Where We Belong Read online

  “Yes, but . . . do we dare dine in Paris all alone? Our headmistress says that young ladies should always be accompanied by a chaperone—”

  “I’ll bet our headmistress has never had a day of fun in her life.” They passed through a small plaza and saw trees in the distance. “Look, Flora. That must be the famous Jardin des Tuileries up ahead.” Excitement quickened their pace.

  “Oh, but this is beautiful!” Flora gushed after they’d crossed Rue de Rivoli and entered the grounds. Acres and acres of green grass filled the huge garden, intersected by walkways and dotted with fountains and statues and reflecting ponds. People of all ages—some well-dressed and some in simple clothes—strolled the grounds or picnicked on the grass, all of them enjoying the glorious afternoon. Rebecca and Flora happily blended in with the Parisians as they walked the width of the park to the Quai des Tuileries on the Seine, then sat on a bench enjoying the view and the boats drifting by. After resting they walked a little farther, and Rebecca thought she spotted the famous monolith from Egypt poking above the trees.

  “Look, Flora! I think that’s Cleopatra’s Needle from the Temple of Rameses II in Thebes. We read all about it, remember?” They followed the pathway along the length of the park until they came to the seventy-five-foot obelisk, covered with hieroglyphs. Flora circled it twice, gazing up in awe.

  “I can’t even comprehend how old this is!” Crowds jammed the broad Champs-Elysees ahead of them. It resembled a fairground, with so much to see and do that Rebecca didn’t know where to look first. The hours flew past as they watched jugglers, a puppet show featuring Punch and Judy, and listened to musicians giving impromptu street concerts. They joined circles of curious onlookers to watch games of chance and see tricksters relieve the unlucky of their money. Rebecca didn’t want the day to end. Rather than satisfying her hunger for adventure, it created an insatiable appetite for more.

  “How long do you think we’ve been gone?” Flora asked when they reached the far end of the park. She resembled a flower that was starting to wilt, her fair skin turning pink from the sun.

  “I don’t know . . . an hour or two?” Much longer than Rebecca had ever intended to be gone.

  “I think we should go back to the hotel now,” Flora said. “I would hate for Father to worry.”

  Rebecca believed that retracing their steps would be easy, but she soon learned that the streets of Paris weren’t laid out in a neat grid like Chicago’s streets, nor were they well-marked. When they passed a doorman standing outside one of the many identical apartment buildings, she asked him for directions to Rue des Capucines, where their hotel was located. After walking an interminable distance, she discovered he had mistakenly directed them to Boulevard des Capucines instead. The afternoon sun had disappeared behind lowering clouds, and crowds no longer filled the streets. Rebecca’s fear increased when she noticed three young men following them, laughing and making rude gestures and calling out to them. Rebecca grabbed her sister’s arm and marched faster as a light rain began to fall.

  “What are those men saying?” Flora asked.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think our French teacher taught us those phrases.” But she knew enough about the world to guess what their intentions were. Rebecca knew she was plain-looking, with a broad, square face like Father’s. But Flora was innocent and attractive with fair hair and a slender figure—and Rebecca was responsible for her safety. She glanced around for a policeman but didn’t spot one. Adding to everything else, the sky suddenly opened up and poured rain. She wanted to stop and take shelter beneath an awning, but if she did, the young men would surely catch up with them.

  Rebecca didn’t want Flora to know how worried and lost she really was, or her sister would never trust her on an expedition again. Yes, she’d been foolish to march away from the hotel on her own, but now it was up to her to lead them both out of it. Think, Rebecca! Think! The only weapons she had were her wits and common sense. And prayer. She whispered an apology and a quick prayer for help, and it seemed to be answered just as quickly when she spotted a small café on a side street.

  “Do you have any money, Flora? Let’s get out of this rain.”

