Diary of Anne Semple

Thursday, February 25, 1904

Casey Rand is much too handsome for his own good. It’s more than the sum of those Forget-Me-Not blue eyes, and his lustrous hair, the color of wheat waving on a hot summer afternoon. It’s the symmetry of how his features come together to create a sum greater than their parts. And he has his father’s aplomb. When a Rand man looks at you, you feel as though he has offered you a piece of his soul.

        And quite suddenly Rebekah, who feels everything so deeply—every joy, every sorrow—seems to be on the receiving end of those “Rand” smiles. Maybe all this tumultuous emotion is simply the way of the young and there is nothing to be done but to allow time to pass. I try to remember when I was just twenty, but it was so long ago that I have only a vague recollection of possibilities.

When I come down the stairs after reminding William of the responsibilities of those who mourn, I discover Rebekah gazing out the thick glass window of the portico door. Her long tapered fingers clutch a handkerchief. I need not be close enough to decipher the monogram; I know it reads A R C. And I know that it belongs to the young man who just departed, Casey Rand.

I reach my hand to my cheek. Alonzo, Casey’s father, left an hour ago, but I can still feel the gentle warmth of his reassuring kiss. When Rebekah turns and sees me, adorned in my stiff, black funeral gown, my hand at my cheek, and my eyes, I’m afraid, filled with what might have been.

“I didn’t hear you come down, Mother.” Her eyes look dewy, as if all the sorrow of the last week for her father’s passing have left her eyes permanently moist. I suddenly feel a rush of protective warmth at my breast. My lovely daughter. Rebekah, if I could shield you from every heartbreak, I would, my dearest. I would.

* * *

At dinner, Rebekah pushes at the turnips, knocking them into the remains of the boiled beef she has also not consumed. William, however, has finished his serving and asked Martha for another. A purple drip of pickled beet slides from his lip. I lift my napkin, dab at the corner of my mouth and open my eyes wide to indicate he should do as I do, but he only inquires very specifically what is wrong with me, so I tell him bluntly. He is seventeen and much more child than man. But now that Francis has breathed his last, he is the man of the family, whether or not he chooses to be. Unless . . .

“It has been a long, difficult day,” I tell the children, suggesting they both retire and neither one objects. Rebekah will sleep, I’m certain, and William will read late into the evening. Last week, before our sad news, he devoured Call of The Wild, by Jack London. And today, Kenneth, the youngest and most literary of the Rand men, brought him a new title from the acclaimed Mr. London.

When I finally find myself alone in the parlor, I feel the weight of the anguish of this last week. The mirror over the fireplace reflects how blanched my skin looks and I pinch my cheeks, an old habit from the days when Frank would tell me I looked beautiful after we’d walked outdoors on a brisk fall day. But most of society, like Mr. Rand, prefers the most alabaster of skin.

At that exact moment I hear a rap at the door. The knock is so soft that only someone who was waiting for that very sound would hear. Much too quiet to rouse the children, or Martha and Martin who have already retired to the carriage house. I smooth my black muslin dress and step to open the door. Alfonso steps indoors, brushing the white glistening flakes off his jacket. His shoulders shake from the icy air. Then without a word, he pulls me into his strong arms, and whispers in my ear, “Anna, my beautiful Anna. At last. I could not wait one moment more.”

Sunday, February 28, 1904

It took every ounce of my strength to go to church this morning. On Thursday, Alonzo and I had a disagreement and we have not spoken since. I had no wish to sit in the pew in front of his, as we do each Sabbath, and feel his stern gaze at my back. 

  But when I arrived with Rebekah and William, Alonzo’s greeting could not have been more welcoming. If our fellow congregants took any notice, all they would have seen was a man who has been widowed for nearly thirteen years welcoming a dear family friend into the circle of grieving. 

At home now, I hear Martha and Martin preparing the table in the front parlor for lunch. Alonzo will arrive in a few moments. I instructed Martha to make his favorite food, Welsh Rarebit. He likes the melted cheese mixed with beer, spread over Martha’s thick pieces of barley toast. 

But I do worry we will fall into our disagreement again, because suddenly wherever Alonzo comes Casey follows. To be fair, Casey comes to our home almost every day, but when he came seeking William, I had no objection. Nearly overnight Casey has gone from not noticing Rebekah to seeking her out every time we are all together. At church this morning, he must have had a dozen excuses to whisper to her. Could she remind him what page of the hymnal we were on, as if he could not ask his younger brother.  Had he heard her cough? Would she like a lozenge for her throat? Did she need a handkerchief, to which she pulled out the one he’d given her earlier in the week, with his monogram at the corner. 

