The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Yes. Thank you, Mehitable.” Papa always calls my aunt by her first name, because he knows she hates it.

“Annatje. Come. I’ve got that tea you asked for.” She gives me a pointed look.

Still hiccupping with my hysterical laughter, I manage to say, “Thank you, Aunt.”

She moves over and positions me somewhat behind her, steering me to the door with her body between me and my father. I glare at him over her protecting shoulder.

He stands uncertainly, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

“You’ll have her ready to join us on the dais, I trust,” he says to my aunt.

“Indeed. It’s quite a day, today. One we won’t soon forget,” my aunt says before shutting the door on him with finality.

When we’re alone in the dark front hallway, my aunt peers into my face.

“What’s wrong? You can tell me, you know,” she whispers. She tucks my puff of curls behind my ear with her fingers and plucks here and there at my nightgown with concern.

“Auntie,” I say, searching into her face. “Was Mother always this way?”

My aunt glances with alarm up the narrow staircase, I suppose seeing if we’re being observed. Then she sighs.

“She was, in fact,” Mehitable says. “Eleanor’s an ambitious woman. Always was. Why do you think she came down to New-York? You think she’d have been happy as a Connecticut farmwife? Chapped hands? A dozen children underfoot? Up before the dawn? Can you see Eleanor content with morning milking, and nothing more elegant than summers of church picnics and winter sleighing parties? Come now. You know her better than that.”

It’s true. I do know her better than that.

“And why did you come?” I ask, drawing my shawl over my shoulders. My aunt always did like a good sleighing party. And I did, too.

My aunt looks up at the ceiling for a long minute, and shrugs. “She brought me down with her. As a chaperone, you know. When we were girls, after your grandparents died. You don’t get to meet the likes of the Van Sinderens without you have a chaperone to come along. Else, they’re liable to think . . .”

She trails off, and then gives me a wan smile.

“Well. In any case. You’ll be married yourself, soon enough. And just think of the prospects you’ll have, if her plans all come together. Mind you wear that dress we laid out for you today. How lovely you’ll look. Why, we’ll have you married off before Lent.”

She gives my cheek an affectionate pinch, but can’t stop herself from glancing worriedly at the door that hides my father.

“All right,” I say, feigning acquiescence. “I will.”

“That’s my girl,” she says. “Now, shoo.” She flaps the backs of her hands at me to scatter me back up the stairs where I belong.

I slowly haul myself up the staircase. But I won’t be going to my room. I know exactly where I’m going to go. I’ve finally figured it out.

It occurs to me that if my guess is correct, I might not see my aunt Mehitable again. I pause, my hand clutching the banister, and gaze down the stairs at her compact Yankee form, in its many-times-repurposed mantua and practical cap. She’s staring at the drawing-room door with a worried look on her face.

I stare at her. I want to tell her how much I love her. How much I loved visiting her funny little house, when I was small. How much I’ll miss her.

But when I try to form the words, a hot lump stops in my throat, and all I can do is smile at her. As if sensing that there is something that I want to say, my aging little aunt glances up at me and gives me a bright smile.

“You go on, now,” she insists. “Stop dillydallying. It’s time to get ready. Past time.”

We look, smiling, on each other for a long minute.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I know.”

? ? ?

When I reach the landing outside my bedroom door, I huddle into a dark corner. I can hear Beattie in one of the bedrooms, humming. Ed’s out running wild with some of the neighborhood boys. Mother’s upstairs writing letters, Papa is locked in the drawing room.