Diary of rebekah Semple

Wednesday, February 24, 1904

When Mother came down from her sitting room after lunch, she found me sobbing on the chaise lounge in the parlor and immediately rebuffed me: “Rebekah you must learn not to give in to your worst instincts.” She told Martha to run upstairs and fetch my handkerchiefs, calling after her, “Not the embroidered ones. A cotton one will do.” Then, more to herself, she said, “Rebekah's going through these like wildfire.”

“But it was a week ago. Today,” I sputtered in response. “I know. I know,” Mother said, and she did wrap her arm about my shoulders, in a kindly, protective manner.

I’ve no idea how Mother can be so stoic. We shall never see father again. I will never hear his deep voice ring out calling for me, “Becks.” It was a nickname that he alone used, even when Mother would reprimand him, “That is not her Christian name.” But he would smile at me, hiding his grin behind his hand so that only I could see.

“Don’t you even miss him?” I demand. And Mother glares at me, which I understand is to imply I’ve asked a ridiculous question, because she would insist that she does. And yet, where are her tears? Where is the vacant look in her eyes that I see reflected back from my own each time I look in the mirror since Father left us to meet his maker?

This morning we took the Ford to Lakewood Cemetery. I’ve only been there in the summer, when the crab trees bloom pink and the tulips wave in sunny reds and yellows. Today’s barren landscape, nothing but sooty snow, broke my heart. To think of Father laying in that receiving vault until Spring when we can have a proper burial.

There was just a small group of us to wish Father Godspeed. Mother, myself and William, Martha and her husband Martin, and our dear neighbor, Alonzo Rand, who has been in and out of the house since we got the terrible news. His older son Casey, who practically resides here, being William’s best and loudest friend, and Kenneth, the younger brother, who is so quiet and solemn, I used to nearly wonder if he was mute.

Mr. Rand went home before luncheon, after giving Mother a meaningful look and a kiss on the cheek. “He knows this suffering,” she said to me.

Casey stayed on and I heard him and William running around the ball room. I know from their laughter they’ve taken off their shoes and are sock skating from window to window, shouting to each other what they see on the busy streets below. I’ve played the game with them from time to time.

Suddenly we hear a loud crash and mother calls out for Martha, but we don’t know where she’s gone. Mother stands, puts on a stern face and marches up the stairs.

I think if I can keep my hands busy I can blunt my tears for a moment. So I find my crochet needles and work on the collar I started before our sad news, but nearly immediately I think of how Father would compliment my work, and I have to brush away another tear.

Suddenly, Casey surprises me, running down the stairs, shoes in his hand instead of on his feet. “Rebekah,” he says, when he sees me, sliding a foot or so in those thick, woolen socks. “My deepest sympathy.” He kneels before me, and looks into my eyes. His summer-sky blue eyes hold my own and I see true sorrow there. “I’m so sorry about your father. When my mother was taken from us, I lost part of my heart.”

That makes me cry again, but Martha never returned with my hanky and seeing my empty hands, Casey reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief for me, his initials monogrammed at the corner. “Please,” he says, offering it to me. I accept his kindness, and he reaches for my other hand.

“Death is nothing at all,” he quotes.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you,

and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.”

“Casey, you are a poet.” “Not I,” he says. “Kenneth is our poet. That is one of his favorites, so that Father quotes it often.” He stands and his face takes on that certain smile that I’ve seen so often. “Poetry calms Kenneth, but for me, it is sweets.”

“Sweets?” “Yes, Black Jack candy sticks are just what you need.” He is teasing me. I see it in his grin and the way he pushes at the swath of thick, corn-yellow hair that covers his forehead and nearly his eyes. “Don’t you remember, Father gave them to me all the time after Mother died. To you as well, when we played together.”

I had nearly forgotten. There was a time, before he and William were the fastest of friends that it was Casey and I who ran together collecting dandelions and chasing after his beloved dog.

“Of course, I was just five, but still Black Jack molasses sticks comfort me to this day. I will bring you some tomorrow morning.” He releases my hand, which I had not even realized he still held. Suddenly I feel very cold.

“Why did we ever stop playing together?” Although he asks a question, I know he does not expect me to answer. But I do. “Because William got older and grew to love the toy soldiers, and the cannons, and the play muskets that you loved, and he usurped me.”

“I suppose he did.” Casey slips on his shoes, kneeling to tie the laces and I notice the coltskin is scuffed. “Rebekah,” he begins, but before he can say anything more, we hear mother’s footsteps on the stairs.

She stops at the landing on the second floor and her voice, as shrill as a cardinal at dawn, calls out, “William, take a moment for self-reflection and think of your dear father and how he would abhor your joviality on this day, of all days.”

But Father loved joy and he would want his son to have a moment of happiness. Mother starts down the stairs toward us and Casey slips away toward the portico door. “Tomorrow Rebekah, I will bring you candies. And I promise you they will make you feel just a little better.”

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1904

My first thought this morning was not of father, which surprised me, but instead that Casey will visit today and bring with him Black Jack molasses sticks. But in the very next moment, then I thought of dear Father, wishing I could scamper downstairs and discover him, newspaper in his hands, prinz-nez glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

But luncheon has come and gone and he has not appeared. William even asked if a note had been sent, since he too was expecting the young Mr. Rand. I have picked up and put down my crochet collar, glanced at a story in mother’s Red Book Magazine, climbed up the stairs to stroll the ballroom, but found myself too occupied with staring down at the street watching for visitors.

Now the front door bell rings and I must force myself not to gallop down stairs to answer. By the time I’ve descended the three floors, Martin, Martha’s husband, and William are already there to welcome Casey indoors. I hear William offer a hundred and one ideas and plans to occupy their time and Casey readily agrees to follow him, but says he needs one moment. William scampers past me up the stairs and Casey strides toward me, hand outstretched.

“Black Jack Molasses sticks, as promised, Miss Semple.”

His formality makes me laugh. I can remember when I was simply Webekah, back in the days when my young friend could not pronounce my name. 

“I would have come this morning,” he whispers, as though the two of us are scheming, “but I could not find them. I went to Dayton’s and Young Quinlan and finally discovered a supply at Donaldson’s.”

“You did not need to go to so much trouble,” I tell him. “You are much too kind.”

“And you are absolutely no trouble. None at all.” He advances a step, following in William’s path and then turns back to me. “Rebekah, I know that your mourning period will impede your comings and goings, but I wonder if you could walk? Each afternoon, when I take the dog. She must go, mourning or not, and no matter if the weather is frigid or blazing.”

“Yes,” I say, without needing a moment to reflect. “Yes, I would love to take a turn in the fresh air.” He pulls his pocket watch out. “One hour?” he asks. “Shall we go then?”

“Yes. One hour.”

He scampers away without a goodbye. I look at the candies clutched in my hand, and suddenly mother is right beside me. She so often surprises me these days. “Rebekah, you may not go walking today.” She has overheard our conversation and has no inclination to even pretend otherwise. “You are in mourning for your father’s death. It is not appropriate.”

“But certainly a walk, and fresh air, is good for me?” This is a question because most often mother encourages us to go outdoors. But she repeats. “You are in mourning. It is not appropriate for you to walk with Mr. Rand.” She walks to the divan and sits, picking up the magazine where I left it. Then tells me, “if you’d like you may walk with William.”

She has never before discouraged any friendship with the Rand family. I am stunned and mulling over what to conclude when Martha walks past. She exclaims over the candy I hold. “Ah, my favorite.”

I hand her the whole bunch. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint Casey but I’ve always hated the sweet, smoky flavor of molasses.

Later that day…

Casey and William are not occupied long. Before even half an hour has passed Casey tramps down the stairs, calling out my name, a smile on his rhubarb-red lips. William follows, looking melancholy, understandable given our sad family circumstances. I reach my fingers to my face as if trying to read my own emotions. I am a whirling dervish of grief for father, but also a small, growing excitement in the pit of my stomach. I am well aware that this feeling is because of the blond haired, red lipped, handsome young man standing before me, threading his fingers through his wild, wheat colored hair and telling me something urgent.