Alonzo finds it charming. Last week, after Rebekah and Casey left to watch the skaters, with William and Kenneth tagging along looking as excited as Dick to be taken on the walk, although Dick on the leash was likely better behaved, Alonzo said to me we could have a double wedding. Can you imagine? And I do not believe he was joking. 

Alonzo is already counting down the days until a suitable mourning period elapses for me. I began the negotiations at two years, the proper Victorian custom. Alonzo proposed six months. Scandalous, I know. We had finally settled on announcing the engagement at nine months and marrying four months later to ensure no one may claim that I married just a year after Francis’ death. 

Beyond the absurdity of a double wedding, there is something quite distasteful about a mother and daughter marrying a father and son. I find it uncouth to have us so tethered to the Rand men. Surely, in this bustling city filled with Dayton and Pillsbury sons, Rebekah can find a suitable bachelor who is not the flesh and blood of my beloved. 

 Thursday, March 3, 1904

A letter from Samuel arrived this morning. More sad news. "Last week, our brother Joseph woke in a fine state of health, but by mid morning, he fell so weak he had to take to his bed. By nightfall he alternated between shivering under the weight of several wool blankets, to throwing them off and sweating through his thin nightdress. He passed on to his heavenly rewards early the next morning. May he rest in peace."

I remember well long, sultry afternoons traipsing after Joseph as he hiked through the bluegrass fields of our Kentucky home. He always huffed and puffed when Mother told him to let me tag along, but soon he’d find some crawling creature or flying bird and having no one else within earshot, he would begin lecturing me all about the marvelous thing. In the spring we watched caterpillars, in the heat of summer we chased butterflies. Joseph had such a gentle nature. So different from Samuel.

But not at first. Samuel did have Joseph’s good nature as a boy and just as I followed my older brother around, in time I led my younger brother in all my adventures, right up until the day he joined me at our one room schoolhouse. As we walked to school, Samuel clasped my hand and asked me about the teacher, and what the school work would be like. I felt his nerves through the sweat of his palm, but I reassured him, telling him that learning was a joy and that he would meet many new friends his age.

I should have dropped his hand before I entered, but I did not even think of it, because Samuel was so dear to me. As soon as we walked in the door that nasty Carlock boy called him a sissy and Samuel released my hand faster than a racehorse bolts out of the gate. He refused to even meet my eye all day and only gave me a hushed whisper when the teacher let us students out for recess. I played marbles, and waved my hand for him to join me, but he turned away following the older boys who played tag. That afternoon when the young teacher released us for the day, Samuel ran home ahead of me and I have forever since been a shadow in my younger brother’s path.

Today, Samuel’s letter began with the sad news, then segued as he always does to news of Churchill Downs and the upcoming Kentucky Derby. I often think that Father, looking down on us from heaven, must certainly be cursing out Samuel and his love of the racetrack.

But then, he wrote “Sister, it pains me, but without Frank I must insist that you have all your bank records sent to me. I will take over the management of your accounts and allot a monthly allowance. There will be plenty to meet the needs of you and the children.” I note that he does not mention Rebekah or William by name, I wonder if he even remembers them.

I sit so that I can read his words once more. I think of that sweaty-palmed young boy, pushing my hand away, and claiming his place as the head of the Culbertson family. Within an hour I’ve readied myself, the vile letter clutched in my suede gloves, and I storm off to see Alonzo.

Alonzo welcomes me, clutching me to him as a sister when his maid is in the room, then, when she leaves, he embraces me as a lover. But I do not indulge his kisses for long. “I have news,” I whisper in his ear. “I need your help.”

I hand him the letter to read. He shakes his head when he is done and swoops his hand through the air. “There is nothing to worry about. I will write to him.”

I fall into Alonzo's arms, “Thank you my dearest.”

“Of course.” He kisses my forehead. “I will explain that I am your financial advisor.”

I step back. His coal black eyes shine with pride. He is happy to be helpful. “Alonzo,” I remove my glove and raise my hand to cup his chin. “Darling. I will manage my own finances, that is what I need to convey to Samuel.”

He sputters that he knows this is true and that the letter is only to keep Samuel from bothering me. But I am not so sure. Alonzo knows I am smart, but does he really believe I can manage as well as a man?

I’m contemplating this when Casey storms in through the parlor entrance, all long legs and broad chest. He didn’t mean to enter so abruptly I am sure, it’s just the force of nature that is an eighteen-year-old boy.

“Mrs. Semple,” he says, when he sees me, and I can hear something in his tone. It is not pleasure, but then, I am not pleased to see him either.

Alonzo, oddly and suspiciously thrusts Samuel’s letter back at me as though it were a love letter instead of a lecture put to pen and paper by my domineering younger brother. Casey's eyes watch us with distrust. “Father,” he says, “I’m off to walk the dog.”

