The Purple Nightgown Read online

  “Not really.”

  “The company’s in good hands. I’ll present your ideas. No need for a young lady to involve herself in matters of business.” The black-and-white barrier rose to hide his face.

  Stella shook her head. That was the end of it? She trusted Uncle Weston, of course, but the yearning to play an active role in the company her father had built ached in her chest. Surely she could do more than select fabric swatches.

  Hartsell stepped beside her with a sterling silver serving dish of scrambled eggs. Steam curled its tempting finger in the air, but Stella shook her head. “Just tea this morning, Hartsell, thank you.”

  The butler’s eyes narrowed, his bushy black brows nearly blocking them from view. “This isn’t another one of your wellness endeavors, is it, Miss Burke?” His rich voice wrapped her in an auditory embrace.

  “What if it is?” She nudged the china cup painted with violets to the edge of the lace tablecloth.

  His gaze softened. “Then I hope it helps.” He poured tea into the cup with a smile.

  “How’s Greta feeling?” Stella waved away the cream and sugar Hartsell offered. His wife suffered from consumption, and the last news Stella received had been bleak.

  Hartsell’s smile faded. “Nothing to worry you about, miss.” He cast a glance at Uncle Weston, who answered with a stern glare over his paper.

  Stella’s heart sank. An answer like the one Hartsell had given couldn’t be the harbinger of good news. She rested her hand on the butler’s then gave it a squeeze. “I haven’t stopped praying.”

  His unsteady smile bespoke gratitude.

  She pulled her shoulders back, sitting like the proper lady her uncle wished her to be while sipping her tea. The headline of her uncle’s paper caught her gaze.

  SUFFRAGETTES PUSH GOVERNOR JOHNSON FOR RIGHT TO VOTE

  “May I see the front page if you’re finished with it?” The right to vote. How wonderful that would be.

  Uncle Weston lowered the printed pages full of happenings in parts of the world she might never see. His graying mustache twitched. “You don’t want to be bothered with this boring folderol.” He jerked his chin, indicating the latest issue of Vogue. “That might interest you.” He returned to his paper.

  Stella flipped through the fashion magazine, blood simmering. Why did he assume the latest styles would be more enticing than California giving women the right to vote? Perhaps she should join the suffragettes. She grinned. That would show him she was more than ribbons and bows. Her gaze caught on a hat modeled by a woman who shared her light complexion and dark eyes. How pretty. Her fingers traced the sweeping brim and the garland of roses. Maybe she didn’t despise ribbons as much as she wanted to. She dog-eared the corner of the page for later inspection.

  Hartsell cleared his throat, drawing her attention from the magazine. The butler held a silver tray bearing an envelope with familiar handwriting. Her chest fluttered as she took the letter. She checked the time on the grandfather clock in the corner. If she hurried, she could read the letter before meeting Henry for her drive.

  “Please excuse me.” She sprang out of her chair, tipping her teacup on the table. Her uncle glanced over the paper, his eyes a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. She’d never live up to his expectations. She grabbed her napkin off the floor where it had landed and began mopping up her spilled tea.

  “Let Hartsell take care of the mess.” Her uncle’s voice was firm.

  Stella righted her teacup, thankful it hadn’t chipped. “It’s no trouble.”

  Uncle Weston cleared his throat and pinned her with an unrelenting gaze that reminded her of her place. “You’re a lady, and it’s high time you started acting like one. I invited a young man to dinner tonight, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. Don’t embarrass me.” He shook the paper. “And Hartsell can clean up the tea.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and tears smarted her eyes.

  She cast an apologetic glance at Hartsell, nearly bursting into tears at the sight of his knowing smile. He didn’t mind her scattered ways like Uncle Weston did, and he’d never say such crushing words. Though she strived to please her uncle, somehow she always fell short.

  Letter in hand, Stella climbed the staircase, the joy of reading its contents dashed. Still, she opened the drapes, flopped on the bed, and tore the envelope’s seal. After Papa’s funeral, a stranger had sent his condolences. She’d read his letter at her life’s lowest point, and the genuine care and encouragement his words had provided left her a little less woebegone. After writing back her thanks, the correspondence between them had continued.

