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Prairie Rose

By Rachel C. Morris

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Chapter 1 Early Spring 1840
Anne couldn’t sleep from the excitement of last night’s birthday party. She slipped on a robe and tiptoed down the stairs of her family’s seventeenth-century Boston mansion to the ballroom. The household was sleeping, but she wanted to relive her happy moments of the night before.
As she passed the door to her father’s den, she heard her mother and father. Why would her parents be up at this hour? Surely they were worn out from last night’s festivities. She crept closer.
“Samuel Whitmore,” her mother’s agitated voice rang out, “when are you going to tell her? Or is it just one of your crazy fleeting dreams?”
Silence.
“Samuel, it is not fair to keep this from our daughter if you mean it. You must tell her soon. It will totally change her future.”
Tell me, tell me what? Anne wondered, frowning. What could be so important?
* * *
Anne stood in the center of the ballroom and flung out her arms, remembering last night. Violets and ribbons still decorated the banisters and window sills. Half-burned candles in lavender and white nested in leaf wreaths on small tables. She whirled about and remembered all of it.
Her parents had promised a lavish fifteenth birthday party, and they kept their promise---but not until Anne turned seventeen. She wore her first formal dress for her coming-out party. Her friends, Marie, Tilda, and Francine were there, dressed in elegant finery. Anne couldn’t believe the transformation of the young men she knew, dashing in their black-tailed suits and white shirts. Drinks were poured. She felt her first bubbly taste of French wine slide down her throat. Dancers whirled to a real string quartet. A kaleidoscope of pinks, reds, greens, and yellows swirled before her eyes. It was so glorious!
With her full skirt swirling and her face flushed with excitement, Anne followed her partner’s lead in the Gallopade, the opening dance of her coming-out party. Handsome Stephen Carter, the banker’s son, had placed his name at the top of her dance card for the first dance of the evening. Her heart fluttered as he escorted her to the center of the marble ballroom floor. Other couples whirled around them in a fantasy of brilliant colors. Anne’s feet barely touched the floor as Stephen nimbly led her across the room. After a tap on the shoulder, Anne found herself in the arms of Geoffrey Chandler, attorney-at-law. One-two-three-four-five-six. She found it hard to concentrate on the steps of the English Boston because the scent of Geoffrey’s cologne was so strong. At the end of the waltz, she begged to sit and sip a glass of punch.
Her father, Samuel Whitmore, seated himself beside her, puffing on his cigar.
“Are you enjoying your birthday, my dear?” He smiled and patted her hand. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it happen when you turned fifteen, but . . .”
“Oh, Papa.” Anne’s face flushed with excitement. “This is the best party ever. I’ve already danced with two fine gentlemen, and my dance card is totally full.” She sighed, “I fear my feet will never hold me up until the evening is over.”
“Ah, my Anne, this party is for you to always remember. And I see a number of eligible bachelors here this evening. Is there anyone you especially like?”
Anne felt heat creeping up into her cheeks. “Papa!” She fingered the jeweled brooch at her neck, a gift from her father.
“Ste…Ste...” Anne looked into her father’s warm eyes. She felt a light touch on her shoulder. Stephen! The warmth crept up from her neck again.
Anne felt like she was nineteen instead of seventeen with her bronze hair intricately pinned high upon her head. Her green brocade gown with organza trim accented her tall, slim figure and brought out a sparkle in her green eyes. She was a pampered princess tonight. Her dear parents hadn’t spared a cent to make this party a success. Many of her classmates from Chauncy Hill School, where she studied, were invited. Her best friends had whispered their plans about this evening behind their fans many weeks ago.
The next dance was the Pompadour Waltz. Frederick Hamilton was her partner and danced opposite her in the intricate grapevine sequences that alternated with the five-step Boston. Anne was glad her mother insisted she take a year of dancing instruction. She knew she was not an accomplished dancer, but at least she could hold her own without stepping on her partner’s feet.
Anne flung out her arms and waltzed around the ballroom, lost in a dreamy haze.* * * *
After her birthday party, Anne’s friends also held parties. First was Tilda, who lived only three blocks away. A servant in a black frock coat brought the invitation to the Whitmores’ door. Tilda’s parents were throwing an exciting extravaganza for their only daughter. Tilda had whispered to Anne weeks ago that there would be a full dinner served at seven o’clock. After that, her friends would be allowed to dance to the music of a full orchestra all night if they wished
Anne searched through her closet for a gown she hadn’t worn. As she buried her head between garments, Martha, the maidservant, knocked on her bedroom door and called her name.
“Miss Anne. Miss Anne. Come downstairs. You have a gentleman caller.”