“I think it’s likely to rain soon.”

“No matter. Dick is restless.”

“As are you,” Alonzo says. But Casey has exited the room as boldly as he entered. Something about this brief interaction upsets me, and I cannot put it to words. When I look down I see I’ve rubbed so hard at Samuel’s letter that I’ve blurred the date.

Tuesday, March 8, 1904

I fluttered about the garden this afternoon under the strongest sun since last fall. I pointed out to Martin the tiny shoots of green pushing from the moist ground, heralding the arrival of the bloodroot. Soon we will have vases of the cloud-white flowers ready to perch on the mantle and the piano. There is much work to do, and I reminded Martin that he must cut the lilacs as soon as he can after the last bloom fades. Last summer he waited nearly half a week before finishing the task. 

When I came back into the house, Martha took quite a long while before she brought my tea and brown bread. She seemed distracted. I even had to remind her to serve the butter. When I inquired after the children, she could only tell me that Rebekah still felt ill and had stayed in her bed all day, once again. As to William, she had no idea of his whereabouts. 

In truth, I relished these few moments of solitude. Giving Martin instruction on the garden had taxed me. And later this afternoon I have promised Alonzo I will return to nurse him. The poor man’s ankle is swollen to the size of a small pumpkin.

I’ve yet to have Martha put my hair up today, and I stroke the tendrils that fall well past my shoulders. Last night Alonzo told me he wished I never wore it up. He often reminds me that the first time he ever set eyes on me, my hair flew about wildly like fall leaves in the wind. “The way the sun glinted on your chestnut brown tresses,” he told me. 

I remember the afternoon well. Frank had just bought the lake cottage and Rebekah and I were there for one of our first visits. Although Frank loved the water, I preferred our city home with its modern furnishings. Rebekah had just woke from a nap and like a colt set free in a field, she scurried along on her stout little eighteen-month-old legs, heading directly for our sandy beach on Lake Minnetonka. I followed her, but just before I caught her she was intercepted by the tall, slender, handsome man I now know as my dearest Alonzo. He scooped her into his arms and turned to smile at me. “Alonzo Rand to the rescue,” he said, by way of introduction. 

The Rands were our neighbors, although I wouldn’t meet his wife, Anna Louisa, for many weeks. She was well along in her pregnancy with the child that would be Casey. She often stayed back in those days, not leaving town or if she was at the lake, sitting on the cottage porch not receiving visitors. 

Just last evening, when Alonzo and I reminisced as we sat in his parlor, his arms wrapped around me, the warmth of his lips still on my neck, my ear, my lips, he told me that the day he rescued Rebekah was the day he decided I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Prior to Alonzo, I was not usually on the receiving end of such flattering words of adulation. Frank was much too of himself to tell me such pretty things. And, in truth, it had been many years since I wanted to hear his declarations. 

When the children were young, and our families often thrown together, I would sense Alonzo’s eyes on me. At gatherings he would ask after me, did I want an apéritif? Was I warm enough? I know there were times he saw to my needs before his wife’s and I would feel her gaze settle on me. I told myself his attraction was harmless, the most innocent of flirtations.

But now that we are both widowed, I no longer have to wait for stolen whispers and hands meeting underneath the dining table. Although we can not yet proclaim our attachment to society, once this year of mourning is complete, I will become Mrs. Alonzo Rand.

Thursday, March 17, 1904

 I have not brought along enough handkerchiefs, nor thick enough woolen socks. I cinch my taupe wool coat tighter at my waist to stave off the chill of the cavernous train depot with its sky-high paneled oak ceilings, designed to impress rather than provide comfort or ease. 

And the noise, here. Between the thousand footfalls tramping against the white marble floors and the loud, rapid conversations in German, Swedish, Norwegian and God-only-knows-what-else-that-I-can’t-make-out, my head pounds. The thought of being surrounded by these kinds of people for two days on the journey to New York makes my skin prickle. Fortunately, I secured a private berth for Rebekah and myself.

I look over at my daughter, her hair swept up in a tight bun the way I believe a young woman should wear it when they travel. Her eyes are red, but she does not cry. I must admit, she has remained calm this morning. Her only rebellion now is that she has perched herself at the far end of the hardwood bench to put distance between the two of us. I will allow her this defiance. I am not so hard-hearted as she believes. I do understand she is melancholy at being whisked away to New York, but once there, she will appreciate the opportunities that only that City of Dreams can provide. 

Last night, I telegrammed my dear childhood friend Emma and informed her of our impromptu trip out east. I chose her to confide in about Rebekah’s obsession with the young Mr. Rand, in part because she is a lifelong friend, but also, her extended family have made inroads into The Four Hundred.