  She slid her hand under her pillow and pulled out a crinkled envelope. Every letter he’d sent her since had contained a pressed flower. She shook the packet’s contents onto the bed. Cherry blossoms, daisies, pansies, and violas. Their scent had long expired, but the simple, heartfelt gifts stirred longing in Stella’s chest. The person who may be her best friend on earth never signed his name to the messages he sent. If his haphazard handwriting was any indication, the writer was a man. But that was all she could make out. She shook her head. What kind of ninny didn’t even know the name of such a close friend?

  When she pulled the folded paper from the envelope, a pressed violet dropped into her hand, its petals vibrant. God had really created something beautiful when He spoke violets into existence. The intricate purple channels, carved through a creamy center, pointed to the golden-yellow fuzz that held everything in place. She sighed and raised it to her nose. Her imagination provided the delicate scent of the flower Henry had given her yesterday at the beach. How had her unnamed friend known she’d need his words of encouragement today? But he always knew. His replies to her letters never failed to bring relief. How could he know they would coincide with her headaches and frustrations?

  With violet in one hand and letter in the other, Stella rested her head on her pillow, reading the pointy, jagged handwriting she’d grown to love.

  Henry could wait a few minutes.

  Chapter Three

  The steering wheel vibrated beneath Henry’s fingers, and gravel crunched as he pulled the automobile to the mansion’s front door. Relief loosened the muscles in his shoulders at the sight of the empty porch. Thank goodness he hadn’t kept Stella waiting. He killed the motor, hopped out, and folded down the leather top of the 1911 Stanley Touring. She’d appreciate the freedom of the wind in her hair. Hopefully a headache wouldn’t cut their time short again.

  He polished off a smudge on the green paint with his sleeve. Never had he imagined driving a car like this. Although chauffeuring for a family of means hadn’t been his dream, his plans would keep until Stella married and no longer needed him. After all the time they’d spent together, he couldn’t leave her. Not yet.

  But the image of Stella walking down the aisle to meet one of the jack-a-dandies her uncle introduced her to planted a sick feeling in his gut. They wouldn’t appreciate her. Not like she deserved. As he tightened his fists, his leather gloves groaned. If only things could be different. But even if he saved for years, he’d never have enough money squirreled away to make her a tempting offer of marriage. Besides, he was nothing more than an employee in her eyes.

  He checked his timepiece. It wasn’t like her to be late. Perhaps she’d received his letter. A smile pulled at his mouth. She’d needed a friend after her father passed away, so he’d sent her a note, posing as an equal. Guilt stabbed him. He’d never planned on the letter exchange lasting so long. Just one note to assure her she wasn’t alone. When she responded, he almost told her the truth, but the smile on her face and the lifting of her spirits spurred him onward. Now the whole situation was like a runaway buggy. He’d tell her … one day.

  The front door opened, and she stepped onto the porch, a basket in hand. Sunlight gleamed off the dark curls that peeked from beneath her hat. A breeze tugged at the pink roses and gauze adorning the brim. She flashed a brilliant smile.

  His confession could wait.
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br />   “Feeling better?” He opened the automobile’s door.

  She paused before climbing in, smile growing. “Much better.”

  Was her excitement the result of his letter? He swallowed the tingling in his throat as he closed the door behind her.

  “I’m so glad you put the top down.” She fiddled with the finger of her glove. “It’s a perfect day.”

  “That it is.” He cranked the motor then slid behind the wheel. His coat pocket crinkled, and he pulled out the newspaper article he’d saved for her. “Thought you might be interested in this bit of news.”

  When he reached into the back seat to hand her the newspaper clipping, their gloved fingers brushed. His chest ached, but the lack of emotion on her face proved she didn’t share the sensation.

  She scanned the headline and bit back an excited grin. “Can you believe women might get the vote here in California? I’ll be the first woman at the polls come election day.”

  “I’m sure you will be.” He worked the clutch and accelerator until the motorcar lurched into action. Stella’s hand on his shoulder froze him.

