“Do watch your tone. I’ve no patience for insolence.”
Out of habit, I’m ready to utter an apology and slink away — but I clench my teeth and tell myself No more. I’ve allowed Grandmama to pull me out of Westacre and parade me through this ball like my marriage vows are for sale, but I cannot condone her treason.
“How could you?” I say. “How could you willingly work for the Confederates?”
She scowls. “I’m saving this family from ruin, I’ll have you know.”
“You call this ‘ruin’?” I point at her jewelry box and the Chinese silk curtains cloaking her windows.
“Where did ‘this’ come from? I’ll tell you where: from the fortune your great-grandfather made building steamships — in the South.”
“That was years ago! Father works in railroads now.”
“And he’s a fool for that. If your insipid mother hadn’t persuaded him —”
“Insipid? How dare —”
“Her ridiculous convictions led us straight to the poorhouse! I possess the proof of it right in this very room.” She nods at her jewelry box. “Open it.”
“Why?”
“Open it.”
I reach for the box, knowing that I’ll find a trove of sapphire rings, ruby bracelets, and the largest pearls in all of Washington. But once I open it, I nearly gasp. It looks like Grandmama has been robbed. The rings, gone. The rubies, depleted. Only a strand of pearls remains, sitting lonely against the black velvet.
“I had no choice but to sell them,” Grandmama says, pain lacing her words. “We’re almost bankrupt due to this railroad venture. I’d no choice but to accept the Confederacy’s offer. They pay me quite well in exchange for the secrets I glean at my afternoon teas. How else could I have bought the dress you’re wearing?”
I sink onto the bed, dizzy from her revelations. I wish I could tear off this dress and burn it.
“So now you understand the importance of you marrying well,” she continues. “The Confederates’ money may keep us afloat, but we’re standing upon a sinking ship. I will find you a husband — and a wealthy one at that — especially with your father off to who knows where.”
My thoughts immediately shift to Father. “Does he know what you’ve done?”
“Of course not,” she says. “Your sister, on the other hand. . . .”
My gaze bores into hers. “Whatever do you mean?”
With great flourish, she reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out my letter — the letter from Uncle Ambrose.
It grows difficult for me to breathe. “How did . . . ?”
“It appears I’m not the only spy in the family,” she says, fanning herself with the letter before I yank it from her. “Sophia was kind enough to retrieve this for me.”
My mind reels. No, I won’t believe it. I can’t. “She wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“She would and she did, while you two spoke in the library earlier.”
My memory skips back an hour to Sophie’s odd behavior in the library. Has my sister changed so much since I’ve been away at school?
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because I asked her to read all your correspondences,” Grandmama replies. “It’s my duty as your guardian to be privy to such matters, although little did I know that your uncle’s letters would prove so interesting.” She glances at me in her mirror. “Oh, don’t be too cross with Sophia. She didn’t want to read your letters — at first — but I told her that I’d never give her my blessing to marry that Radford boy if she didn’t.”
I don’t think I can speak. This is all too much. My grandmother, a spy? My sister, an accomplice? I want to believe that Grandmama is lying — that Sophie would never betray me — but my heart severs in half just the same.
“Wash your face and gather your wits, Elizabeth,” she orders me. “Now that you know the truth, we can return to the matter at hand: your nuptials.”
My jaw slackens. “After what you’ve told me, you expect me to rejoin the ball as if nothing has happened?”
“You saw my jewel box. Our family’s good name is in jeopardy — and you shall save it.”
Despite my trembling legs, I stand. “If anyone has jeopardized the Van Persie name, it’s you, Grandmama. You’ve committed treason.”
She laughs. Laughs! “Call it what you want, but I’ve done this for our family. If I hadn’t, we would have lost this house and the very clothes on your back.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a smart girl. Do you wish to spend the rest of your life in the poorhouse?” She looks me up and down. “Well, do you?”
I struggle for an answer. I struggle even to think. She expects me to wilt, like I’ve done so many times before.
Grandmama takes my silence for assent and marches for the door. “Come along.”
I don’t move.
“Stop dallying.”
I refuse to budge. I don’t wish to end up in the poorhouse. But how can we live a life funded by our grandmother’s traitorous acts?