July 4, 1918

Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia, PA

            I breathed deeply. The air rushing in smelled like tree bark, firecrackers, and rain-heavy clouds.

            Happy Birthday, America. Goodbye, childhood.

            “Well, it’s been nice knowing you.” I patted the old apple tree’s fissured bark from my favorite hiding spot up in its leafy branches. “But now I really must go. I have an important debutante ball to attend—mine. A hundred of Mama’s closest friends and all of my classmates wait on bated breath for my official introduction to society. Lord, please don’t let me spill punch down my dress, have watercress stuck in my teeth, step on Rowan’s feet during our waltz, or anything else that could possibly shame Mama. Mama deserves one social event this year without public scandal.”

            As I prepared to climb back down the tree’s branches to terra firma, Daddy’s bottle-green Cadillac Five-Passenger Phaeton turned into our courtyard. I froze, hoping the apple tree’s lush summer foliage was an adequate cover. My breath caught in my chest as Marco—wearing Samuel’s snug chauffeur’s uniform—slid out of the driver’s seat and rushed to open the passenger door for Daddy.

            “It’s going to be a long night, Marco. Go have Angelina fix you something to eat.” Daddy handed Marco his black leather doctor’s bag—which went everywhere with him—before climbing out of the Cadillac with a groan. “Oh, to be nineteen again. Enjoy it while you can, Marco.”

            “Yes, sir. Thank you, Doctor Jackson,” said Marco.

            I clung silently to the tree’s weather-beaten trunk as Daddy passed by beneath the tree and limped slowly up the shallow steps and into our house. Marco lifted a box of medicines out of the Cadillac before piling Daddy’s doctoring bag and a stack of mail on top. Marco’s whistling echoed through our tiny, brick-lined courtyard as he pushed the car door closed with his hip and carried the items to the house. Just as Marco passed the apple tree, the wind picked up, sending a few of the letters fluttering off the top of the crate. Marco mumbled what was probably an oath in Italian, before putting down the crate to chase after the letters. Including the one that now rested at the base of the tree!

            Climb higher! No, freeze! The usual tug-of-war inside me nagged.

            Marco took off Samuel’s hat and weighted down the other letters with it. Marco must have visited the barber this morning, too. His sometimes unruly dark curls had been trimmed and oiled flat into a wave.

            “A lot on your mind today, Miss Virginia?” Marco snatched the letter from the base of the tree, but never looked up. He leaned against the tree and surveyed our surroundings. “The courtyard is clear. Do you require assistance getting down?”

            My face burned.

            “No,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat and repeated, “No. I don’t.”

            Marco looked up and found my hiding spot immediately.

I tucked my white muslin skirts tightly around my legs. “Turn around.”

            “What?”

            “Turn toward the house.” My heart was thudding, and I hadn’t even started climbing yet. “Please.”

           Marco chuckled, but obeyed. He went back to whistling his earlier tune as I climbed back down the branches. The sound of booted feet hitting parched ground echoed around the courtyard.

Marco turned back around. “Tonight is an important night, no? A new dress. An official escort. I’m sure it’s a lot for a young girl like you to handle.”

An indignant fire lit in my belly. But the fire completely snuffed out when Marco suddenly leaned in toward me. As he reached out his hand, my eyes instinctively closed. His hand brushed my hair.

Could my wish finally be coming true?

I waited, but nothing happened. I cracked opened my eyes to see Marco holding a large, leafy twig in his fingers. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile, his usual reaction to my complete ninniness whenever we were in the same room together.

The spell was broken when I caught sight of Mama frowning coldly at me through the sitting room window. A wave of heat rushed up to my face and I hurried away from Marco towards the back door.

“Miss Virginia,” Marco called from the tree. I looked over my shoulder. “Happy Seventeenth Birthday.”

            As a violent afternoon thunderstorm rolled in, a tightness slowly crept up from the base of my skull. With each of the storm’s cannon-like booms, it felt as though someone was using my head as an anvil.

            “No, I’m not sick. I cannot be sick. Any day but today.” I rubbed the back of my neck.

            To distract myself, I thought of Marco. Marco dressed in a tuxedo and tie. Marco leading me to the middle of the ballroom and placing one hand in mind and the other at the small of my back. Marco leaning in to give me my very first kiss.

            No wonder Mama is vexed.

            Samuel was in Georgia, awaiting the birth of his first grandchild. In his absence, Marco had been promoted from general help to Daddy’s chauffeur, at least for the week. All of Main Line society had probably heard by now how unhappy Mama was to have this handsome, nineteen-year-old, Italian boy “milling about the house”. She had arranged all kinds of events and projects for me outside of our home that week, because, as usual, she would be preoccupied with her social events.