I will myself to listen. “Yes, Casey?”

“Wait for me. I’ll run home and grab Dick, then we can walk to Fair Oaks and see who is ice skating on the pond.”

“Yes,” I agree. “I’ll be ready.”

Casey throws on his wool jacket, and pulls his cap over his head. He already has his hand on the knob to pull open the door when William calls out, “I’ll come along, as well.”

Casey turns back. His grin is friendly, but there is a hint of something less than enthusiastic around his eyes. “Certainly, William. You come as well.”

I do not mind William joining us for our walk. It is certainly more appropriate, but I do wish he would have kept silent about our plan. When he informed mother, she scolded me, “Rebekah, I told you when Mr. Rand arrived that it is not suitable for you to go out with him.”

There is something churlish about the way she refuses to use Casey’s Christian name.

“Mother, you said I could walk with William and that is who I am going with. Casey is coming along with us.” This is a weak argument even to my sympathetic ears and does nothing to sway Mother.

So when Casey returns, letting Dick and his oversized, wet paws into our parlor, Mother becomes even more agitated. “Alonzo Casey Rand,” she squeaks out, sounding like a furious parrot. Mother’s squawks surprise Casey, who drops Dick’s lead, allowing the oversized English Pointer to cavort around our parlor, his leather leash snapping behind him. Casey commands the dog to sit, but it is as effective as telling the waves to stop crashing against the shore. Dick hops up onto our velvet divan and Mother’s eyes bug out in horror or anger, or more likely, both.

Casey and William run to opposite sides of the couch. Casey takes the front and William the rear. Dick’s brown, hang dog eyes look so sad, and I think he has accepted his fate to be led off the comfort of the soft couch and forced back down onto the unforgiving wood floor, but then he outwits all of us, hopping off the end of the couch, and scampering up the stairs. Casey and William follow in hot pursuit.

I chuckle a little, until I see the intense displeasure in mother's eyes. And that is the moment I begin to guffaw. Mother looks horrified. Starting back and forth from me and my insolence, to the wet spots, as numerous as snowflakes in a winter storm, on our formerly pristine couch. No animal has ever been in our parlor, much less the furniture. And then Mother begins to cry. Her sobs match the intensity of my laughter and soon, between the two of us, we display every single possible emotion.

And this is how the real Mr. Rand, Casey’s father, finds us — Mother weeping, me chortling. His entrance is as sudden as Casey, William and Dick’s departure, so that I’ve no idea how he was admitted to the house, since both Martha and Martin followed the boys and the scampering mutt up the stairs.

Mr. Rand goes to mother and lays his hand on her shoulder, “Anna, Anna,” he whispers. She turns into him, flinging her arms around his torso in an embrace. He towers over my mother, the top of her head only reaching his shoulder. I’m struck by how small and fragile

Mother looks in his arms. Within a few moments of whispering her name and gently rubbing her back, Mother calms. She tells him that his dog has trampled their home and now that everything has quieted I do hear running, yapping and yelling from upstairs. The yelling comes from Casey, William and Martin. The yapping from Dick.

Mr. Rand continues to soothe her. He is so kind, almost like a brother, I would say. He pets her hair affectionately, whispering “Now, now.”

That’s when I notice Kenneth standing behind his father, quite unsure of what to do with himself, until a moment later when the boys return. Casey triumphantly holds Dick’s leather lead, announcing, “We are ready for our walk,” before he greets his father.

With all the commotion I am sure Mother will simply want us all out of the house and I pull the bell ring for Martha to ask her to bring me my coat and boots. But Mother again says I may not go.

“Anna,” Mr. Rand says sweetly. “Fresh air will do all the children good. And certainly Dick needs outdoor time.”

She has stepped out of their embrace, but still stands so close to Mr. Rand it’s as if they are about to clasp one another again. “Casey brought that wet, smelly mutt into the house, uninvited and . . .” She searches for the right word, finally crying out, “Unwelcome.”

Mr. Rand will be angry, I am certain, that Mother is so disparaging his eldest son, but instead, he smiles at her, and pats her arm in a familiar way.

“You are right, Mrs. Semple,” he says loudly, so different from the whispered Anna’s of a moment ago. “Casey, Kenneth, I banish you. Both of you and Dick. You must leave this house immediately.” And although his tone is insistent, his eyes are merry.

“I will go with them,” William pipes up. Mr. Rand nods solemnly as if this is a wise plan.

And then it is just me, wishing to join the group, but fearing I will be forced to sit quietly crocheting while Mother and Mr. Rand talk of the house, and the will, and the burial, and the myriad of topics that have been foisted upon us since Father’s death.

Then as though he can read my mind, Mr. Rand adds, “Mrs. Semple, Rebekah would do well to get some fresh air, and certainly this large cohort will protect her, and,” he pauses, “her reputation.” Mother opens her mouth, but Mr. Rand pats her hand, again such a familiar gesture and says, “I must insist.” And then Dick, as if seconding his master, yelps agreement.

Martha, her uncanny sense of what is needed, steps up beside me offering my wool jacket and winter boots to me. I dress quickly, before anyone can object and the four of us, along with Dick, are out into the late afternoon sunlight.

Before I step off our wide front porch, I turn back and peer through the thick glass. Mother is back in Mr. Rand’s comforting arms, and unlike the way William holds me when I have cried these last few days, Mother and Mr. Rand remind me more of the way she and Father would hold each other. But I’ve no time to question anything, because I feel the grasp of Casey’s hand, he’s snaked his fingers through mine, and says to me, his voice deep, with a catch of emotion, “Come along Rebekah. Let’s go explore.”

Sunday evening, February 28, 1904

Martha gently steadies my hand as I fuss at my silk skirt. I told her she drew my corset too tightly when she helped me change from my black, muslin, church dress. Mother overhears and swipes at my hand, “It is to be endured,” she says, before she slips past into her boudoir. 

Casey and his father, and Kenneth, will arrive at any moment for lunch. Casey told me at church this morning that they will drive the new Cadillac. He promises he will take me for a ride one day very soon. 

The Rands arrive in a bustle of excitement, but Mother pointedly seats everyone and puts Casey at the opposite end of the table from me. I can smile at him, but he is too far away for conversation. 

When we are excused from the table, Mother immediately has an errand for Casey and the other boys. Suddenly, right away, they must go see Mr. Walker. He has a portrait of father in his art collection and the boys must go collect it, right this minute. I would expect a job like that to be reserved for Martin, on a day that does not belong to the Lord, but mother insists, and before I can volunteer to join them, Mother picks up my crochet and hands it to me.

For a dull hour or so, I listen to Mother and Mr. Rand discuss the house. I know the upkeep of the house overwhelms her, with the three massive floors and the biggest ballroom in the state of Minnesota. It is a lot for a widow and two children. 

As soon as the boys make it back, just as I think I will have a moment to enjoy their company, Mother takes Mr. Rand’s hand and thanks him for visiting, plainly sending him on his way.

I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears, as I had so hoped to have a few moments with Casey. I think kind Mr. Rand knows this, because, just as clever as mother is, Mr. Rand suddenly needs Casey and me to each carry out a bundle of firewood. Normally, he would have asked his sons, but Kenneth has already followed William upstairs. 

“You don’t mind, do you Rebekah?” Mr. Rand asks, plopping a bundle of wood in my arms, and opening the door for us, in one fast motion. I step out first and then, after Casey exits, Mr. Rand loudly shuts the door behind him. Through the window pane I see him wink at me and then he steps back over to my mother. 

Casey immediately takes the wood bundle from me, because he had not really needed my help with the task. He places the wood near the car and with a mischievous smile, lifts a finger to his lips to silence me, reaches for my hand and sneaks us into the servant’s door. 

The doorway leads to a narrow stone stair. I have rarely been in this part of the house, only many years ago when we first moved here and played hours-long games of hide-and-go-seek. 