  “Can we make a stop in the Mission District? Ethel just had a baby, and I have a gift for her.”

  His gut clenched. “I’m not sure your uncle would approve. If he finds out—”

  “He won’t.” Stella adjusted the basket on the seat beside her.

  Henry tipped his hat. “The Mission District it is.”

  Stella reclined into the leather seat behind Henry, the article in her hands. Her swimming vision lingered, though the worst of her headache had faded. Reading the letter had further weakened her eyes. Maybe Henry would read the article to her when they stopped at the beach. She pulled off her elbow-length gloves and relished the cool May air on her skin. If only she could remove her shoes, but while taking them off posed no problem, the multitude of buttons made putting them on without a buttonhook nearly impossible.

  The mansions of Nob Hill gave way to the tenement buildings of the Mission District. Children played hopscotch along the walkways, babies cried, and frazzled mothers did their best to console them. A crew worked on the cable for a trolley scheduled for operation later in the year.

  Henry pulled to a stop at the front steps of Ethel’s building. “I’ll come along.” He held open her door. “You shouldn’t be alone in this part of town.”

  She’d been here many times since meeting Ethel at the soup kitchen where she volunteered. The woman had needed help preparing for her child’s arrival, and over the last weeks, there hadn’t been a hint of danger. Though Stella couldn’t tell Uncle Weston for fear he’d make her give up the friendship, Ethel had impressed Stella with her sunny smile in the midst of gloomy circumstances. The woman was truly an inspiration. Pity Ethel’s husband didn’t value her as such. But it was just like Henry to worry. If something happened to Stella, Uncle Weston would have Henry’s job. “If you insist on coming, you can carry the basket.” She extended the gift, and he took it by the handle.

  A dog yipped from somewhere down the sidewalk and children laughed and shouted. A red-haired boy ran across her path jabbing a rolling hoop with his stick, and she stepped aside to avoid a collision.

  Henry grasped her elbow and helped her up the steps. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

  Why was he being such a baby? “We’re fine. Her door is on the left.” Stella gestured with her hand. In the corridor, the mingled scent of sweat and rancid meat brought the familiar swirls at the corners of her eyes. When she glanced at her hand and wiggled her fingers, it was as if she watched someone else take charge of her movements. An infant’s wails prodded the dormant ache behind her eyes. Lord, please, not again.

  Why wasn’t the fasting working? Though she’d barely started, shouldn’t she notice some difference? The optical light show faded but left anxiety pricking her stomach. Nothing helped. It was only a matter of time before she’d need to curl up in bed with the drapes drawn and a pillow over her head.

  Henry rapped on the door, and the screams from inside the apartment intensified. Stella squeezed her eyes closed, breathing deep and praying the pain would remain manageable.

  The door swung open, and Ethel, baby crying against her shoulder, answered. The exhaustion in her blue eyes shamed Stella for focusing solely on her own struggles. At least when she was hurting she could go to her room and sleep undisturbed. Poor Ethel looked like she hadn’t shut her eyes since the child’s birth a week ago.

  “Let me take him.” Stella reached for the weeping bundle. The scent of sour milk clung to the pitiful little boy, and she swallowed the nausea building inside her.

  Smiling, Ethel relinquished the baby, gratitude smoothing the lines under her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Burke. Stanley hasn’t been home in two days. Says little Roger keeps him awake.” She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her stained apron. “Keeps me awake too, but Stan doesn’t care.”

  “I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

  The baby’s cries diminished to sniffles, and he drifted to sleep in Stella’s arms.

  “It’s a blessing just to have you here, and little Roger must like you.” Ethel smiled, but exhaustion killed the cheery expression.

  Rocking the baby back and forth, Stella caught Henry’s eye then glanced at the basket. He held it out to Ethel.

  “We brought you a gift.” Stella laid Roger in the bassinet in the corner, careful to make no sudden movements.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Miss B—”

  “Stella.” She smoothed Roger’s downy hair. “Friends don’t bother with formalities.”

  “I suppose not.” Ethel wiped her hands on her bodice and took the basket from Henry. “But you really shouldn’t have.”

