Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“I’ve... never considered myself beautiful,” Lizzie said, and realized she was blushing.

“Are there no looking glasses in all of Fall River then?” Alison asked, and smiled.

“You’re too kind.”

“Too honest, perhaps. I had no intention of making you blush.”

“I fear I am,” Lizzie said.

“But that is part of your American charm, dear Lizzie,” Alison said, and leaned across the low table between them to pat her hand as she had done on the train.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had a conversation quite like this one,” Lizzie said, and smiled.

“The broadening influence of travel,” Alison said, and returned the smile. “But surely you have female companions at home.”

“Yes, but...”

“Well, what do you talk about there?”

“I’m not certain, actually. We talk about various matters, I suppose.”

“Matters such as...”

“Well... matters that might interest us.”

“And what might interest you, Lizzie?”

“The same things that might interest any woman my age. The church, of course...”

“Are you a regular churchgoer then?”

“I am.”

“Then you must forgive my earlier reference to Evensong.”

“I took no notice of it,” Lizzie said politely.

“And what other matters? Other than church matters?”

“The things that interest women most.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s the same here in England.”

“I’m sure. But tell me.”

“Well, cooking, of course... I suppose we discuss recipes a great deal. And needlework... all sorts of needlework. I see you have some about. Is it your own handiwork?”

“Perish the thought,” Alison said. “I should sooner dig ditches.”

“Well... as I say... embroidery and knitting and common sewing. And other things, of course.”

“What other things?”

“Flowers... our gardens. And books we’ve read... or magazine articles. The same as here, I’m sure.”

“Which magazines do you read, Lizzie?”

“Harper’s Bazaar, of course. And Peterson’s Magazine, and Godey’s Lady’s Book, and Frank Leslie’s Gazette of Fashion...”

“Fashion interests you, I can tell. You dress so beautifully.”

“Well, thank you,” Lizzie said again. She could not imagine such wild compliments — or was it simply European flattery? — from a woman herself so beautiful. Again she felt herself blushing.

“How prettily you blush,” Alison said. “And the books you read? What of those?”

“I can scarcely recall, I’ve read so many. Let me see. This past spring, I think it was, I read The American Commonwealth...”

“Ah, by one of ours, an Oxford professor.”

“Yes, James Bryce.”

“Why such a learned volume?”

“I was interested in his views on the United States.”

“ ‘Sailing a summer sea’, wasn’t that his metaphor? ‘And setting a course of responsible liberty that will be a model for the world’.”

“He perhaps flattered us too much,” Lizzie said, and her eyes met Alison’s directly.

“As I flatter you, do you mean?” she said, picking up the challenge at once. “But surely there’s a line between honest praise and flattery, is there not? And equally as certain, one who denies a compliment only seeks the same compliment twice.”

“Well, I... I really wasn’t...”

“And now I’ve flustered my Lizzie,” Alison said. “Forgive me. Tell me what else you’ve been reading.”

“Time and Free Will ...”

“Ah, yes, Essai sur les données, et cetera, et cetera. I read it in the French. Did it interest you?”

“I found it... difficult.”

“Perhaps something was lost in translation,” Alison said.

“Perhaps.”

“What else? Do you read many novels?”

“Those that are proper for me to read, yes.”

“Proper?”

“Morally acceptable.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve just finished A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.”

“Ah, your clever Mark Twain, yes. Did you read it as preparation?”

“Preparation?”

“For your journey here?”

“Oh, no. Only for pleasure.”

“And was it morally acceptable?”

“I would say so.”

“And what else? For pleasure.”

“Looking Backward,” Lizzie said. “Are you familiar with it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s a sort of Utopian novel about the United States in the year 2000. It describes how all industry has been nationalized and all wealth equally distributed, and it...”

“How perfectly horrible!” Alison said, “I’m sure I shouldn’t want my wealth distributed, equally or otherwise. Are you wealthy, Lizzie?”

“I wouldn’t call ourselves wealthy, no. We’re comfortable, I suppose...”

“Ah, that delicious American word, ‘comfortable’. What sort of work does your father do?”

“He’s a banker,” Lizzie said. “That is, he’s involved with several banks in Fall River. And he owns property here and there. But I shouldn’t say we’re wealthy, no.”

“Do you live in a grand old house on a hill somewhere? I love those photographs of American houses high on hilltops.”

“No, we’re close to the center of town, actually. And the house isn’t grand at all.”

“Fully electrified, I’m sure.”

“We don’t even have gas illumination.”

“But, my poor darling, how do you see? To read all these books you’ve been telling me about?”

“We have lamps, of course. And candles.”

“Like your Abraham Lincoln.”

“Well, we don’t use candles unless we’re out of lamp oil.”

“Great big candles in heavy brass candlesticks, I’m sure.”

“Some of them, yes. And some of them rather old. One particularly handsome one used to belong to my mother’s mother. We keep it in the spare room across the hall. Emma says it’s eighteenth century. I would suppose it came from England.”

“Emma?”

“My sister.”

“And your mother? What sort of woman is she, Lizzie?”

“My mother is dead,” Lizzie said. “She died when I was two years old. I don’t remember her at all.”

“Has your father remarried?”

“Yes,” Lizzie said, and paused. “How did you know that?”

“Well, they all do, don’t they?” Alison said, and smiled. “And in this candlelit house of yours...”

“Lamps, usually,” Lizzie said.

“... are there many servants?”

“We have only one. A girl from Ireland. Her name is Bridget Sullivan, but we call her Maggie. My sister and I.”

“Maggie? But how odd.”

“Our previous girl was named Maggie.”

“You must have been very fond of her. The previous girl.”

“No, it’s just... habit, I suppose. Calling her Maggie.”

“Is she comely, your Maggie?”

“I would guess. I never really noticed. She’s young and healthy, and we get along quite well with her.”

“How young?”

“Maggie? Twenty-three, I would suppose. Twenty-four. Somewhere in there.”

“Do many people in your town have servants?”

“Some. Not all. Not very many, I guess.” She paused, and then said, “How many servants do you have?”

“Far too many, I’m sure,” Alison said, and laughed. “You met George, of course, who was kind enough to fetch you, and Moira, who deigned to interrupt her nap when you rapped on the door, and later served our tea. We’ve a gardener and a cook, but I don’t employ a personal maid, and Albert is quite capable of buttoning his own shoes. Neither have we any need for a nursemaid, thank heavens.”