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Burgundy Gloves

By Julia David

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Chapter One-

Outside of Chicago
May, 1880

Allison Kent gazed out the third story window of her room at Webster’s School for Young Women. Green grass laid like a thick blanket over a bumpy bed. The school was delightful in the spring. With the long, cold winter passed, the temperature was inviting for an afternoon of flower picking—just right for coaxing her out of her melancholy. She turned as Yvette appeared, returning to help her pack.
"There you are," Allison whined. "I guess I won't have to put up with your incompetence much longer." A small pang of guilt stirred in Allison’s heart for speaking unkindly, and for how she often mistreated the third-floor maid. "Have you or have you not seen my burgundy gloves?"
“No, Miss Kent. I've looked through the layers of your trunk, in between the tissue paper, and in your hat boxes. I can't seem to find them."
Allison pursed her lips to contain the sharp words. "You’re sure that you didn’t pack them with Suzanne's things?"
"Yes, ma'am, quite sure. Could you have left them at the seniors’ graduation party?"
"Very possibly, if I had worn them there. But since I didn't, they have to be here somewhere." Allison looked up from the contents of her carpetbag, splayed all over her bed. "They're just not here." She took a deep breath and clamped down her jaw. Could this day get any more frustrating? Once and for all, she was leaving the boarding school that had been her home since she was six years old. Before her roommate, Suzanne, had left, they had talked about their futures, and she felt hopeful. But when Suzanne and her family drove away in their carriage, Allison waved goodbye with a familiar pain in her deserted heart.
"Hello, ladies." Mrs. Webster's entrance into the dorm room caused Allison to straighten up.
"Mrs. Webster, I hate to feel this frustration in these last moments. My burgundy gloves are missing, and according to Yvette, they have simply disappeared."
"Oh, dear. But Allison, to have commotion in your last moments here doesn't seem too unusual, now does it?"
"Why, Mrs. Webster, it sounds as if you're going to miss me."
"Ahh.” Mrs. Webster’s voice was firm, but caring. “Just when we thought we were going to say goodbye to your confidence and passion, you were kind enough to stay two more years to teach. It has been our pleasure to watch you blossom into the beautiful young woman that you are."
"How wonderfully kind of you to say that, Mrs. Webster. Freshman French was the class no one else wanted to teach.”
“Yes, dear. So many things about you I will never forget.”
“Hmmph,” Allison knew Mrs. Webster was trying to divert her with pleasantness. “Those burgundy gloves have price-less sentimental value to me. Will you promise to send them to me when found?” She shot Yvette a glare.
"Why, of course, my dear. I just wanted to say goodbye. It will be a little sleepy here without you and Suzanne. Please give your grandmother my best."
"Thank you for everything, Mrs. Webster. I will give my grandmother your regards." She met the older woman’s gray eyes and leaned in to hug her.
Mrs. Webster patted her back. "Good luck, dear.” She placed a soft kiss on Allison's cheek.
Allison looked down, her eyes unexpectedly filling with tears. I need to find those gloves. Turning away to find her hanky on the bed, she dabbed the corners of her eyes before anyone could see. Quickly packing the remaining items back in her carpetbag, she slipped her reticule onto her wrist. Mrs. Webster was gone when she looked up.
Allison scanned the room. Fighting the painful truth, she put a hand to her heart to quell the grief of having to leave without those gloves. "You can be thankful, Yvette, that at least I have my cream gloves to go with my suit today." Letting out an exaggerated huff, she wedged the gloves between her fingers.
"I'm ready to go." Taking a deep breath, she glanced for the last time over at Suzanne's bed, remembering the countless nights of talking and laughing, sharing dreams, making up stories about the young men they were going to meet.
"What else, miss?” Yvette’s voice broke in.
"That's all.” She flung her hand toward the door. "Send Mr. Stewart to get my things."
Allison turned around in the small dorm room that had been home for so many years. The lace curtains outlining the window drew her again. She popped the window latch and pulled it up from the sill. A group of girls were laughing below while they waited their turn to be picked up. Birds chirped in the nearby trees, happy for the new season. I should feel happy, she mused. What’s wrong with me? I used to hate this school. I used to hate the cold winters. I’ve longed for the day when I could be a bird, flying from this cage. And now the door is wide open, so why do I feel so forlorn?
Knowing most of the students were gone and the others wouldn't come out to say goodbye to her, Allison quietly entered the carriage as the driver shut the door. She straightened her back and pulled on the hem of her linen jacket. With her reticule placed carefully in the center of her lap, she nodded at the driver.
She had taken many of these drives to the Chicago train station. It seemed strange, though, that this was going to be the last. Allison shook her head, amused at her fancies. It wasn't as if she was a captain going to sea, never to see land again.
Oh dear. To get to France, it would be by sea. For the last six months, Suzanne had given her every hope that she would be joining her family on their trip to Paris. With every month, her hopes and dreams had built. The only drawback for Allison was seasickness; the rocking of the boat just might do her in. She had a terribly weak stomach when it came to anything swaying back and forth. I'm not going to think about it. I'd rather think about Suzanne's two older brothers. Her perfect fantasy was for them all to travel together, seeing museums and art exhibits, picnicking by the Louvre.
Leaning her head back, she rehearsed for the hundredth time how to approach her Uncle Simon. Certainly, she could get her grandmother's permission, but her uncle held the family purse strings, and he was never charitable toward her. Her grandmother had promised at Christmas that she would persuade him to have an open mind—and pocketbook.
The carriage hit a rut, and Allison grabbed the small window. She leaned out and found she could no longer see the school. Why can’t I feel some joy in this day? Why was Mrs. Webster's goodbye so emotional? Going to miss my confidence and passion? Mrs. Webster would never speak a harsh word. How many times over the years did my teachers suspend me from class for causing trouble? Only Mrs. Webster could smooth things over. I spent many an hour swinging my heels from that silly hard bench outside of her office. I suppose my teachers just didn’t know what to do with me.
When Allison was a child, her outbursts came and went, seemingly without reason. She gazed out to the rolling countryside and remembered…