The little hallway only lets in the dimmest light, but I can make out enough to see Casey’s shining blue eyes and grand smile. With the cold February wind shuttered out, the space, narrow as it is, feels astonishingly cozy. I adjust my footing on the steep stairs and my leathered boot heel catches and before I even know I am falling, Casey snakes his arm around my waist and catches me, pulling me into his chest. 

“You nearly fell,” he says with alarm.

“You saved me,” I tell him. 

“Of course, Rebekah. I am your Mr. Rochester.”

He is teasing me. Last Thursday when we walked to watch the ice skaters he somehow elicited from me that I have read Jane Eyre six times. 

With his free hand, he gently pushes a long tendril of hair that has escaped from my emerald hair pin. I almost believe we have left this earthly existence and ascended into the celestial, because here I stand, my body pressed tightly against Casey’s and I feel as light as an angel. 

I have never so much as held a man’s hand, and yet, I don’t feel afraid, and I certainly have no desire to step out of Casey’s embrace. Nor does he seem to think we should, because he begins conversing with me as if we were seated several feet apart, on the divan, with each of our parents beside us.  

“All day today, I only wanted to talk with you,” he says. “I wanted to plan our car ride. Oh, Rebekah, when you sit next to me, gliding down the street in that car, it will feel like flying.”

He suggests days for our car trip and I nod agreeably, although I know that Mother will object. Casey must be a mind reader, because he asks me if I think Mother seems unhappy about our friendship. 

“Something makes her uneasy,” I tell him. “But I cannot understand it. She’s always been so fond of you.” 

His eyes, that penetrating cornflower blue are locked onto mine. “I am fond of you,” he says, his voice catching. He moves closer to me. A moment ago I would have thought that was not possible, that two people could not be any nearer. My heart beats rapidly, my palms sweat, and my lips feel tingly, an altogether new sensation. 

Through the thick mahogany door I hear a muffled noise. I cannot make it out at first, but it grows louder. I realize it is Mother, calling my name. I glance toward the door, but when I look back, Casey’s eyes are so filled with some emotion, is it wonder? Is it longing? I know I cannot leave his side until I discern what his eyes want me to understand. My mother squawks again and before I can say a word, Casey’s lips are upon mine, his strong hand at my back.

I cannot think, but my body reacts. My arms grab around his back pulling me even tighter into his embrace. I want to crush his lips with my own. I want to catch his breath and inhale it. 

Faintly, as though I’m caught underwater, I hear my mother calling and Casey releases my lips. “We’d best let her know where you are. Here,” he guides me further down the stairs and at the bottom opens the door that leads back to the main house. “You go inside and I will tell your mother you’re indoors.”

I nod in agreement. But once the cellar door to the house is open, I have no desire to leave his side. I am not sure if he sees this in my expression or possibly, I speak out loud, I don’t even know, but what I want, what I need, is one more kiss, before I can leave him. 

He looks down at me, that searching gaze and whispers, “One more kiss. For now.”

When we separate, me through the door and Casey clamoring back up the stairs, I can hear him throw open the door and call to my mother and his father. “Rebekah is already inside waiting for you, Mrs. Semple.” 

Wednesday, March 2, 1904

When I awoke Monday morning I had to catch my breath. As I slumbered, Casey, in his ethereal form, had breezed into my dreams. Once again, I stood with him in the darkly lit stone hallway. Once again, his chest pressed tightly to mine, his hands caressing my back running from my waist to the exposed skin at my neck. Just like the evening before, every feeling inside me propelled me to lean forward and meet Casey’s sweet lips, his touch as soft as a butterfly landing on my palm.

I pulled my pillow into my arms and said his name out loud, just so my ears could drink in the sweet sound, “Casey Alonzo Rand.” Martha, surprising me, sauntered into my bedroom. “Good morning, Miss Rebekah. Did you call?”

I assured her I was fine and did not want for anything. Left unsaid was that I wanted very much to be left alone so I could fall back into my half slumber, dreaming once more of Casey. But she began chatting amiably. The sun was out, she told me. The day offered the promise of spring. I made polite responses until she mentioned that soon a special visitor would arrive. I was sure she must mean Casey. I hopped from bed and begged for her assistance to help me get ready.

She cocked her head at me, surprised I assume that I went from not wanting to leave my repose to not wanting to remain in my bedclothes. But she set down her pile of clean laundry to help.

“The new dress,” I proclaimed. “The one Mother and I bought at Dayton’s, with the lace trim at the wrists and the bustle.” When she couldn’t remember, I reminded her of our shopping trip. And then I remembered that it was that afternoon that we’d discovered the telegram, the one that told us the shocking news that father had passed away. Suddenly, I am ashamed. I haven’t thought of father once yet this morning.

But Martha simply nods and steps to my closet, pulling out the very dress I’d described. She helps me put on my corset, pulling the ribbons so tightly that I must struggle for air. Then, Martha winds my long chestnut hair into Gibson Girl curls in the front and leaves the back to cascade in long thick waves.

When she finishes, she tells me I look beautiful and that mother will be very happy.”

“Do you really think so?” I ask, looking into the mirror over my dressing table.

“Of course. She will be delighted you are making such an effort for Mr. Wirth.”

“Mr. Wirth?” I spin away from the glass.

Martha’s eyes look at me in confusion and then suddenly she shakes her head and steps toward me, taking my hand. “Oh Rebekah, I should have been more clear. Mr. Theordor Wirth from the Park Board is coming by to retrieve a bequest your father left in his will. It’s for the new Wild Botanic Garden.” She blushes. “I should have said right away.”

“Of course,” I say, smoothing my dress. “Of course. How lovely.”

“Maybe,” she says, pulling me into a gentle, mother-like embrace. “Maybe another visitor will also come by today.”

***

I waited all day Monday, hoping, dreaming, planning that Casey would visit. But he did not. Nor on Tuesday. And not today either. I wonder if he deemed me too brazen, by allowing his kiss. I know, if I dared confide in mother, that is what she would say. But I cannot believe it could be true. I felt his heart beating against his chest, just as mine did.

William is also surprised that Casey has been absent, because every day he loudly bemoans the absence of his friend. And each time he asks Mother if he can go visit the Rand home, she has had an excuse as to why he may not leave the house.

Today has been a fortnight since Father’s passing and tomorrow William must return to school, so I suppose that William, at least, will see Casey then.

It’s dusk now, so quite unlikely any visitors will come by. Mother and William each perch on the divan. William reads by the faint lamp light. Mother on the other end, embroiders. I had been crocheting, but my fingers are too nervous and my heart too somber. I tell mother I will take a turn around the house, and she only nods. William does not acknowledge me at all.

I wander downstairs, rather than up and walk through the narrow hall that leads to the stone staircase. It is not the first time since Casey kissed me that I have come back. I caress the rough hewn bricks to convince myself that all of it was not simply a dream.

Certainly, if Casey does care for me he would have made his intentions clear. Called on me. Written a note. I lift my hand to my heart as if mere touch could stop the pain. I long to say his name aloud, but I won’t allow myself to. Not again.

Instead, I force myself to say, “He does not care for you, Rebekah. You do not mean anything to him.” But hearing the words aloud wounds me and I begin to cry, allowing all the hopes of the last few days to torment themselves into agonizing sobs.

Martha finds me, weeping at the top of the stairs. She gathers me in her arms, cooing and promising me all will be well. “Is this about Mr. Rand?” she asks. “Mr. Casey Rand?”

I nod. Her lips purse and she shakes her head, then looks away. “Martha,” I beg. “Do you know something?” “Oh, miss,” she says, shaking her head again. Her eyes do not meet mine. “What? What?” I sound desperate, like a character in a Brontë novel.

Finally she shushes me again and tells me to follow her. I stand quickly, rubbing at my eyes. She leads me out the doorway into the chilly evening, across to the carriage house where she and Martin reside. I have never been in her residence.

