Sunflower Sisters, page 6
“What is this?” Mother asked.
“Everyone gives them, Mother,” Hatty said. “An ardent suitor etches his initials into a Liberty dime.”
Mother sat back from her press. “Seems ruinous to the poor dime, if a simple declaration of love would do.”
I continued bandaging. “I’ll not accept any such thing from Frank Bacon. And please don’t encourage him or I assure you he’ll be disappointed.”
All at once the door opened and Stanislaw Moritz stepped in, doubled over, Eliza’s Goyard trunk strapped to his back with a fat leather belt.
“It is I, Stanislaw Moritz.”
Hatty stood and ran to him. “Moritz!”
We were all happy to see Stanislaw Mortiz Von Schulman, Eliza and Joe’s manservant, including little Pico, who jumped up at him like a circus dog, expecting a morsel of the dried tenderloin or desiccated liver Moritz kept in his satin-lined vest pockets. Half German and half French, Moritz was infinitely kind and doted on us all. A small, well-muscled man, he often carried Eliza’s oversized trunks on his back, much as an ant carries a crumb three times its weight.
Behind him came Eliza, done up in a traveling dress of apple-green silk moiré. She wore the perfect little lacquered straw hat, ribbons down the back, and held a bouquet of lilacs, their stems wrapped in cotton wool.
I rushed to her. “Heavenly day, I’ve missed you. So much has happened.”
“You’re a nurse now! I’m terribly jealous, Georgy. My nursing training has consisted of bandaging and holding hands.”
I linked arms with her, breathing in her scent of lily-of-the-valley and sweet country grass. “Are you still keen to try find a nursing post together?”
“Most keen.”
“Good. I’ve scheduled your training with Elizabeth Blackwell herself and I know she’ll adore you. I’m to tutor you as well.”
Eliza squeezed my arm with hers. “Could this be more exciting? Joe’s regiment will be encamped near Washington—west of Alexandria at Cameron Run.”
“Perhaps we can request a Washington post.”
“And follow Joe? That would be splendid, Georgy.”
“Let us all share Eliza,” Mother called, from her lint press.
With one hand Eliza removed her bonnet and handed it to Moritz.
“You would begrudge me one minute’s conversation with my best friend?” I asked.
“A sister can’t be a best friend,” Carry said.
“In this case, she can. That is my place in this family, let us be honest. Eliza Woolsey Howland’s best friend.”
“Will you all come out to see Joe’s Sixteenth Regiment march off?” Eliza asked. “You won’t believe the flag I’ve had made by Tiffany for them. A fine indigo blue with gold lettering. Joe says his men are overjoyed to march with it.”
“Where is the famous Joseph Howland now?” Mother asked.
Eliza stepped toward Mother. “I left my dear husband in Washington Square with the regiment, seeing to last details. He has asked for a cookery book, can you imagine? To make gruel and stew.”
She offered the lilacs to Mother to breathe in. “They’re the last of them from Tioronda.”
Moritz spirited the bouquet off to the kitchen and Eliza sat, her lovely skirt puffing out as she descended.
“Glorious war,” Carry said as she straightened the bandage on her arm.
“They leave by transport ships for Elizabethport—and from there by rail to Washington.”
“If only we could accompany them,” I said.
Eliza smoothed Mother’s hair back from her forehead. “Joe tells me the young boys back up in Fishkill have organized a company and are drilling under the name of the Howland Guard.”
Mother turned from her press. “Perhaps they should be called Mrs. Howland’s Guard.”
All at once the front door opened and our brother, Charley, bounded in carrying a long, white box.
“Hi ho! Look who I’ve brought.”
Fresh from the train station with Dr. Frank Bacon, Charley stood tall in the front entry. At twenty-one years old he stood taller than Father had, more like Mother’s Newton family, lanky and broad-shouldered, with two clouds of blond muttonchop whiskers and Father’s bright, inquisitive gaze.
Frank came to stand next to Charley. Steady, safe, and a good fellow, Frank looked his usual self, mildly distinguished in his blue U.S. Army greatcoat, with his silly little king’s beard, black leather French medical bag in one hand.