            I had begged off afternoon tea with Mama’s friend from the Garden Club on Monday with the ruse of a bad headache. Instead of making small talk about roses with Mrs. Teague, I had watched through my bedroom window as Marco, clad only in his sweat-soaked undershirt and work pants, did some repairs on Daddy’s automobile.

Now I was receiving retribution for my earlier sins—both lying to Mrs. Teague and my impure thoughts about Marco. The headache I had previously lied about was now real, but nothing was going to keep me from attending my debut. Mama and I spent months planning my debutante ball, and tonight, we would celebrate both America’s and my birthday. There would be fireworks, dancing, and cake. I had insisted upon Angelina’s famous angel food cake, laden with fresh strawberries and whipped cream, but for once, my mouth hadn’t watered at the mere thought of cake. Instead, my stomach rolled.

I wonder if Daddy received any aspirin today? Or, at least, some bicarbonate of soda.

A light rapping on my door interrupted my queasy thoughts. Angelina peeked around the door.

“You are ready to dress for your party now, Miss Virginia?” Angelina’s voice still carried a musical Italian accent. Unlike Marco, Angelina and their older brother, Dominic, had been born in Napoli and immigrated to America with their parents as small children. Marco constantly corrected his sister’s English, but I loved it best when they talked to each other in Italian. The words sounded like honey in my ears, even if all they were discussing was Mama’s never-ending chore list.

“I’d like a glass of lemonade first. I’m over-heated.” I dabbed at a trickle of sweat rolling down behind my ear with my sleeve. The torrential rain had thankfully stopped, but the air was still heavy with water.

“Yes, Miss.”

Angelina returned a few minutes later with a glass of lemonade, thankfully with many ice chips floating on the top. The room turned gray and fuzzy when I stood up, forcing me to grab the corner of my vanity until my vision cleared. Angelina’s dark brows furrowed.

            “I didn’t eat enough at lunch. Too excited about tonight.” I sipped at the lemonade.

            Angelina paused, but then went dutifully to my wardrobe and pulled out my party dress. She flicked the wrinkles out of my white silk gown and then draped it on my bed.

I prayed no one would recognize the dress from Kit’s eighteenth birthday extravaganza from nearly three years ago. With the war raging on in Europe, acquiring any new fabric that wasn’t somber-looking was next to impossible. At least the seamstress had been able to rework the dress into something more modern.

Angelina gushed in Italian as her calloused fingers slipped over the luxurious fabric. She mostly talked to herself as she poured the silk over my head and down my corseted torso. Then, she started on the rat’s nest on the top of my head. With deft but gentle hands, Angelina unsnagged every snarl and brought my almost cotton-colored hair up to a high gloss. She tucked, pinned, and rolled my hair into a dramatic—and very womanly—up do. Finally, Angelina added baby’s breath, navy ribbon, and three red roses—barely out of their bud stage—into my hair.

            “Molto bella, Miss Virginia,” Angelina gushed as she circled around me one last time looking for any imperfections.

            “Thank you, Angelina.” I grabbed my diamond-studded evening bag—honestly, they were paste jewels, but they looked real—off my bed and rushed out the door and down the steps. I skidded to a stop at our front door to “comport myself like a lady” before Mama saw me.

            When I opened the front door, Marco rushed to the base of our front steps. My parents were already tucked into Daddy’s only indulgence—his new motorcar, which he’d purchased to replace his ancient 1908 Winton Touring car.

I lifted the hem of my dress slightly and walked nobly down the stairs. I could feel Marco’s eyes on me, but I didn’t return his gaze.

A lot for a young girl like you to handle. Hmpf.

“There is a large puddle here, Miss Virginia.” Marco offered me his gloved hand.

I placed my hand in Marco’s. He slipped a strong arm around my waist and helped me leap effortlessly over the overflowing gutter.

Is this how Anna Pavlova feels when her partner helps her jeté across the stage?

 Mama’s face pulled into a tight scowl as Marco opened the door and helped me into the car.

            “What was that?” Mama hissed as soon as Marco had closed the door.

            “A large puddle,” I said, releasing the breath I hadn’t realized that I was holding. The car was large enough to seat three in the rear, but suddenly felt much smaller and confining.

            “Hmmm.” Mama sniffed. “I am looking forward to Samuel’s return on Monday.”

            I leaned over to smooth the wrinkles out of my dress. My head throbbed when I sat back up. I massaged my temples.

            “You’re ill.” Daddy grabbed my wrist and took my pulse.

            “I’m fine, Daddy. It’s so hot today, and I’m boiling in this dress. I’ll drink some water as soon as we get to the hotel. Then I’ll feel better.” I pulled my handkerchief out of my purse—the one with the delicate wisteria border, which had taken me all week to embroider—and dabbed at my neck.

            “If not, we will head home early.”

            “No, we will not, Charles.” Mama’s fan snapped open with a whip-like crack, and began fanning herself furiously. “We are women; we endure. Since the Garden of Eden, it has been our burden. We suffer and we endure, because we are strong.”