It is a cozy setting, nothing grand like our parlor, but a small fireplace, and welcoming chairs. Martin sits beside the fire, puffing his pipe and reading the Minneapolis Tribune. His eyes open wide when he sees me, and he says his wife’s name in a low, scolding tone.

“Shh,” she tells him, but gently. She walks to the table, just beside Martin and picks up an envelope. My name is written in tight, little familiar letters. It is Casey’s handwriting.

“Miss Rebecca,” she hands the envelope to me. “Casey has called, but your mother sends him away each time.”

This can’t be true. Why would Casey not be welcome in our home? Could Mother possibly know about our stolen kiss?

“He left three notes with your mother,” Martha says, sighing deeply, as though it hurts to tell me this. “She asked that I burn them.”

“Burn?” I say the word with horror.

She nods. “I’m afraid I had to, my dear.” I almost think that she is going to cry. I glance at Martin, who looks unhappy as well. “This last note Mr. Casey gave directly to me, taking me into his confidence. So I will give it to you.”

I clutch the thick, cream paper, immediately turning back to the door. I must read Casey’s words. I must know what he is thinking. I turn back quickly to thank Martha and give her a quick hug, then exit the Carriage House.

Martha calls out and tells me to keep the note hidden, but that is clear. Mother, who demanded that Casey’s notes to me be burned, cannot know.

Finally in my room, I shut the door and lock it to ensure I will not be surprised. I run my finger along the letters of my name, almost afraid to read the contents. Finally, I can no longer bear it and I open the seal.

My dearest Rebekah,
There are things I must tell you. You and only you. We have to find a way to meet.
Casey

Thursday, March 3, 1904

I rub nervously at the coarse paper width of Casey’s letter, re-reading the much too brief missive.

There are things I must tell you. You and only you. We have to find a way to meet.

Why did he leave no instructions? No place? No time? No date? My thoughts churn.

There is a brief knock at the door and in a swift motion, Martha steps in. She looks upset, almost frightened. “Mr. Casey is here and would like a word with you, but I think your mother would object.”

“Casey’s here? At our house?”

“Yes, Miss.”

I jump up like a spinning top. “Martha, help me. I must put up my hair and change my dress.”

Martha insists there is no time. She rests a hand on each of my shoulders, and looks directly into my eyes. “Miss Rebekah, I don’t understand your mother’s sudden aversion to Mr. Casey, but I know it’s best to avoid her wrath. Come along quickly, you only have a brief moment. And,” she turns me around to face the dressing mirror. “You look quite beautiful, just as you are.”

Casey thinks I look lovely as well. I can see it in his eyes when he greets me. Martha brought me to the carriage house where I found Casey nervously pacing the width of the small parlor.

“Martin will be home at any minute,” Martha tells us. “I would prefer to keep this meeting just to the three of us.” She nods curtly, but before she turns away toward the kitchen door, I see the slightest smile.

The moment she is gone, Casey pulls me into his arms and kisses me. He is so brazen. He takes my breath away, both with his audacity and the intensity of our lips pressed against each other. I can feel his hands at my back, moving up to my shoulders, knotted in my long, flowing hair. He kisses my neck and whispers my name. “I missed you,” he tells me between butterfly kisses. “I wanted so badly to see you.”

When he pulls his arms away and steps back I move forward without thinking before my

thoughts and my modesty can catch up.

He smiles and raises his hand. “A moment. A moment to plan.”

I nod mutely. If I were to speak I’ve no idea at this moment what I would declare.

“I know how we can see each other,” Casey says, as he reaches for my hand. “I will walk Dick everyday at ten in the morning and then again at four in the afternoon. I’ll bring him to Fair Oaks. There I can look for you, over by the skating pond. Whenever you can slip away, do so and we will meet. We can speak. We can see one another.”

I nod agreement. Now that we have made a plan I think he will kiss me again and that is everything I can think of, but Casey continue, “I don’t understand your mother’s sudden distaste for our friendship.”

“Friendship?” I ask. “Is that what we are?”

Now he smiles, looking like the handsome man in the movies that father took us to at The Strand last fall. “I do believe,” Casey continues, “it has something to do with her being at our home every day.”

This is news. “Mother? At your house everyday?

“Yes, She was there when I left. That’s how I knew I could come to you.”

As I mull this news over, Casey adds, “She and Father are always locked away in his office.”

“I’d no idea.” Before I can say anything more, Marth bustles back into the parlor, her hands clapping like a schoolmarm. “Time to go now, Mr. Casey. You’ve had your visit.”

Casey smiles politely at Martha. He stoops over, as he is a good half a foot taller than she, and gently kisses her cheek. “Thank you my dear, Martha.” He grabs his wool coat, laid on the back of Martin’s favorite chair and looks deeply into my eyes and says only, ”This afternoon. At four.” And he is gone.

Monday, March 7, 1904 

I am unable to meet Casey as we had planned on Thursday afternoon, or Friday morning, or Friday afternoon, or any of the other mornings or afternoons that succeeded those. Mother has concocted the most outrageous activities to keep me occupied. I have been invited for tea with the elderly Loring family where they speak of nothing but the new promenade to be built; made to amuse the ill-behaved Walker grandchildren. I’ve been compelled to join Mother and William on his visit to Macalester College in St. Paul, and that was all before the sabbath. 

I wonder if Casey has been true to our plan and visited Fair Oaks each day at ten and four as he’d said. He has not been to our home. I’ve wanted to ask William if he knows why, but Mother is always about, so I never seem to find my brother alone.

However, this afternoon providence has changed my luck. As I sat scheming on the divan, making a mockery of my crochet with dropped stitches and tangled yarn, Mother dashed into the parlor, looking for her gloves. “Mr. Rand,” she said to me with agitation. “Poor, Mr. Rand.” 

I stood and reached out to grab her forearm. “Mr. Casey Rand?”

She stopped her frenetic movements to look at me, and her eyes were not warm. “Mr. Alonzo Rand,” she said in a tone full of vinegar. “His man came to tell me that the doctor has been summoned to his home.”

I let out a breath of relief and then immediately reminded myself to look worried on Mr. Rand’s behalf. But mother takes no notice. She found her cream leather gloves and called to have the carriage brought around.

Once she’s out the door, I scurry upstairs glancing at the grandfather clock on my way. I have just under an hour to dress then make my way to Fair Oaks to meet Casey. Finally.

Martha helps me re-tie my corset, which had loosened, and as she does I tell her I’ll need her to accompany me. She coughs extravagantly and tells me she is not well and instead suggests William. This is a wonderful solution, as my brother may be easier to distract. 

Martha sweeps my hair up in the popular Gibson Girl style, but she does seem distracted, because she allows a few messy, cocoa brown tendrils to escape, cascading over my shoulders. 

William is equally happy to flee the house and we walk briskly along Stevens Avenue. William moves quickly because he does everything quickly, his long legs are never still. I move rapidly because my feet keep pace with my feverish thoughts. I will see Casey. I will discover what has occupied him. I will tell him how Mother has occupied me.

The grounds at Fair Oaks are surprisingly quiet. One young family, a mother and two not-yet-school age children stand at the edge of the stream tossing in small rocks. A few older gentlemen gather in front of Mr. Washburn’s home, smoking pipes and leaning on walking canes. I do not see Casey.

I take a seat on the wrought iron bench and tell William I’d like to rest for a moment. He agrees, but his youth will not allow him to keep still. He wanders to the pond and tosses stones like the children.  

I look around, hoping to spot Casey. And then, I suddenly realize my foolishness, his father is ill. How could I have thought he’d be able to meet today?

I feel a tear at the corner of my eye, but I shake my head, I will not allow myself to be sad. I tell myself it is a lovely, bright, sun-in-the-sky late afternoon. No one and nothing calls me at home, just more needlework. I close my eyes and tilt my face toward the sun. Enjoy this  moment of solitude, I think. Enjoy the good weather and the luxury of following my whims.   