“Wha-a-t?” Anne backed out of the closet, her hair standing practically on end, crackling from static electricity. “Who? Martha, find out who he is.”
“I never have gentleman callers. My hair is such a mess. I simply cannot receive anyone looking like this.”
“It’s Stephen Carter, Miss.” Martha glanced at Anne, her black face wrinkling in despair. “Oh, Miss, you can’t let him see you like that. Here, I help make you presentable. Let Martha help.” Martha had been the Whitmores’ servant from before Anne’s birth. She had come north from South Carolina before the North became violently opposed to slavery. The Whitmores had given her a home and showed her more kindness than she had found in the South.
With her hair properly in place, Anne proceeded down the grand stairway to the entrance where Stephen awaited.
Stephen held his hat in his hand, smiling widely. “Good afternoon.”
“Miss Whitmore, it’s such a lovely day. I hope you don’t mind that I have stopped at your house without an invitation.”
Anne’s cheeks flushed as she stammered, “Why, of course not. I don’t mind a
bit, Mr. Carter. What brings you out on such a fine day?”
“I will be direct, Miss Whitmore.” His eyes roved appreciatively over Anne’s flushed face and trim figure. “I received an invitation to a party Matilda, er, Tilda Clydsdell’s parents are giving in her honor. I was wondering. . .”
Stephen suddenly inspected his shiny shoes, gathering the courage to continue. “I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to her party.”
“Please allow me to speak with my parents. If they give consent, I will be delighted to accompany you. I will send a message to you tomorrow with my reply.”
“I’ll be eagerly waiting.” Stephen bowed slightly, smiled at Anne and followed Martha to the door, humming quietly to himself.
* * *
The Whitmores always attended the Sunday morning church service together. They rode by carriage to the stately Park Street Church, built in 1809 on “Brimstone Corner,” the corner of Tremont and Park. The church site was named for the gunpowder stored in its basement during the War of 1812 as well as for the fiery sermons that proceeded from its pulpit. Park Street Church history recorded the first missionaries sent to Hawaii and the founding of the first prison aid society. “America the Beautiful” was originally sung at Park Street by their renowned children’s choir long before Anne was born.
Anne loved its red brick architecture, the tall, white, Greek Revival columns, crowned by its steeple and cross glowing in the early morning light, all designed by Sir Christopher Wren. She delighted to hear the bells tolling the worship hour as parishioners hastened to their seats. She slipped her small Bible from her purse and read from St. John while waiting for the service to begin. She loved this quiet time before the service, feeling the awe of God’s house. Lost in her Bible reading, it was almost an intrusion when the service began.
* * *
Sam Whitmore considered himself a good Presbyterian. He faithfully drove his family to church each Sunday, where they sat in their pew engraved “Whitmore.” Sometimes he listened to the sermon. Sometimes he dozed, uncomfortable on the straight, unforgiving pew. Other times he sat admiring the beautiful cathedral ceiling, dreaming of being the architect who created an edifice so glorious and wishing Sir Wren had included comfortable seats in his plans.
Following the sermon and greetings of friends, Sam drove the family home to the other end of Tremont Street in their shiny, black buggy pulled by a pair of matched grays. He personally selected the horses, consciously considering their breeding and size. But now, after that lengthy sermon, Sam’s stomach was clenching under his belt. Time to get home.
* * *
Sunday dinner was always a family affair. Martha spent the morning cooking for her people while they attended the service. After the wraps were put away and the hats securely resting on their racks, the family filtered into the dining room. Martha had prepared a sumptuous roast of beef surrounded by baked vegetables. Small plates contained fruit and freshly baked bread. The fruit compote for dessert sat on the sideboard.
Each member of the family took his or her places beginning with Grandmother Ellis who sat at the foot of the table. She was dressed in a peach satin gown with a wide white collar edged with tatting. Her silver hair was pulled back and secured by a pearl hair pin. At the head of the table, Samuel Whitmore presided with Anne’s mother, Maybelle, at his right. Anne sat beside her Grandmother Ellis. Her eleven-year-old brother, Tucker, faced his mother. The servants, Martha and Elsner, stood at attention until Mr. Whitmore said grace.
“Tell me, Roseanne,” Mrs. Whitmore asked, “when are you going to bring that delightful Stephen Carter to visit us?”
Anne gulped at the sound of her given birth name. Nobody but her mother dared to call her that. ‘Roseanne,’ she almost choked at the sound of it.
“Mother, we are just friends.” Anne lowered her head to hide her flushed face. She wished they were more than just friends. He was the most charming man she had ever met.
Tucker grinned. While his mother questioned Anne, he quietly slipped an extra piece of roast off the serving tray and into his pocket. The stray puppy waiting outside the back door would really enjoy this treat. He quickly cleaned his plate and asked to be excused.

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