  “I absolutely should have.” Stella grinned as Ethel removed the basket’s covering. “You just had a baby, so you should be spoiled.”

  Ethel pulled out a pair of blue knit baby booties, one remarkably bigger than the other.

  “Jane tried teaching me to knit, but I’m not a very apt pupil.” Stella eased into the chair beside the bassinet and rocked it with her foot. When she glanced at Henry, she found him gazing at her with an odd expression. A mixture of admiration and amusement reflected in his eyes. Her cheeks caught fire.

  “They’re perfect.” Ethel caressed the uneven stitches as if she held the Holy Grail.

  “The rest is for you.” Excitement sizzled in Stella’s nerves. Ethel worked hard. She deserved something pretty.

  As Ethel pulled a pale pink dress with lace trim and a sash of dark pink silk from the basket, she gasped. “This is too much, Miss—Stella.”

  “Not at all.” Stella shook her head. “It’s actually part of an idea I had for my father’s business. Serviceable, stylish clothes for everyone. But I’m afraid my uncle is a little narrow-minded when it comes to change. Let me know how you like it, or if there are flaws in my design. You’re doing me a favor, really.”

  “You designed this?” Ethel’s voice was little more than a croak.

  Stella nodded. “But Jane sewed it for me. She’s an angel. You’ll tell me what changes I should make?”

  “Don’t change a thing.” Ethel held the gown against her wiry frame. The pink brought out the color in her cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You make it beautiful.” Stella willed away the pricking in her eyes. “There’s something else in there somewhere. I saved the best for last.”

  Ethel lifted a Hershey Bar from the basket, and a smile transformed her from a tired mother to a woman filled with delight. “How’d you know I’ve been wanting this?”

  “What woman doesn’t want chocolate?” Stella shrugged.

  The door burst open and banged against the wall. Stanley stood in the doorway, reeking of spirits, his thin brown hair askew. Angry brows lowered over bloodshot eyes. “This place is a pigsty, woman.” He covered the distance to Ethel in two steps. “I work all day. Least you can do is clean up.” He shook his finger in his w
ife’s face.

  Tears filled Ethel’s eyes, and she hung her head.

  “You probably ain’t cooked nothin’ either.” Stanley snatched the new dress off her lap and inspected it with a sneer. “This what you’ve been spending my money on?”

  Stella sprang to her feet, head swimming with the sudden movement. “It was a gift from me.” She lifted her chin, standing to her full height though she was at least a foot shorter than the burly man.

  “What does she need this for?” He crumpled the gown and tossed it across the room.

  Insufferable man. Stella balled her hands into fists. “Why are you such a bully? You leave her alone for two days with a crying baby then stomp back in here like an ogre when you get hungry? Do you have so little to control in your life that you feel better about yourself after taking it out on your poor wife?” She should let the matter drop, but frustration spurred her forward. “You know what kind of men treat their wives this way?” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “Small men.”

  Stanley scrubbed a beefy hand across his mouth. Anger flickered behind his eyes. “You can’t talk to me like that.” He raised a fist to strike her, and Stella’s stomach dropped. “You filthy—”

  In half a heartbeat, Henry landed a punch to the drunken man’s jaw. Bone cracked and Ethel’s husband buckled to the floor. Roger fussed, and his mother hurried to the bassinet and lifted him out, cooing soothing words.

  Stella’s breathing came in short gasps. That horrible man would have hurt her if Henry hadn’t—

  She glanced at her chauffeur, who rubbed his fist and drew in a sharp breath.

  Stanley stirred, groaning and muttering profanities.

  “You’d best leave, Miss Stella.” Ethel bounced her wailing child, her eyes glossy with unshed tears.

  Guilt weighted Stella’s chest. Had she just made an already unpleasant life more difficult for her friend? When would she learn to keep her opinions to herself? “I’m sorry, Ethel, I—”

  “The old fool had it coming.” The ghost of a smile worked the corners of Ethel’s mouth. “He’s tipsy. Won’t remember a thing. But you’d best not be here when he comes ‘round.”