We rose to greet them and both men pulled off their hats.
“How is the splendid Woolsey family of New York?” Frank asked.
The son of Leonard Bacon, the colossal, cloud-bearded New Haven pastor who occupied the most conspicuous pulpit in New England, mild-mannered Frank had inherited little of his father’s magnetism.
Charley handed me the white box. “From Frank.”
I lifted the box lid to find two bunches of long-stemmed red roses.
“Thank you, Dr. Bacon. Very kind of you.” I whispered to Eliza, “I shall miss not him, but only the roses.”
Mother pulled the box from my arms and handed it to Margaret. “Do get these a drink and a fresh cut, dear.”
Carry helped Frank remove his coat and revealed quite a nice government-issued uniform, probably tailored by his lovely mother, a deep blue frock coat with two rows of gold buttons down the front, dress trousers, and black boots.
Frank Bacon stepped to me, twisting his hat in his hands. “Georgy, I thought we might take a turn around the block, before the ball tonight. I’m sure I’ll lose you there to every man in New York.”
“But—”
“Pico does need a walk,” Mother said. “Perhaps you two could take him?”
“Capital idea,” Frank said.
I sent Mother a dark look and reached for Pico’s leash. “If he can accomplish his business quickly.”
Frank assisted me down the steps to the sidewalk and we’d stepped barely ten yards along when he abruptly halted.
“You may be worried about me going off to war, Georgy, but I assure you medical officers do not draw fire.”
“I’m not worried, Frank.”
“I’ve often wondered where your affections stand. When you presented me with bay rum soap last Christmas, I dared hope—”
“It was a friendly gift, Frank; the proceeds went to Carry’s orphan asylums. I simply enjoy the scent.”
“And I never even returned the favor, so caught up with work. I know I haven’t been the most devoted suitor, and last time we discussed this I didn’t have a tangible evidence of my feelings—”
“We’ve been over this, Frank.”
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a silver coin no bigger than my thumbnail and offered it to me on his palm.
I leaned in to examine it. “A token, Frank?” Engraved with an F and B entwined, it was a lovely little coin, quite well done.
“Do I need to bore you with the details of my attachment one more time? We are meant for each other, Georgy, I’m convinced of it. Thought you might wear a physical indication of my deep regard.”
I closed his hand around the sweet gift. “It is lovely, Frank, but I’d be dishonest if I accepted it. I don’t want to misrepresent my affections. And with you joining your regiment and my head full of nursing curriculum, it’s not a good time to consider a pre-engagement.”
He slipped the coin into his pocket. “At a later date, then?”
“Let us get Pico back, Frank. I’ll teach you to knit. And you’ll help us get to that benefit ball sooner.”
* * *
—
We hurried to dress for the ball, our maid Margaret lacing, buttoning, and tying us into our finest, and we made it to Hotel Brevoort just as the last carriages arrived. One of the most fashionable hotels on lower Fifth Avenue, the Brevoort had stood a stone’s throw from our town house, at the northeast corner of the intersection with Eighth Street, for the last seven years.
We came by foot, all seven Woolsey sisters, with our brother Charley, Joe Howland, and Frank Bacon bringing up the rear, each of us carrying a paper carton of items to donate to the U.S. Army troops.
As Abby groused about the necessity of having to buy new gloves for such an event, and Jane bossed us all about, we passed the sidewalk opposite the hotel, which stood teeming with citizens waiting to view guests arriving for the ball. Carriages rolled to the hotel entrance, and ladies sprang from their doors, sparkling with diamonds and awash in lace, and the crowd shouted with happiness.
Dressed in our own best silk dresses, cashmere shawls, and more paste than precious jewels, we entered the frantic promenade into the hotel ballroom. Mary had made us each a Union ribbon, resembling a red, white, and blue bull’s-eye, and we wore them with pride, pinned to our chests. We gasped at the canopy formed of star-spangled banners, the walls draped with patriotic silk, all lit by two enormous chandeliers. We admired Eliza’s magnificent flag she had commissioned for Joe’s regiment, the deep blue field with a golden eagle atop the regiment’s crest, as it hung with the other regimental flags on the ballroom wall.