This morning, when I received word back from her, just as I had hoped, she said she may be able to secure some invitations to the most elite of New York Society. She even mentioned Mr. Orme Wilson, Jr., the handsome and eligible son of Carrie Astor and Marshall Orme Wilson (great-great grandson of John Jacob Astor - America’s first millionaire).

I believe if Rebekah makes a good impression this spring, an invitation to one or another of the summer cottages in Newport, Rhode Island may be issued for this summer. I can almost see my beautiful daughter having afternoon tea at the Breakers, after a robust game of croquet on the wide expanse of the back lawn that overlooks the rocky cliffs of the Atlantic. I, of course, have never been to the Vanderbilt family’s summer cottage, but I have seen photographs.  

My plan is once I’m in New York, I will find a family to sequester Rebekah with for the next few months, a family with enough standing to help her get an invitation for the summer. I hope I will be successful within a fortnight, so that I may return to Minneapolis and to Alfonzo. Once summer is over, and Rebekah returns to us, Alonzo and I will inform the children that we are to be wed. 

By that time, having spent months surrounded by society, not just the small cluster of exclusive families in Minneapolis and St. Paul, I am confident Rebekah will once and forever put an end to her childish attachment. After all, soon Casey will be her brother. 

As I watch my daughter, I see her eyes startle open wide, and then light up as if Thomas Alva Edison himself had thrown a switch. When I turn to follow her gaze, I discover my own dear Alonzo. But this makes no sense. Why would Alonzo be here and why would his presence make Rebekah beam like the North Star? And then just in front of my beloved, I see him. His thick corn-colored hair bouncing like a Kentucky racehorse, his athletic steps rapidly approaching, his smile, wide and brilliant. Casey Rand bounds toward us, his eyes locked with Rebekah’s.

Rebekah and I stand at the same moment but with very different intentions and we both say Casey’s name, but with very different inflections.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demand. 

Casey has sprinted past me and fallen to his knees in front of Rebekah. He takes her hands in his own and turns to face me. 

“Respectfully,” he begins, although he sounds anything but. “Respectfully, Mrs. Semple. Rebekah should not be torn from me and kidnapped to New York.”

“Kidnapped?” I cry out. 

“Now, now.” Alonzo is beside us, looking back and forth between us all. “Casey,” he says loudly, a warning to his son. “Anne,” he says softly, a plea to me. “Please, all of us. Let’s discuss this calmly.” 

The sharp blow of a train whistle stops us and I glance over at the huge wall clock. We will begin to board any minute.

“Last night,” I say to Alonzo, but not loud enough for anyone else to hear, “You agreed that we should keep them apart. They have betrayed our trust. They do not deserve to be together. You said as much last evening.”

He takes my hand. “I did my dear. I did. But this morning—”

I interrupt. “This morning? What could have possibly changed your mind this morning?”

Alonzo tugs at my hand and leads into the far corner of the depot, although the foyer is too large and too exposed to have any real privacy. 

“What changed is that after I left your bedchamber, on my way across the street, I found Casey sitting on the front stoop with Dick, waiting for me.” 

“But you left before sunrise.” 

“Yes,” he agrees. “And Casey had woken even earlier.”

Regardless, I do not understand how this impacts my trip East with Rebekah. The loudspeaker calls our train. Service to Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh and New York. I pat my dear Alonzo’s hand, promise I will return, hopefully within two weeks, and tell him that I must make my way to the train.

“My darling,” Alonzo steps in front of me, blocking my departure. “Casey knows. About our love. And Rebekah knows as well.” He sighs deeply. “They both are aware that it predated your widowhood.”

“No,” I say, hardly able to breathe.

“Yes,” Alonzo says calmly. “If we do not acquiesce to their demands, I do believe Casey will share this information with people who do not need to be thus informed. 

“He would not dare. You are his father. His reputation would be sullied as well as ours.” 

“He is young and impetuous. And Anne, he is in love with your daughter.” Alonzo grasps my hand, more tightly than is comfortable. His coal black eyes are on fire. “Anne, he says in an exaggerated whisper. “I do not want to start a war with my son, nor your daughter. They have won.”

I look past Alonzo. Casey and Rebekah perch on the bench, sitting near each other but I notice they do not touch, even though I know they would like to. They are acting as they should in polite society. 

Alonzo follows my glance. “Truly Anne, would it be such a poor match? Certainly,” Alonzo smiles, “The Rand family is worthy of a matrimonial bond.”

There is no possible way for me to argue that point with the patriarch of the Rand clan who is my beloved. How can I possibly explain to him that all morning visions of Astors and Vanderbilts have run wild through my brain. 

To be Continued…