her bicycle—dear Lord, she would go mad if she couldn’t do those things—and eventually she would be married, probably to an ordinary, hardworking man like Mr. Wilcox, the boarder who worked in the sawmill.
Patently depressed, Tess cleared away the cups, put the few teacakes that had not been consumed back into the tin breadbox, and went upstairs to her room. She had barely had time to hide away the cherished photograph of Joel Shiloh when a furious tapping sounded at her door.
“Tess!” cried Derora, from the hallway, “open this door!”
I wouldn’t have thought she’d miss a few teacakes, Tess marveled to herself as she obeyed. Derora looked outraged, but it was a studied sort of look, like Roderick Waltam’s smile.
“What’s going on between you and that peddler?!” her aunt demanded, waving an exact duplicate of the photograph Tess had just secreted away in her bureau drawer. “And where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him since this morning!”
Confused, Tess resisted an urge to snatch the picture from Derora’s fingers, and said, “He’s
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