Something wet touches my cheek and my eyes snap open. In front of me is a huge, slobbery, hairy face. “Hello, Dick,” I cry, trying to pet the massive dog, while also trying to avoid any more drippy kisses that smell like lifeless fish. 

“You came,” Casey says, and I hear the tremor of excitement in his words. He tugs me to a stand, then drops my hand quickly, but steps close, whispering my name. For my part, I am too thrilled to respond at all. Finally, I catch my breath enough to point toward William. 

He nods that he sees him, then leans close, telling me all his bottled up musings, “I’ve missed you.” “It’s been too long.” “I thought you might never be able to meet.” 

William spies him and dashes over to join us. I wonder if William will notice our paired jittery energy, but he only greets his friend heartily and suggests we all walk over to the footbridge. I remember to ask after Casey’s father. “Is he desperately ill?”

“Father?” he asks. “It’s nothing. He turned his ankle. A day or two of rest and he will be fine.”

“But my mother —” I say. 

“Your mother,” Casey says, shaking his head. He glances at William, then turns away, begging us to speak of other things. He asks what we thought of visiting colleges in St. Paul. 

William answers as though the question were only asked of him. He will go East for school, as I did when I attended the Masters School in Dobbs Ferry. “I forgot you were in New York,” Casey says, turning back to me. “Father wants me to go East as well.” 

William reaches out for Casey in a jokey motion, “Then we can be brothers, fraternity brothers.” 

The unexpected move startles Casey and Dick, who takes advantage of his master’s slack hand and races across the park.

“Oh no,” William shouts. “I’ll get him.”

We watch William run back on the path, following Dick over the footbridge and along the stream. 

Casey grabs my hand, “Come with me,” he says, leading me to a little used path that winds behind the greenhouse. From here we can not see any other people. 

Casey takes hold of my free hand. “I will have to thank Dick for his well-timed exit. I’ll give him two servings of dinner.”

I laugh. We face each other directly now, no cautious side glances. His blue eyes shine, his soft red lips catch in a half-smile. 

“Rebekah, I want you to know, going East for school is what Father wishes.”

He bends, just slightly, and almost unconsciously I rise on my toes. We are so close, and then he pauses. The word, please, forms in my mind, echoing over and over, but I do not speak. I squeeze his strong hand, and raise higher on my toes. 

Then Casey tells me, “I have decided on the University of Minnesota, because I want to stay here. Near you.”

His name catches on my lips, but when he leans in and brings his lips to mine, I’m too adrift to even say his name back. The sweet wetness of his lips feels like fire to me. I feel my lips open more fully, and his tongue licks along my upper lip. I feel a trembling I’ve never known. He drops my hand, then winds his strong arms around my back, pressing me to him. 

As close as we are, pressed tightly into each other, it is not enough and I wrap my arms around him, as well. My lips open wider, sensing that I want something more, but not knowing what exactly that might be.  

A loud bark startles us and we pull apart. Afraid William will discover us, we walk quickly back toward the main park. But it was another dog, a large jowly Bulldog. 

I can see Casey catch his breath. I guess, like me, he’s trying to will himself back to the reality of this early March afternoon. “I wonder if Dick ran home?”

I laugh, “With William chasing him.”

He smiles back at me. “I guess we should go help.” 

I do not need to tell him I’d prefer to stay right here. I know that he knows this. I know he feels the same.

But we begin walking, conversing easily again, as if our moment near the greenhouse had never happened. We make it all the way to Casey’s street without any William or Dick sightings, but we do see the warm glow of the Rand’s parlor light dancing out to the road as we round the corner. 

Once we reach the front walkway, I can see Mr. Rand seated on the divan reading the newspaper with his foot propped up. Casey says the doctor insisted he keep it elevated as much as possible. But Mr. Rand is alone. No large dog at his side.

I tell Casey that after we check in the house I will need to hurry home so Mother isn’t anxious.

I take a step forward and Casey points through the window, “No need to worry. Your mother is still here, nursing my father.”

I see that she has stepped into the room, but something about her strikes me as different. It takes me a moment to realize that her hair is down around her shoulders. She never wears it this way, only just before she sleeps. She carries a cup, probably tea. With the evening taking on a chill, I’m sure Mr. Rand has requested it. She sets the cup and saucer on the table beside him, and then mother sits, not on the divan, or on the chair across the way, or even on the settee where Mr. Rand’s foot is propped. Mother seats herself directly on Mr. Rand’s lap, turns to face him, winds her fingers through his curly black hair, and then my mother leans over and kisses Casey’s father. 

I cry out as though I’ve been struck and fall down on one knee, an awkward, painful position. Casey kneels in front of me and wraps an arm around my shoulder. He whispers something in my ear, but all I can hear is pounding.

“Let me see,” I say, more forcefully than I mean to. Casey helps me up.

It’s dark outside, so we can not be seen, but the light from the parlor makes it look as though Mother and Mr. Rand are actors in a play. Although mother, sitting perched on Mr. Rand’s lap is much too risqué to ever be shown on the stage at The Orpheum Theatre or any of the playhouses on Hennepin Avenue.

Mother holds Mr. Rand’s cheek with one hand and winds her other through his hair. Mr. Rand’s hands caress mother’s unbound hair, shaking it into long flowing curls down her back. His hands snake down to the mother of pearl buttons at the back of her blouse, undoing them one by one.

My stomach turns and I feel queasy, but I’m not able to look away. Casey steps back in front of me. “Please Rebekah, please let me take you home.” He pulls at my hand, and his touch -- warm and secure -- feels so strong that I allow him to lead off the portico and down the stairs.

Back on the street, he wraps his arm around my shoulder. I want to turn back and take a last look, maybe my mind has tricked me. But Casey’s firm grip guides me, not allowing me another glimpse.

It takes a moment before my tongue unties, but then I tell Casey that Mother never looked at Father the way she looked at Mr. Rand.

“I know,” says Casey. “I know.”

He says I am shaking and he pauses to take his jacket off. Just as he’s wrapping it around my shoulders, Casey is shoved from the back, nearly knocking him over. If he’d fallen I would have toppled me like a domino, as well.

It’s Dick, so happy to see his owner and still loose. His leash trails him. A half block behind runs William, struggling to catch up.

William is thrilled to see us and has many angry, even vulgar words for Dick. Casey berates him, “Not in front of your sister.” But I do not care. I’ve heard Willam curse before. What troubles me are the horrible images of Mother. Should I tell William what I’ve seen? No, not yet. There’s still a part of me that thinks my clever imagination fabricated the entire scene. While my thoughts rumble about like a tornado, I hear the boys speaking. William tells Casey he will walk me home and I hear in Casey’s answer that he is trying to contrive a reason to continue on with us.

“My coat,” he says finally. “Rebekah is so cold. I’ll come with you so she can wear it all the way home.”

Good. That is settled. I need to speak to Casey and if he leaves now it will be hours, possibly days until I see him again. But William intervenes. “I am sure she can make it across the street without freezing.”

Casey looks hurt, and I know it’s not William’s words, but my brother does not. “There’s no need to trouble yourself,” he says kindly.

Casey looks at me, his blue eyes pleading for a reason to stay. But my thoughts are too jumbled for me to be of any help. He reaches down to remove his jacket from my shoulders and whispers in my ear, “I will slip away tonight and come see you. Can you unlock the door to the stone cellar?”

I nod as he removes the jacket and then I follow William, shivering, only in part, from the cool evening air.

* * *

Martha sees that I feel ill and suggests I take dinner in my room, a recommendation that I gladly accept. Along with some Swiss cheese, thick white bread and tea, she brings up a hot water bottle, even though the evening is balmy for March.

I know that I fall asleep quickly, but later, long after the hot water bottle has cooled, and the night is a deep midnight blue, I wake and remember Casey’s promise. I light my bedside candle and sneak downstairs.

I do not like walking around the grand house in the dark. There are too many rustles and clanks and rumbles to identify. I hold my candle up to the clock and it’s nearly eleven. I’ve likely already missed Casey. But I press on.