  The café was very crowded, filled with the happy babble of French, the sound of clinking china, and the aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke. After waiting several minutes, they managed to find a tiny table for two near the front window and ordered pastries and steaming cups of café au lait. As Rebecca sipped the hot coffee, she drew an imaginary map in her mind of all the places they’d walked and soon realized her mistake. They had hiked too far away from the garden. She recalled crossing only two side streets between the hotel and the Rue de Rivoli. They needed to backtrack, toward the Tuileries.

  “We’re lost, aren’t we?” Flora said.

  Rebecca couldn’t meet her gaze. “Yes, and I’m very, very sorry. But it’s only temporary. I know where I made my mistake, and as soon as the rain lets up, I’ll ask for better directions, and we’ll find our way back. Will you forgive me for getting us into this?” She looked up at Flora again, waiting.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, reaching for her hand.

  Rebecca would get them out of this predicament. She would! As she gazed out at the streaming rain and darkening sky, she glimpsed her reflection in the window and began to laugh. No wonder the men had followed them. She and Flora resembled scruffy urchins, not respectable young ladies from a distinguished family. Their hair was dripping and plastered to their heads, their coiled braids falling from their pins. Their soaked shirtwaists stuck to their skin, and their skirts were so drenched they could have wrung a bowlful of water out of them. She hoped their shoes weren’t ruined. “What’s so funny?” Flora asked.

  Rebecca gestured to their reflection. “Look at us!” Flora began to laugh, too.

  After asking the waiter for directions, Rebecca paid the tab and set out with Flora once again. Thankfully, the rain had slackened to a drizzle. The three strangers had tired of their pursuit and disappeared. And after only a few minutes of walking, Rebecca found the right street and spotted the awning of their hotel ahead.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it?” she asked Flora.

  “Until we got lost. And those men started following us. And we got soaked.” Her usually good-natured sister sounded peeved.

  “But it was an adventure, Flora. And remember, we can’t have an adventure without expecting some sort of trouble. Besides, we proved once again that we can get around fine on our own, didn’t we?”

  “Are you going to tell Father we got lost? And that those men followed us?”

  “Why would I do that? It might upset him, and he needs to stay calm and get well. Besides, they didn’t do us any harm. Let me do all the talking when we see him.”

  When the doorman spotted them, he launched into such a furious scolding in French that Rebecca couldn’t possibly follow it all. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur?” she asked, baffled as he gestured at them dramatically. He huffed and pointed his white-gloved hand toward the hotel lobby where their father was standing. He was out of bed at last, but he was gripping the back of a chair to steady himself as if still sailing the high seas. He looked very pale, but whether from vertigo or anxiety, Rebecca couldn’t tell. His shoulders slumped visibly with relief when he spotted them, and he sank into the chair he’d been leaning against.

  Flora ran to his side and hugged him, leaving a wet patch on his shirtfront. “I’m so sorry if we worried you,” she said.

  “We got caught in the rain,” Rebecca said, lifting her soggy skirt from her thighs.

  “So I see.”

  “We had to take shelter in a café for a while. I’m very sorry, too, Father.”

  “The doorman told me you left the hotel some time ago, but he hadn’t seen you return. I was growing concerned.”

  “The afternoon seemed too nice to spend indoors—at least at first,” Rebecca said. “And we didn’t think you’d want to go for a walk with us. Are you feeling well enough to do s
ome sight-seeing tomorrow? Flora and I have the day all planned.”

  “Well, yes . . . I’m somewhat better. I’m glad you’re back.”

  As Rebecca had hoped, Father chose to view them as little adults who didn’t need babysitters and chaperones instead of as foolish young girls who never should have wandered the streets of Paris alone. Now she needed to make amends with Flora before she ruined everything by spilling all the worrisome details of their afternoon. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said, taking Father’s arm and helping him from his chair. “Flora and I could use a warm bath. Do you want to go first, Flora?” she asked as she pulled the few remaining pins from her dripping hair.

  “A bath sounds wonderful.”

  Flora shared their father’s forgiving nature. All would be well once Rebecca earned back her sister’s trust. She sighed with relief as she climbed the stairs to their suite. Her next adventure already beckoned.