We joined the parade of gowns, slowly melting into that bouquet of rustling beauty, and breathed in the scents of the fragrant roses and lilies lavished upon tables and doorways, plucked from the Empire State’s best gardens and hothouses. We passed the mountain of blankets, sheets, socks, and other war supplies deposited by the guests near the dance floor in a heap and added our offerings.
As a patriotic quadrille played, we gathered around our beloved mother, petting and arranging her ribbons and sleeves, each of us wanting our time with her.
Mother took in a glorious spray of tulips and narcissus. “The hospital should have so many flowers.”
Hatty tucked a lock of Mother’s hair back under her little white cap. “It is a party, Mother. We’ll take them to Bellevue tomorrow.”
I scanned the crowd and recognized Frederick Law Olmsted, ringed by a throng of admirers pushing their way to meet him, their champagne flutes held high. He was a great celebrity at the time, known for his work on the Central Park, and the previous day had been featured in the newspaper, having been appointed head of the Sanitary Commission.
I pulled Frank Bacon aside. “Frank, you know Mr. Olmsted. Would you be a dear and introduce us?”
“To pester him for a Washington post for you and Eliza?”
I turned my gaze toward the crowd. “We simply want to serve our country, Frank.”
Frank looked to Olmsted. “He’s the toast of New York right now. But I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and headed into the crowd.
It took some time, but Frank Bacon finally returned to us, the man of the hour in tow. “May I introduce Mr. Frederick Olmsted from Connecticut, on his way to Washington?”
Upon closer inspection, Mr. Olmsted was a slight, balding man with a bristle-brush mustache and a pleasant yet efficient way.
Frank made a sweeping gesture toward Mother. “Mrs. Woolsey. The heart of this glorious family. Brought up in Cameron Run, Virginia, by her Aunt Ricketts.”
“Of Ricketts Flour?” Mr. Olmsted asked.
“The very one. And Mr. Woolsey was a New England merchant. Headed his own prosperous company until his untimely death over twenty years ago.”
“Charles Woolsey of Boston? I knew him by his excellent reputation.”
Mother curtsied. “Oh, Mr. Olmsted, we do continue to enjoy your park. What a triumph.”
“I meant it to be a botanical garden, but, without the budget for that, opted for more park than garden.”
“For once I am glad of an inadequate budget, Mr. Olmsted, for it is perfect as is. It must have taken a legion of workers to complete such a project.”
He smiled. “Four thousand, actually. It was originally mostly swamp.”
Frank made a grand gesture toward us. “You’ve met Joe and Charley, and Mrs. Woolsey, but let me introduce the Woolsey sisters, whom I’ve known since they first beat me at jacks. Allow me to start with Abigail.”
Abby nodded, blinking as if caught in the light, not used to such attention, and pulled her shawl closer. Taking after Mother’s side of the family, with her piercing blue eyes and strong brow, Abby gazed at him, her face without a trace of rouge or powder. After extreme pressure from us all, she’d relinquished her black silk and wore her only smart dress, a gay blue silk.
“Abby is the Woolseys’ firstborn and the head matron of the Ladies’ House of Industry, a place for the less fortunate to learn a trade. So far they’ve fitted out half the Union army. Not a fan of dancing, Abby would much prefer to be at Cooper Union in the front row of an abolitionist speech. And do not attempt to play a game of checkers with her, for she is a master of it and will swear you off the game forever.”
Frank continued down the line. “Jane Woolsey.” Jane made a lovely slow curtsy, dressed in a costume of her own making, the peach silk almost liquid in the lamplight, the perfect color to complement her red hair.
“Jane keeps the child welfare books for the Colored Orphan Asylum and acts as nurse in the clinic there, and Mr. Stewart’s department store considers her one of their best customers of bonnets and gloves, after Mrs. Lincoln.”
Jane’s garnet earbobs swayed, catching the light. “Wearing a well-made wardrobe is a patriotic duty, Dr. Bacon. The government needs revenue from the importation of ribbons and lace.”
Mr. Olmsted smiled. “Indeed, Miss Woolsey.”