I walk down to the basement trying to ignore the creaks of a house that sound so frightening in the night and the underground smells of earth and mulch. I tramp through the long dank hallway, then back up the stone steps and unlatch the door.

By the time I finish the task and rush back to my bedchamber, my heart pounds and tears fall onto my cheeks. I am scared of the night, of the dark, but mostly of the ugliness of seeing Mother so compromised.

I fall asleep again, but wake to a glint of sun and a whisper. Casey kneels beside my bed, calling my name softly. “I couldn't sleep. I was too worried about you.”

“Oh Casey,” I’m so happy to see him. I climb out of bed. I wear a loose night dress, my hair cascades all around my shoulders. Last night, I did not even brush it out before bed. Casey, in my bedroom, alone with me. If Mother were to find us, I think, but then a shudder of anger courses through me. Mother. Mother and Mr. Rand.

Casey pulls me into his arms, kissing my forehead, my temple, my cheek. Kissing my lips. “My poor Rebekah. My beautiful Rebekah.”

“What shall we do?” I ask him between kisses, my arms still wrapped around his waist. “We have to go to her. We’ll confront her with what we’ve seen.”

“I think you need some time first,” Casey says, his hand still pressed against my back. “We both do. Let’s think through things for a day or so.”

I consider this. In the silence, Casey strokes my hair. “My god, you are so lovely,'' he tells me. “Like an angel fallen earth.”

“What would I do without you? Without your strength? And I didn’t even think to ask how upset you are? It was your father as well as my mother.”

He shakes his head to indicate it's nothing to him, not a difficulty. “But you must have been as shocked as me.”

Before he can answer, we hear a gentle knock on the door. “Good morning,” Martha calls, “Breakfast is on the table.”

Now Casey looks scared. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “She’ll knock at William’s door, then go to help Mother in her bedroom. We have a few minutes.”

Casey turns to the door as if to make sure I am correct, but we can hear the thick soles of Martha’s boots clomp away down the hall.

Casey will have to sneak from my room and use the back staircase to leave the house unseen. But not yet. I pull him back into my embrace and he leans down, his kiss gentle at first, then tighter, warmer, more demanding. “Oh, Rebekah,” he says.

“You are so good to have come to me,” I tell him. “I know you’re suffering, too.” I feel his grip on me relax just a little. I lean back so I can see into his eyes. There’s something in that look. The way he looks past me. The way his lip curls as if he’s tasted something unpleasant. A nervous energy in his hand, tapping his fingers along the crocheted yarn of my blanket.

“Casey,” I say suddenly, “Did you know? Did you know about our parents?”

March 10, 1904

I am in the parlor because Martha told me if I did not get out of bed today, she would insist Mother call the doctor. I have no idea if Mother would actually follow through, since she has only visited my sick bed two or three brief times since Tuesday morning. On each of those occasions, I turned to the wall, I had no words for her. 

Martha has been the one to bring cool compresses when I am overheated and warm water bottles when I feel chilled. She also smuggled three notes from Casey, but I refused to accept them, not even allowing her to open the envelopes. 

Casey knew that our parents were — I can hardly think of a word for it — smitten, maybe, with each other. Tuesday morning, when I guessed that he had known of their attachment, he looked at me with the same eyes Dick employs when he has run away and been caught in the neighbor’s yard terrorizing their cat. 

Suddenly, William bolts through the front door with Casey just behind him. I turn my head away but Casey rushes to my side, bossing William, telling him he must go upstairs. Maybe because Casey is a year-and-a-half older or possibly because he sounds so imposing, William listens. 

“Mother will be down in a moment,” I tell Casey, without any greeting. “She cannot find us alone.”

“Rebekah,” he says my name slowly, his lips curing into that handsome smile that I have no wish to see. “I know your mother is at my house, nursing my father.”

I did not know this. I shake my head, feeling on the verge of tears. 

Casey falls down on one knee, and reaches for my hand, but I pull it away. “Please Rebekah,” he begs. “Let me explain. 

  “What could you possibly say?” 

He is on both knees now, he opens his hand toward mine, so that it will be my choice if I allow him to hold it, but I keep my hands at my side.  

“I want you to know — to understand,” he says softly, “that for me, I can not remember a time when my father did not love your mother.”

“That cannot be true.”

He is silent for so long that I think he will stand and leave, and although I still feel fury that he knew of our parents, but did not tell me, in truth, I don’t want him to go. I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay. “Casey, what can you mean by that?” 

He breathes deeply, and then he reminds me that his mother passed away when he was just five years old. “Our house was filled with so much sadness. And it wasn’t so long before that father had lost six members of his family all in one day.” Both his parents, two sisters (aged 25 and 17), a brother (aged 15), and a cousin died in the Minnie Cook Disaster on Lake Minnetonka. Including four others on the boat. 

I had almost forgotten all the tragedy the Rand family had faced.

He gently reaches for my hand once more and I allow him to take it. “When my father is in your mother’s presence, he has a swifter step, an easy smile. And yes, I have been happy for him to have some comfort. But when we came upon them in the house, I had never seen them touch each other that way. And it broke my heart for you to have seen it.”

He lifts himself from the ground, so he can sit beside me. “I should have told you in these past weeks, but please understand, my whole childhood, nearly all I can remember, my father has always been in love with your mother.” He turns to me, and right in our parlor, where anyone might enter at any moment, he kisses me. His soft lips on mine, his hand threading through my hair. He leans back, “And now, finally, with you, I understand this feeling of love.” 

Friday, March 11, 1904

Casey knows my mother’s whereabouts better than I do. This afternoon, he came to the house on the pretext of borrowing a botany book from William and when my brother rushed upstairs to retrieve it, Casey stepped to my side, and speaking quickly, informed me that my mother and his father are planning an overnight visit to St. Paul tomorrow. “They are attending a ball at the Hill mansion.”

Then Casey laid out a plan. With our parents each making preparations for the gathering and the overnight visit, he wants us to sneak out of the house tomorrow and take the streetcar out to his cottage on Lake Minnetonka, the neighbor to our summer place, Beltres. 

“Who would chaperone us?”

“No one,” he whispers, glancing at the stairs where we last saw William scamper away. “We will pretend we are a young married couple.”

I shake my head. “That would never work. Could never work.”

“Even with this?” From his pants pocket, Casey pulls a stunning, petal shaped diamond ring set in a filigree rose gold band. He presses the ring into my hand, telling me it belonged to his mother. Then he reaches back into his pocket and slips out a slim chain in a matching rose gold. “Mother used to wear the ring around her neck. If you wear it this way, everyone will see and assume we are married.”

“We would be caught,” I protest, but I cannot stop gazing at the stunning ring. 

Casey insists that on a cool spring morning hardly anyone will be headed west toward Lake Minnetonka. “With the ring clearly visible, everyone will think we are husband and wife.”

“A young married couple,” I say so breathlessly I’m not even sure Casey will hear, but he nods agreement. And although I still think his scheme will likely not work, I do agree to meet him tomorrow morning at the Fair Oaks and Franklin streetcar stop. Before we can say any more, my brother bounds down the stairs and lands beside me, holding the book out to Casey. 

Casey looks at it for a moment as if he forgot the purpose of his visit, then he thanks William and takes his leave. When I’m alone with my brother, William asks what I am clutching in my hand. “Just a trinket,” I tell him. “From when I used to play dress up.”

Saturday, March 12, 1904

At breakfast, Mother informs me she will be gone all evening in St. Paul. She does not mention Mr. Rand and I pretend that this is the first I have heard of her outing. William also has plans. He and one of the Dayton boys will attend the baseball game at Macalester this afternoon. William has been shouting Go Scots all morning and pretending to throw pitches and catch fly balls until he rams, full force into the piano and Mother orders him upstairs to the ballroom where he can play his pretend games without destroying our furniture. Neither Mother nor William think to ask me what I might do in their absence. 