  Chapter 4

  THE ATLANTIC

  1860

  Rebecca held one of her father’s arms and Flora the other as he stumbled along the passageway aboard their steamship home to America. Just outside their suite, an elegantly dressed woman was struggling with the lock to her cabin next door. Rebecca was eager to get Father to his bed and bucket. But ever the gracious gentleman, Father paused to ask, “Would you like some help with that?”

  “Oh, that would be very kind of you,” the woman replied. “I can’t seem to get this key to work.” Father was able to open it on the first try. The woman’s thanks were so profuse he might have unlocked the door to King Solomon’s treasures. When she finished gushing with praise, she extended her gloved hand to him. “I’m Priscilla Worthington.”

  “How do you do? Edward Hawes, and my daughters, Rebecca and Flora.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Flora said, while Rebecca simply nodded, eager to get her father to his bed.

  “Traveling can be such a challenge, Mr. Hawes, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Worthington asked. “Especially when one is all alone, as I am. You see, my husband, George Worthington, passed away a little more than a year ago.”

  “My condolences,” Father said.

  She smiled up at him and touched his arm. “Thank you. I went to Europe for a change of scenery after my year of mourning ended, and I’ve been touring with my brother and sister-in-law for the past six weeks. They decided to stay behind in France for another month, leaving me on my own—with this wretched lock!”

  “Your courage is commendable, Mrs. Worthington. I didn’t have much interest in travel after my wife died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” The widow touched his arm again, managing to inch closer through the brief physical contact. She was younger than him by about ten years and must have spilled an entire bottle of French perfume all over herself because she reeked of it. Rebecca had to pinch her nose to avoid sneezing.

  “My daughters wanted to see the world,” Father continued, “so I decided the time was right.”

  “Where do you call home, Mr. Hawes?”

  “We live in Chicago, Illinois.”

  “Why, what a coincidence! I’m also on my way home to Chicago. I won’t keep you any longer, but I do hope we’ll have a chance to speak again on this trip. Perhaps we have a few acquaintances in common. I’ll look forward to chatting with you, possibly at dinner one evening?”

  “Father can’t eat dinner,” Rebecca said. “He suffers from seasickness. He can barely move from his bed while we’re at sea, let alone eat dinner.” She hoped to end this conversation and discourage the widow from bothering them further by pointing out Father’s weaknesses. But rather than being repelled, the widow’s eyes brightened.

  “I used to suffer from seasickness, as well. You wait right here, Mr. Hawes. I have something that I’m certain will help you.” She returned with a supply of mysterious powders, insisting that he try them mixed with water, along with a little tin of what appeared to be candy. “It’s crystalized ginger,” she explained. “It does wonders to settle the stomach when one chews on it.” Father promised to escort her to dinner that very evening if her remedy worked.

  Her cure turned out to be nothing short of miraculous, and Rebecca was grateful to the widow at first. If Father was cured, he would be able to travel anywhere in the world. It seemed only fair that Mrs. Worthington join them for dinner since Father was finally able to eat, thanks to her. But like a stray dog that keeps coming back once you feed it, the widow clung to their wealthy, distinguished father like mortar to bricks.

  What followed in the succeeding days was a masterpiece of seduction on the widow’s part. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she made the most of her assets—including an ample bosom—in ways that made her seem attractive, especially to the opposite sex. The way her fair skin contrasted with her dark hair, the endearing tendrils that dangled on her blushing cheeks, the way she tilted her head as she gazed up at Father in adoration—it all gave her that helpless, feminine appeal that otherwise-sensible men seemed to fall for. One week into their ocean voyage, the widow and Father were conversing as if they had known each other all their lives, calling each other Priscilla and Edward. Rebecca battled jealousy, unaccustomed to having a rival for her father’s attention. Would they have to put up with her all the way to Chicago?

  “Just our luck!” Rebecca grumbled as she and Flora sat in the sunshine on the passenger deck. They were reading books and watching people stroll past—including Father and the widow, who had her hand comfortably locked in the crook of his arm. “Why did her stateroom have to be right next to ours? I wish she’d leave Father alone.”