“And may I introduce Mrs. Robert Howland. Mary to us.”
Mary stepped to Mr. Olmsted in her gentle but intimate way, blush rising in her cheeks, and offered her gentle hand. “An honor to meet you, Mr. Olmsted. I accompany my daughters to your park almost every week.”
Mr. Olmsted seemed quite taken by her and no wonder, for Mary was known as the prettiest of the seven Woolsey sisters, and was once described by a friend as “a flower with a soul in it.” She looked especially stunning now, in her morning-glory-blue dress, which showed off her white shoulders, and with creamy freesia artfully arranged in her dark hair.
Frank continued. “Mary assists her husband, the rector of the Church of Heavenly Rest on Fifth Avenue, and has raised untold sums through organizing their bazaars, and is an accomplished painter and poet.”
Mr. Olmsted smiled. “Is there no end to these sisters’ accomplishments?”
“Next comes Mrs. Joseph Howland—Eliza, wife of Joseph Howland here, who is cousin to Mary’s Reverend Howland. Our Joe is about to march off tomorrow as adjutant to the Sixteenth Regiment New York Volunteers. Eliza sees to the sick up in Fishkill, New York, at their estate, Tioronda.”
Eliza stepped to Mr. Olmsted and offered her hand. She wore her new lilac silk, her dark hair center-parted and drawn back into a low chignon. Light glinted off the gold locket containing a curl of Joe’s great-grandmother’s hair tied at her throat.
Mr. Olmsted accepted her hand and seemed in no hurry to let it go.
“What a gift you’ve given us, Mr. Olmsted,” she said in her quiet yet inviting way, which made any new acquaintance step closer to hear more. “When we were in London last year, all they could talk about was your park. You are the toast of the Continent.”
It was Mr. Olmsted’s turn to blush.
Frank led Mr. Olmsted along. “And next we have the two youngest, thick as thieves at all times. Hatty, just back from Italy after charming all of Venice.”
Hatty in her new black mantilla, dark eyes downcast, performed a graceful curtsy.
“And here next to her, the youngest Woolsey sister at twenty-three and her partner in crime, Carry, who can be found most days at the Colored Orphan Asylum or the Bloomindale orphanage up on Seventy-third Street reading to a lapful of parentless children. She just graduated from the Agassiz School in Cambridge, Massachusetts, top of her class.”
Carry extended her hand to Mr. Olmsted, who shook it in a brisk, paternal way. She stood a hand taller than Hatty and wore Eliza’s old ecru silk, which fit her just fine with an extra ruffle around the hem.
“There were only six in my class, but thank you for the compliment, Dr. Bacon,” Carry said, a decided coolness in her manner. “And, Mr. Olmsted, Hatty and I have had a rather personal connection to Central Park.”
“Really?” Mr. Olmsted asked.
“We spent many days there passing leaflets about the demolition of the free Negro-built town there, which made way for the park.”
“Seneca Village?” Mr. Olmsted asked.
“Three churches destroyed. Good, taxpaying people displaced with no compensation for their land.”
Mr. Olmsted turned his full attention to Carry. “We’ve tried our best to relocate those we found it necessary to resettle.”
Carry stepped toward Mr. Olmsted. “There are still hundreds not recovered from their rapid displacement.”
Frank clapped his hands. “Perhaps we should move on to dinner—”
Mary set her hand on Frank’s sleeve. “But, Frank, you seem to have forgotten our Georgy.”
Frank turned to me. “How could I make such an omission?”
I reached out my hand to Mr. Olmsted and took his, warm, in mine. “It is a tremendous pleasure.”
Frank came to stand by me. “I was twelve when I first met Georgy, at archery camp, where she threatened to wound the poor instructor, after he called her a show-off for making a bull’s-eye first try.” He looped his arm through mine and gazed upon my face. “Tolerance is not one of her virtues, but extreme kindness is. And don’t ask her to play the piano or speak about her behind her back—”
I unhooked my arm from Frank’s. “And I just completed a nursing course at New York Hospital.”
Carry stepped forward. “She knows how to bandage a fractured clavicle. Trained with Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, the first woman doctor, herself.”