When Mother, accompanied by Martha, retires to her room to pack for the ball and the overnight visit, I scrounge around the kitchen and collect picnic food. I find some cheese, sausage, and cornbread that Martha cooked yesterday and stuff it all in a gunny sack. On my way out of the pantry, pushed back into the corner I spot some of Father’s Grain Belt Beers. Mother does not like the malty taste, so I know these will not be missed. I wrap up four bottles, stuffing them to the bottom of the sack.

Miraculously, Casey’s wild scheme works. We arrive at his cottage after a long streetcar trip and a brisk mile walk with no one the wiser. 

Our first few moments are awkward. Although we have been alone before, we have always been in a rush knowing that soon we would be interrupted, so there was no time for shyness. But now, with the long afternoon ahead, I am not sure where to begin, what to say. 

Casey sets to work on the fire, promising I will be warm soon. His job, getting last year's logs to light, is more difficult than mine, setting out our picnic. And so, I find a cloth and arrange our food, open our beers and drink nearly a third of mine as Casey pokes and prods at the fire. I believe he is nervous too, because the fire crackles and burns long before he turns back to me. But I enjoy watching his agile movements and the way his hand pushes through his thick, wheat-colored hair. 

By the time he does turn to me, I have already removed my coat and pulled out my hair pin which had been poking the back of my head. I can never fix the clips as well as Martha can. 

Casey sits across from me and takes a long sip of his beer. “What a feast,” he says. As we dine, we laugh about our bold scheme and how well it all worked. We have both finished our first beers and opened our second, when the fire dwindles a bit. Casey reignites it, tossing in old issues of last summer’s Minnetonka Sailor newspaper. But when he comes back to our picnic, instead of sitting across from me, he sits beside me, wrapping his arm around my waist and nuzzling my ear. “It really does feel as if you are my bride. My beautiful bride.” He winds his hand through my hair then leans even closer, kissing me as gently as if I were a delicate piece of china that he must protect. 

His lips are so welcoming, I pull myself tighter into his embrace, wrapping my arms around him. I like how he smells, like a summer campfire, and how he tastes, a delicious combination of cornbread and beer. 

Either from the kisses or the beer or both, I feel lightheaded. I start to wonder if it is just his lips that taste so good. I dart my tongue into his mouth and discover that all of Casey tastes heavenly. 

He pulls me tighter and breaks our kiss to mummer my name. But it is difficult to sit as we are, side by side. Soon Casey pulls me onto his lap so that I am astride him. To accomplish this, I must hike my skirt up. A day ago I could never have imagined myself entwined this way, but alone in our cozy, warm cottage, I feel completely at ease. 

The rekindled fire must be stronger than when Casey first lit it, because I suddenly feel much too warm. I pull back and scratch at the high neck of my blouse. Casey’s blue eyes stare deep into mine, as if he’s asking me a question, and then without a word he reaches to the back of my neck, unbuttoning my blouse. His hands are nimble, and in the work of a moment he frees me, lifting my cotton shirt over my head. Now I wear only my brassiere above my skirt, but I do not feel ill at ease. I lean in to press myself against him. His kisses are so urgent I can not separate where I end and where he begins. His touch makes me quiver. Nearly without thinking I begin unbuttoning his shirt. Every part of my body feels as though it is exploding. There is a warmness and a want that I have never before experienced. 

Casey reaches behind my back once more and unhooks the brasserie so that there is nothing but skin touching skin. He lays me back and now he is the one straddling me. His kisses trail from my lips, down my neck, my throat and then his soft lips linger at my breast, his tongue flicking against the pink center.

I have never felt such a sensation and I make a sound unlike any I have made before, like a cat trilling.  

“Am I hurting you?” he asks. 

“No, I say. “No. No.” 

But Casey sits up. The spell between us breaks and he pulls out his watch from his coat pocket. 

“Rebekah, it’s so late. We need to leave now or we’ll miss the last streetcar back.”

“Not yet,” I insist. But he shows me the watch. 

“We’ll come back soon,” he says. “I promise.” 

The preparations to dress, put out the fire, and close the cottage took longer than expected, so Casey and I rush to the station, but we laugh and hold hands the entire way. Our intimacy has forever changed and bonded us together. 

We reach the station in time. I go to the large picture window looking out at the beautiful lake. The trees are beginning to bud and I can see some shoots of grass pushing up from the winter ground. After Casey purchases our tickets, he joins me at the window, his strong warm hand reaching for mine, our fingers intertwine. 

I am so caught up in the warm memories of our afternoon that I startle when I hear my name from the other side of the station. “Rebekah?  Rebekah Semple?” 

I turn, unclasping Casey’s hand as I pivot. The woman looks familiar, but I can not place her. She is quite old, deep wrinkles at her forehead and around her eyes. Her skin looks weathered as though she has spent many Lake Minnetonka summer days in the sun. She glares at us, looking pointedly at the spot where our hands were clutched together just a moment ago. 

“Mrs. Pillsbury,” Casey says. “How are you today?” 

“You’re the Rand boy.” She recognizes him, but her greeting is as cold as this late March afternoon. She looks us both up and down. I see her eyes take in the wedding ring, still at my throat. “I will call on your mother this week, Miss Semple,” she places particular emphasis on my title.

And then the streetcar arrives. Mahala Pillsbury takes the front seat. Casey and I move further back, but sit on opposite sides. Each of us stares out the window the entire trip home, not speaking one word to each other.

Wednesday morning, march 16, 1904

  I woke this morning well rested, which I ascribe to falling asleep with Casey’s name on my lips. Additionally, it has been three days since Casey and I had the misfortune to meet Mrs. Pillsbury at the Lake Minnetonka train station, but the wizened old woman has yet to make good on her promise -- her threat -- to come speak with Mother. 

Neither Mother nor Mrs. Pillsbury was at church on Sunday, and now, Monday and Tuesday’s calling hours have passed without a visit. I have checked the silver filigree tray in the front hall at least a dozen times to be certain I did not miss her, but no calling card has appeared. Maybe she has forgotten all about our chance meeting. 

Martha announces breakfast, then leans in close to me, “You will eat a little more today, won’t you Miss Rebekah? I am quite worried.” 

I promise that I will. In the last few days, I have hardly been able to stomach any food. I have subsisted on only a few nibbles of toast with jam, scalding hot cups of Earl Grey tea, and Johnson’s Digestive Tablets with papaya extract, Martha’s favorite cure-all. But with three days come and gone, surely if Mrs. Pillsbury planned to tattle to Mother, it would have happened by now. 

After breakfast, where I devoured both a bowl of oatmeal and a fried egg, I came upstairs to dress for the day, and pause to sit on the bed, thinking decadent thoughts of Casey.

It strikes me that Mother is always quite occupied in the mornings, so she is not likely to come looking for me. Neither are Martha or Martin, their morning tasks keep them much too busy. I step to the door and shut the latch on my bedroom door, before I undress, slipping off my blouse and skirt, then my petticoat and corset cover. Then, I burrow underneath my heavy winter quilt. 

I indulge in thoughts and memories of Casey. His last words to me on Saturday as we clasped hands on the portico entrance, were a promise that everything would be fine. Before he rushed across Franklin Avenue, he gave me a quick peck at my temple and a hurried squeeze around my waist. I watched until he made it across the street and into his home, turning back to me to blow a kiss. I have not seen him since. 

I let my thoughts wander back to a much more passionate kiss, as we lay in front of the warm fire at the cottage. I remember how his lips tasted, how he wrapped his arms around my waist, our bare skin pressing against each other. His kisses trailed down my throat, down to the bare skin of my chest, and then his tongue darted out to meet my tender, pink skin. 

I am so taken with memories of him, that I discover my own hands reaching under the sheets, gently touching the skin he had touched. And then, as if they belonged to another, my hand moves across the plane of my stomach, to my hip, and then lower to where I have never touched before. I think only of him as my fingers rub gently, and I repeat his name again and again.