  Flora barely looked up from her novel. “Just be glad he’s no longer below deck with his head in a bucket.” She was reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin and seemed mesmerized by it. Rebecca had brought the novel along to read on the journey over to France, and now Flora couldn’t seem to stop reading it on the way back.

  “I wonder what’s in those magical powders of hers. She has him completely under her spell.”

  Flora made a vague acknowledgment and turned the page, continuing to read. Rebecca watched as some of the other first-class passengers paraded past. There was the dour Scotsman with the straight posture who took tiny, huffing steps when he walked. And the elegant French woman who was as tall and languid as a greyhound and seemed to glide on the deck as if skating on ice. A woman from Germany with braided gray hair marched around and around the deck all day, frowning as if she were required to hike all the way to New York. Why couldn’t Father have struck up a friendship with one of them?

  “I once read a fascinating article about female spiders,” Rebecca said. “The webs they spin are nearly invisible so they can trap unsuspecting insects and eat them as prey. One species, ironically called the black widow, eats the male spider after they’ve mated.”

  “You need to stop reading such strange things. It plays on your imagination.”

  “Well, I don’t like Widow Worthington. I don’t like the effect she’s having on our father.”

  Flora looked over at her in surprise. “You’d rather he was lying ill belowdecks?”

  “No, of course not. But why does she have to spend every spare minute with him? And she’s always clutching his arm like it’s a life preserver and she’s about to drown.”

  “I’m happy for him,” Flora said. “He’s been a widower much too long.”

  “If he wants to remarry, he should wait until we’re gone.”

  “Gone? Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know about you, Flora, but I plan on traveling around the world after we finish school. Maybe live in some exotic place. I was hoping Father would take us on more trips now that he’s cured, but I certainly don’t want her tagging along—medicine or no medicine.”

  “We won’t graduate for a few more years, Becky. A lot can happen in that time. You’re worried about nothing.” Flora returned to her book.

  Rebecca watched several married couples parade past. None of the pairs looked particul
arly happy. “Speaking of what can happen, Flora, have you ever noticed that all of the sighing and hand-holding and gazing into each other’s eyes vanishes after a few years of marriage? It’s not the way love is portrayed in a romantic novel.”

  “I never paid much attention. . . .” Flora mumbled without looking up.

  “You don’t think Father will be foolish enough to marry the widow, do you?”

  “Of course not. They only met a week ago.”

  “But what if he does?”

  “So what? Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness?”

  Rebecca put her hand over the page of her sister’s book to get her attention. “We don’t know anything about her, Flora. What if she’s after his money? Widows do that, you know. Imagine how horrible our lives would be with a stepmother. We’re too old to be mothered, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re worried about nothing. Father is a very sensible man. And the widow doesn’t look as though she needs anyone’s money, judging by her clothing and the fact that she’s been touring Europe.” She pushed Rebecca’s hand out of her way. “Now, stop bothering me. I’m reading a very exciting part.”

  Rebecca tried to return to her own book but couldn’t concentrate. She kept recalling the way the widow rested her slender fingers on Father’s arm whenever she wanted to command his attention and how she laughed at everything he said, no matter how trivial. Her leg seemed to conveniently press against his when they sat together. And worst of all, Father seemed to enjoy the attention. He had rarely seemed so animated. Thanks to Widow Worthington, the color had seeped back in his cheeks again, in spite of the sometimes turbulent ocean voyage. Yes, the Black Widow had trapped him in her sticky web.

  “I like our life the way it is,” Rebecca said as she opened her book. Father had purchased it in a wonderful little bookshop they’d found in London. The owner had recommended the volume, saying it was creating a big stir in intellectual circles and newspaper editorials ever since its publication last year. Curious, Father bought it to see what all the fuss was about. On the Origin of the Species by Means of Natural Selection, written by an English naturalist and geologist named Charles Darwin, was subtitled or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life. Father usually enjoyed reading scientific works, but he had strongly disliked this one.