whispered.
Jonas stiffened, glaring in her direction.
“Could I have a tour of your new home, Savannah?” I asked.
“ Mrs. Montgomery is too busy today to show you through our house. As am I,” Jonas replied for Savannah. “She will send you a note when you may call again. Please do not call if you have not been invited. We are quite occupied with our new lives to entertain, well, you, Clarissa, whenever you feel like calling. This isn’t like before her marriage when you could stop by whenever you wanted.”
“Sav?” I whispered.
A flicker of a joyless smile moved over her features before she looked away.
I nodded. “I may not be welcome here, but you are always welcome at my house,” I said. I reached out and gripped her hands.
She gave my fingers a gentle squeeze and then turned toward Jonas to stand beside him.
Jonas barely nodded his good-bye to me.
I stumbled out of their ornate entryway and walked down their cobbled street. I decided to forgo the pleasure of seeing the late-season roses in the Public Gardens to meet the mailman.
I walked toward my neighborhood in the nearby South End. When my parents had purchased our family home with my mama’s dowry, the South End had been a prestigious neighborhood losing its bloom. Now its luster was almost completely tarnished as it became increasingly working class. Many of the once-private homes were filled with boarders renting rooms, and Boston’s first apartment building, the St. Cloud, had been constructed near my home. My street was like an oasis with an oval park down the middle with bow-fronted homes lining the park, although few of the houses surrounding the park remained single-family residences.
As I reached Union Park, my street in the South End, I saw our mailman, Mr. Curtis, on his rounds. His mailbag bulged with letters to deliver, although I knew that, if I were inclined to visit with him, he would spend time every day talking with me about my family, work or the latest political intrigue. I quickened my pace.
I arrived home, panting, to hear him say to Mrs. Smythe, “Another one for Miss Clarissa from Montana. Wouldn’t that be something to receive mail from such a far-off place?”
At hearing the word another , I suddenly comprehended that Mrs. Smythe had stolen my mail as she had earlier in the summer. I reached for the letter, ripping it out of Mrs. Smythe’s hands.
Mr. Curtis turned toward me with an open, friendly smile. “Ah, eager to hear the news. Can only mean one thing. Love is in the air! Good afternoon, ladies.” He nodded before turning past me to walk down our front stairs to continue his rounds.
“Give me that letter this instant, Clarissa,” Mrs. Smythe hissed, one hand on her pregnant belly.
“No, it’s mine,” I snapped. I moved into the house. “How dare you keep my letters from me!”
“You have formed a regrettable attachment, and I aim to see you recover from it,” Mrs. Smythe snarled. She reached again for my letter, but I firmly held onto it, over my head.
As she stood on her toes, reaching for the letter, she tripped on the edge of the carpet, which hurled her into me. Neither of us were in a position to catch our balance, and we landed in a heap on the floor. I nearly bashed my head against the base of the staircase, and Mrs. Smythe landed on top of me. One of her legs nudged the front hall table, knocking over a new blue crystal vase. I watched in horror as it tumbled to the ground and splintered apart.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Mrs. Smythe wailed, holding her belly.
“What? I’ve made you act like me?” I asked, trying not to chuckle.
“No, you’ve hurt the baby,” Mrs. Smythe gasped.
“I’ve done no such thing,” I argued. “But we’ll call for the doctor.” I saw Bridget, Mrs. Smythe’s faithful maid, standing in the hallway and instructed her to fetch the doctor.
I extricated myself from Mrs. Smythe’s clothes, stood and heaved her off the floor. However, Mrs.
Jonas stiffened, glaring in her direction.
“Could I have a tour of your new home, Savannah?” I asked.
“ Mrs. Montgomery is too busy today to show you through our house. As am I,” Jonas replied for Savannah. “She will send you a note when you may call again. Please do not call if you have not been invited. We are quite occupied with our new lives to entertain, well, you, Clarissa, whenever you feel like calling. This isn’t like before her marriage when you could stop by whenever you wanted.”
“Sav?” I whispered.
A flicker of a joyless smile moved over her features before she looked away.
I nodded. “I may not be welcome here, but you are always welcome at my house,” I said. I reached out and gripped her hands.
She gave my fingers a gentle squeeze and then turned toward Jonas to stand beside him.
Jonas barely nodded his good-bye to me.
I stumbled out of their ornate entryway and walked down their cobbled street. I decided to forgo the pleasure of seeing the late-season roses in the Public Gardens to meet the mailman.
I walked toward my neighborhood in the nearby South End. When my parents had purchased our family home with my mama’s dowry, the South End had been a prestigious neighborhood losing its bloom. Now its luster was almost completely tarnished as it became increasingly working class. Many of the once-private homes were filled with boarders renting rooms, and Boston’s first apartment building, the St. Cloud, had been constructed near my home. My street was like an oasis with an oval park down the middle with bow-fronted homes lining the park, although few of the houses surrounding the park remained single-family residences.
As I reached Union Park, my street in the South End, I saw our mailman, Mr. Curtis, on his rounds. His mailbag bulged with letters to deliver, although I knew that, if I were inclined to visit with him, he would spend time every day talking with me about my family, work or the latest political intrigue. I quickened my pace.
I arrived home, panting, to hear him say to Mrs. Smythe, “Another one for Miss Clarissa from Montana. Wouldn’t that be something to receive mail from such a far-off place?”
At hearing the word another , I suddenly comprehended that Mrs. Smythe had stolen my mail as she had earlier in the summer. I reached for the letter, ripping it out of Mrs. Smythe’s hands.
Mr. Curtis turned toward me with an open, friendly smile. “Ah, eager to hear the news. Can only mean one thing. Love is in the air! Good afternoon, ladies.” He nodded before turning past me to walk down our front stairs to continue his rounds.
“Give me that letter this instant, Clarissa,” Mrs. Smythe hissed, one hand on her pregnant belly.
“No, it’s mine,” I snapped. I moved into the house. “How dare you keep my letters from me!”
“You have formed a regrettable attachment, and I aim to see you recover from it,” Mrs. Smythe snarled. She reached again for my letter, but I firmly held onto it, over my head.
As she stood on her toes, reaching for the letter, she tripped on the edge of the carpet, which hurled her into me. Neither of us were in a position to catch our balance, and we landed in a heap on the floor. I nearly bashed my head against the base of the staircase, and Mrs. Smythe landed on top of me. One of her legs nudged the front hall table, knocking over a new blue crystal vase. I watched in horror as it tumbled to the ground and splintered apart.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Mrs. Smythe wailed, holding her belly.
“What? I’ve made you act like me?” I asked, trying not to chuckle.
“No, you’ve hurt the baby,” Mrs. Smythe gasped.
“I’ve done no such thing,” I argued. “But we’ll call for the doctor.” I saw Bridget, Mrs. Smythe’s faithful maid, standing in the hallway and instructed her to fetch the doctor.
I extricated myself from Mrs. Smythe’s clothes, stood and heaved her off the floor. However, Mrs.
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