It was Mrs. Covington who did not want her back in class. Mrs. Webster had not closed her office door all the way that day. They didn't know Allison could hear every word of their discussion.
“That girl is prideful and unrepentant!” said Mrs. Covington. “What’s more, she is rebellious and contentious!”
“I don't believe our Allison is a bad child,” said Mrs. Webster. “I believe she is a sad child, since the loss of her parents. As educators, we must look at the grief and loss she has suffered and pray for God's help to reach her.”
Seated on the bench, Allison listened. She didn’t want to be rebellious. She didn't want to cause any difficulties. Somewhere deep inside, she wanted to please her teachers.
Upon returning from Christmas break, Mrs. Webster had called her into her office. She had a smile on her face instead of a frown, and she complimented Allison on her recent good behavior. “I’d like you to be a friend to a new girl, Allison. Her name is Suzanne, and you are to room together.” Mrs. Webster’s kind smile told Allison that she was being entrusted with an important task…
Allison straightened her back into the carriage seat. Those were her best memories. Those times with Suzanne were moments of true happiness in her life. Soon the countryside faded behind her, and the noise and bustle of the city took its place.

Late that afternoon, the train pulled into Madison, where Grandmother’s handyman, Burch, stood waving from the land-ing as he did every time he picked her up.
"Miss Alli, Miss Alli! You’re home,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
"Yes, Burch, it's me. Who else would it be?"
"Well, now, Miss, it's not every day you’re home for good."
"Let's hope I'm not home for good." He looked more bent over than usual. "Are you going to find someone to help with my trunks?"
"Oh, Miss, your grandmother gave me strict orders to bring you straight home. I'm to come back with the flatbed to pick up all your things."
"Fine, then." Allison walked to the family carriage. Thankfully, Burch rattled on about Grandmother's health and the garden and the weather. Lacking the nerve to ask if Uncle Simon was at home, she let her mind wander. She needed him to be gone on business, or away with any of his usual excuses. She wanted time alone with Grandmother to talk about the lovely trip to Paris being offered to her.
The family's pale yellow Victorian house was a beautiful home where crocuses and daffodils bloomed in the flowerbeds. Burch was getting old, but he never let his duty slip in keeping the home clean and tidy. Allison ran her hands down her jacket and skirt to straighten out any wrinkles and tightened the pins in her hair, wanting to appear independent and mature.
She entered the side door to an empty kitchen. "Grandmother?" The house was silent.
"Hello? Mrs. Clark?" She walked into the open hallway, looking for the housekeeper.
"Oh, Miss Allison, you’re home," Mrs. Clark said as she rushed down the staircase. "How was your trip, dear?"
"Fine, as usual. The house is so quiet—where is Grandmother?"
"In bed."
"In bed at this hour? Is she ill? Or did she just have a bad day?"
"Probably a combination of both," Mrs. Clark said.
Allison set down her reticule and began to climb the stairs, then stopped short, turning back to Mrs. Clark. “Is my Uncle Simon at home?"
"That’s hard to say, dear. Sometimes he comes in so late at night, I can only guess his comings and goings based on the bed being made or unmade."
"Well, has his bed been slept in?"
"No dear, not the last two nights."
Allison continued to her room and opened the heavy brown curtains. The sun had not yet set, and a soft glow filled the room. The floors and furniture were all polished. Resting on her cream and brown bedspread was her companion, Freddy. She picked up the stuffed animal and touched his tattered fur. "Please forgive me, friend, but you must enjoy my company from the rocking chair from now on." She placed him on the chair next to the embroidered pillow.
"Dearest, is that you?" The faint voice of her grandmother came from the next room.
"Yes, I'm home.” She crossed the hall. “I see you’ve taken to bed early.”
"Child, I haven’t left this bed in two days."
She pulled a chair next to her grandmother’s bed. “What is it?”
"Dr. Green was here yesterday. He used the word failing. I'm failing. What do you suppose that means? Every day I find a new ache. Of course my knees buckle when I try to take those stairs. I’m getting old. What am I to do? Mrs. Clark certainly can't catch me if I fall." Grandmother grimaced.
"The first thing we need to do is get you settled in a downstairs room.”
"Don't you think I thought of that?” her grandmother fussed. “Simon can certainly take this room, and I can move into his room downstairs. The two minutes I've had to talk to him, he says he doesn't have time to help me. He probably won't find the time to get my corpse out of here, either."
"Please, Grandmother." Allison sighed.
"Your uncle has no conscience, Allison. Believe me, if you weren’t here, no one would care if I lived or died. Lord knows, I tried not to favor your father, but Simon was always stepping on toes, arguing over everything.”
Allison stretched, rubbing out the ache from a long day of travel. Unfortunately, this was not the time to bring up Paris.

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