            Thankfully, the drive to the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel was silent. To distract myself from the vise-like pressure in my head, I studied Marco instead. Well, at least, the back of Marco’s head and occasionally the side of his freshly-shaven face when he looked over his shoulder to pass around some delivery truck or the occasional country folk riding into Philadelphia in their old-fashioned, horse-drawn carriages. I noticed that Daddy had even left his cane at home tonight, though his ever-present black leather medical bag nestled between his feet.

            “Virginia.” Mama broke through my daydream by tapping my leg with her closed fan. “I said, we’re here.”

            Mama ignored Marco as he assisted her from the Cadillac, and flicked her deep sapphire silk dress impatiently as Marco then helped me first, and then Daddy, from the car.

            “Miss Virginia.” Marco offered his hand.

My vision started swimming as soon as I stood up, so I gladly took Marco’s outstretched hand. I stepped out onto the Cadillac’s running board, which placed me at eye-level with Marco. His hazel eyes looked deep into mine as we stood inches from each other. The air refused to leave my lungs just as my feet refused to leave the running board.

            “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Miss Virginia?” Marco practically pulled me to the sidewalk, as I still hadn’t let go of his hand.

            “Yes, I’m sure,” I shakily reassured him. “Besides, would Mama allow me the option of remaining home even if I were ill?” I nodded toward Mama who had already begun her role as Consummate Hostess, smiling and nodding to the arriving guests. I took a deep breath—well, as deep as one can take with a corset on—and pushed the pain away. I would be sick tomorrow. That would be more convenient.

“Truly, I am well. Thank you for your concern, Marco.”

Despite my protestations, my body ached as I went to stand beside Mama, pasting a welcoming smile across my face. Daddy soon joined us, and I placed my hand in his offered arm to steady myself. Mama clung to Daddy’s other arm for the benefit of the public; events like this were now the only time I saw my parents pretend their marriage was happy and contented. As we entered the foyer of the hotel, I was so distracted by the pain radiating from my hips that I nearly walked into Rowan Guinness, my appointed escort for the evening. I shivered. Not that Rowan wasn’t accomplished, educated, and from a wealthy family—and even mildly attractive in his own right; he just was not Italian, exotically handsome, and completely unsuitable for me. My parents allowed me a moment with Rowan—with Mama’s slight nod of approval at me—as they drifted towards the dramatic plush staircase leading to the ballroom on the second floor with the elegant crowd of hotel guests.

            “Happy Birthday, Virginia.” Rowan leaned in to kiss my cheek. I turned my head so he kissed the hair above my ear and probably a rose bud or two.

            I would have turned into Marco’s kiss. The sinful thought filled my addled brain.

            Rowan attached me to his arm and gave my gloved hand a little squeeze.

            “Miss Virginia, wait.” Marco’s voice called from behind.

            My heart swelled as I turned around. Marco stood just inside the gold and gilt lobby and held my purse out. Rowan walked stiffly towards him.

            “You will refer to her as Miss Jackson.” Rowan snatched my purse out of Marco’s hand. “Always.”

            Marco’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he stayed silent.

            “The nerve of those people,” Rowan said as he handed me my purse. “To think they can refer to us by our Christian names. I’ll have a word with your father about it.”

            “No, don’t.” It took all of my strength, but I wrapped my arms lightly back around Rowan’s right arm and smiled up at him. “Let’s not spoil the evening.”

            Rowan’s scowl melted into a smile. He leaned in and said, “Anything for you.”

            My stomach lurched. As we followed the crush up the staircase, I heard Marco utter what was probably an oath in Italian, which did nothing to improve my dizziness and nausea. Mama pounced on me the moment Rowan and I entered the hotel’s magnificent two-tiered ballroom. I looked at the sea of faces in the ballroom and seated in the balconies overlooking the area and gulped. All of my classmates and their high society parents had their eyes on me.

            “They’ve been waiting for you.” Mama grabbed the purse from my hands and pushed us toward the dance floor.

            The crowd parted as Rowan and I walked to the middle of the ballroom. The palm court orchestra Mama had hired began playing a romantic waltz. I glanced around the crowded room. It was full of people I knew, but none who really knew me. Not the real me.

            “Do you like to climb trees, Rowan?” I asked.

            Rowan beamed at all the undivided attention. “Pardon me?”

            “Nevermind.” My hips now ached almost as much as my head did. The last thing I wanted to do was waltz.

After he positioned us to dance, Rowan leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I’ve been practicing with Mother for weeks.”

People chuckled as if he had whispered sweet nothings in my ear. And nothing it was.  A trickle of sweat rolled down my spine and pooled at the bottom of my corset as a chill washed over my body.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Rowan said, obviously mistaking my shivering as breathless anticipation.

Endure, Virginia.

We stepped off at Rowan’s count.

And then the room went black.