My breath comes in quick bursts until suddenly a knock startles me and I pull my hand away from that feeling of deep need and about to be realized pleasure. 

“Miss Rebekah,” Martha calls. She sounds upset. She tries to open the door. “Miss Rebekah, why is your door latched? You must come downstairs right away.” 

“Coming,” I shouted, although I was not. “One moment. Just one moment.” 

“You must hurry,” Martha says, her voice sounding thin and tinny. “Your mother wants to speak with you right away. Mrs. Pillsbury is in the drawing room.”
 

Sunday, March 20, 1904

We are of four opinions. 

Mother insists that Casey and I may not become betrothed until at least one month after I am presented at my debutante ball. Further, she refuses to hold the dance until the mourning period for father ends. But by then, late August, the social season will have concluded. Mother has anointed the Saturday after Easter for my coming out ball — in 1905. She even drew a large circle around the date, April 29, on the desk calendar in the parlor. 

Mr. Rand also believes that we must wait to become engaged until after my introduction. However, he proposes that we schedule my debut this year since the end of the social season is less than a fortnight before the end of the mourning period.

Casey contends that since we are to be married, there is no reason at all for my formal coming out into society. He wants to immediately announce our engagement and begin planning our nuptials. 

I have listened in silence as the three of them negotiate. I now believe it possible that with all their bickering, they may eventually settle on my desired plan without me even having to say a word. I’m buoyed in my resolve because I know Father wanted me to have an extraordinary debut. 

The very first time I ever laid eyes on our Grand Ballroom was just a few weeks before we moved into the house, right after I turned thirteen years old. Father brought me along when he made his final inspection of the fireplaces. After he finished with the masons, he took my hand and led me upstairs, walking carefully because the mahogany handrail had yet to be sanded or polished.

At the third floor landing, my first view of the ballroom nearly took my breath away. I could not believe such a magnificent room even existed, much less that it belonged to us. Crystal chandeliers with cascading gems sparkled in the afternoon sun, hanging from the tallest ceiling I’d ever seen. It popped up in the center like a church vault.

Elaborate fresco paintings covered the walls, and I ran around the room, gaping at all of them until Father pointed to the mural on the south wall of a lovely girl in a sky blue gown, strumming a harp. An angel perched on her shoulder. “A wonderful likeness, don’t you think?” Father asked. 

I considered her chestnut hair and her cherry blossom pink lips. “Is it me?” 

Father nodded. He’d sent my portrait to the painter in Italy, before the man even sailed here. How many hours have I spent since that day studying that young woman? I believe she resembles me even more as I age, as if the artisan could imagine the woman I would become. 

I asked Father if one of the other beautiful fresco paintings was of Mother and he said yes, and pointed to a huge stained glass window, nearly twice as tall as me and so wide that if both Father and I spread out our arms, we still wouldn’t touch both ends. The stained glass flowers, especially the large one at the center, reminded me of Calla Lilies at their peak of beauty. 

“Mother’s favorite flower,” I said.

“Yes. Your mother chose the design when we went to New York. Do you remember that trip?’”

I nodded but I don’t think Father noticed. He was so caught up in the memory. “We met with Louis Tiffany himself. He drew the first rendering that very afternoon. Told your mother he’d create a window as iridescent as she was.” Father didn’t say anything more for a very long time and then suddenly he grabbed my hand and four-stepped me around the room, while he hummed. When we both were out of breath he kissed the top of my head and said, “One day, Becks, I’ll waltz you around this floor while every young man in Minneapolis declares you the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on.” 

Recalling that sweet moment, makes my eyes well and I dab my handkerchief to dry my tears. I want a magnificent debutante ball, just as Father had wanted for me. 

So, I am in agreement with Mr. Rand that my coming out ball should be held in August. I concur with Casey that our wedding announcement shall be formal, but I would like it to occur at Christmas or possibly the New Year. And, like Mother, I believe just after Easter next year is perfect for a big event, but I believe it should be our wedding.

I will be Casey’s wife, and in the meantime, why deny myself the delight of being presented, feted, admired?

Casey’s father sees me dab my eyes and kindly declares we are at an impasse and should take up the discussion another day. He stands, reaching his hand down to Mother. “Let’s leave the children to have a few moments before Casey and I return home.” Then he leads Mother up the steps toward the second floor sitting room, a spot they would have never chosen prior to the brouhaha at the train station. But since then, Mother and Mr. Rand have been quite open about their affection for one another. These new demonstrations bother me much more than they do Casey, but then his Mother died so long ago, he barely remembers her.

The rules for Casey and I being alone together are quite different. We may visit one another at our homes but we are not allowed above the public rooms of the first floor. 

With Mother and Mr. Rand occupied, Casey sidles up next to me and nibbles my ear, whispering that soon we will be man and wife. “We can practically count the days,” he says, stroking my cheek. 

I turn to meet his kiss. At first, our touch is soft, almost shy, as though our lips must be reacquainted. But in the work of a moment, Casey wraps his arms around my back and he parts my lips with his tongue. The sensation of him claiming me is so intoxicating that I cry out. 

“Shhh,” he whispers, but his smile is as wide as the Mississippi River. He stands and tugs my hand, leading me away from the parlor. We sneak into Father’s office and Casey shuts the door behind us. “You are so beautiful, Rebekah,” he says, brushing my hair from my face and pushing me back against the door. 

I do not wait for him to kiss me. I stand on my tiptoes and pull him to my eager lips. Every sensation of his touch — his chest against me pushing my back into the wall, his lips pressed against mine forcing them apart, his hands gripping my waist, rubbing up and down my rib cage awakens me. We kiss with abandon. I cling to him as tightly as he clutches me. And as intense as his touch is, I want even more. I place my hands over his which are currently at my waist, and guide them higher, up my ribcage. The touch of his fingers is like fire. I move his hands higher, until finally his fingers gently cup my breasts. I am so overheated I feel as though I could rip off my starched muslin blouse. 

Casey pulls away from me. “I can’t wait much longer,” he says, breathing hard as though he has just run a great distance. “Even a month is too long.” 

I don’t have an answer so I step forward, closing the distance between us once again. We kiss and then he trails his lips down my neck. “Don’t make me wait, Rebekah. I beg you.” 

I hear myself whispering yes, repeating it over and over. But Casey mistakes my acquiescence for the date of our nuptials rather than my consent to his kisses and caresses. 

He pushes back. “Shall I speak to father tonight? Demand that we be allowed to announce our engagement?”

“No,” I say in a rush. “Not announce our engagement.” 

Casey's eyes open wide and I read his confusion, followed in a rush by disappointment. I spoke too quickly, too harshly. I soften my tone. “I think it will be best if I agree to a coming out ball. Just to appease Mother. As your father said, we can set the date for August.”

“August?” Casey backs away, out of my reach. “For your debutante ball? We would hardly be married before the end of the year.”

“True,” I say, rubbing my hands along the nobby wool of my skirt. “But, Casey, there’s no need to rush. We have our entire lives.” 

He turns away from me and steps toward father’s desk. Absent-mindedly he picks up father’s daily diary. Instinctively, my hand reaches for it. I don’t believe anyone has touched Father’s date book in these last weeks and I feel protective of the worn leather journal. “Casey,” I start, but I run out of words. 

“I am surprised. I thought you wanted to be married to me as desperately as I want to be married to you.”

“I do. Of course.” I assure him. “We will be. But we can also have a season. Imagine being the dashing young couple envied by all of Minneapolis and St. Paul society.”

He takes a shallow breath, then shakes his head, not so as to disagree but more to show me that he understands my wishes. “I didn’t realize that is what you want. I will not fight you.” He carelessly sets the diary back on the desk and walks to the door. “I think I’ll go home now. Will you let father know, please.”

I ask him not to leave but he insists that it is getting late and he must take Dick for a walk. He kisses my cheek, but not with ardor, more like a brother and whispers, “Time deceives us, my dearest Rebekah. Remember, there is nothing more fleeting than time.” 

To be continued…