March 3
I should have trusted my intuition and declined the invitation, and would have done so if Evelyn had allowed it. “You absolutely must come, Sophie. I insist. Everyone will be there. They’ve shipped in pineapples, and the cook is making Peking Duck just for the occasion, and Uncle has invited an Indian chief, so that we might converse with him! Lieutenant Harvey has even promised he will attend.”
And so went my entire evening at the General’s house: I would be engaged in an awkward and grating conversation, and then politely excuse myself so as to stand in some quiet corner of the parlor, only to be drawn back into the crowd. (And I am afraid I am not so fond of Evelyn’s Lieutenant Harvey. He is handsome, but I have always been wary of men so at ease with their own swagger and boast.)
After an hour or so, I quietly told Evelyn that I would leave soon, as I wasn’t feeling well. Here she turned to her entourage of young officers and women in gowns and said, “Oh yes, Mrs Forrester is very tired, and we must all know what that means!” and gave her affected giggle. Everyone laughed, though they had no idea why, and I blushed furiously. What could they take from those words!
As much as I dreaded the evening, I did not expect to feel such discomfort with the appearance of the Indian chief. He is a stately, gracious man, and I came to understand that he and several other chiefs are traveling East to convene with the newly elected President Cleveland, yet the women treated him like a performing monkey, clapping and sighing when he properly used his silverware and exchanged pleasantries. Even as the chief rose from the table to give a small speech thanking his hosts, I overheard two men discussing the so-called Dreamer Religion of Columbia River Indians and how they plot to rid the country of all white people.
“I remember the days when Indians were jailed in the guard house, rather than invited to the General’s table,” one man said with undeniable nostalgia.
The worst part of the evening, however, came when the little Chinese boy was stocking the fireplace in the parlor after dinner. A woman, who I suspect had imbibed more than her share of the General’s wine, stepped backward, tripped over her own gown, and nearly fell over the boy. When she saw that she had drawn the attention of many in the room, she accused the boy, and began slapping at him, even booted him.
“I keep telling Uncle to get rid of him,” Evelyn whispered to me just then.
I pointed out that she had stepped on him; there was nothing he could have done.
“Oh, I don’t care about that. They just make me squeamish, the way they scurry about and never meet your eye. I’d rather have an Irish girl like you have.”
Why do I find it impossible to speak my mind in these instances? I am always hopeful that I have misheard or misunderstood, and then I am held by anger and indecision?—?if I say anything at all, I fear a torrent of emotion will burst forth that will cause embarrassment. I worry too much about offending or rousing conflict.
I suspect, however, that any words would have been wasted. Evelyn would admonish me for being self-righteous. I cannot understand how a woman so bright and engaging can express such ignorance. It makes our friendship a challenge.
Now that I have been brought home by carriage and climbed into my bed, my fury has burned out, and I am left cold and tired. Why do we insist on inflicting more suffering on a world that is already fraught with it? It is here that I must part ways with Father’s romantic spirit, for I suspect that it is a curse of nature, some original instinct that we have failed to shed. And I am no better than others, for in the face of it, I would keep quiet and retreat.
March 8
I am disappointed with Charlotte, for it seems that Evelyn was right about her spying. She doesn’t utter a word in my company, but as soon as she has Mrs Connor’s ear, it seems she must let everything spill.
Newly armed with the knowledge of my maternity, Mrs Connor led the women into my sitting room like an invading force.