A Sisterhood of Secret Ambitions, page 3
I leaned forward. I did not have the stamina I’d gained during training. “So sorry, Mary. I’m in a rush.” I pressed a muscle cramp at my waist.
Mary knew me well enough to laugh and not shush me like she would have when I started coming here. “I’ll take them to the back.”
“Thank you! You are positively berries. The bee’s knees. But now I’ve really got to go.” I glanced at the clock. Only seven minutes late if I hurried.
“The new Sherlock Holmes has come in,” Mary teased. “Twelve short stories about our favorite detective.”
I stopped. It was as though my love of books were a cage I’d been trapped inside. I shook at these invisible metaphorical bars and tried to make them see sense. The society was expecting me, and what if the mission was an urgent one where someone needed me right now or they would die?
But Sherlock was so smart and grumpy.
“Really?” I turned.
Mary grinned. “I’ll grab it for you.”
In for a penny … “And the next of that Rosebound series, if you could. It ended on a cliff-hanger, and I need to know if Dora survives.”
“I just shelved it. You know where to go … that is if you have the time.”
I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes late. But it was no use. “All right, but I’ll be as quick as possible. I really am in a rush.”
“While you’re up,” Mary said, “do you mind taking these to returns?”
I laughed. I knew exactly which charming technique she’d used on me, and while Mary was not a member of the society (that I knew of anyway—they kept our numbers under a strict need-to-know basis and women of all races were accepted), she might as well be for how well her technique worked on me.
“On it.” I picked up the bag of books I’d just dumped on her and ran it back to the return desk, where Carla, who has never liked me, looked up from her round glasses and shushed me so hard I could see spittle erupt from her lips. I lowered my shoulders, properly shamed. I knew the rules of libraries; these were sacred hallowed spaces, and she was 100 percent correct that I needed to be quiet to preserve the peace of my fellow patrons, so I made my steps as quiet as possible as I walked—no, rushed—quietly into the Adventure section.
A wave of peace sent me still. I traced my fingers across the bindings of the Jules Verne novels I’d read so many times that just seeing them felt like coming home, grabbed the next Rosebound, and then the next one just in case it too ended in a cliff-hanger, and then because I was already late I grabbed a book that had a stunning cover without even reading the synopsis, and then okay maybe one more just in case, and then raced back to Mary’s desk.
“I pulled you a few more,” she said as she showed me the cover of the first one. Langston Hughes.
Poetry. Glorious. I raised both hands. “I’ll take them all.” I didn’t have time today for our usual run-through, where we chatted about each book. Besides it didn’t really matter what they were. I’ve never met a book I didn’t like. Large tomes of dry history, that, truth be told I actually loved reading; law books, which were complex, dull, and endlessly fascinating all in the same sentence. Poetry, pamphlets, and prim readers. And of course the words of our First Lady Abigail Adams. She founded the society, and her words were the quiet melodies to which the society danced.
I should have left right away. No matter the length of the assignment, the society would have all the books I would need. My heels bounced against the ground as she stamped each card and slid it back into the sleeve. If only there was a way to make this go quicker.
Stamp. Close.
Stamp. Close.
Mary looked up, her stamp hovering above the Sherlock I could not leave behind. “Any new poems?”
I shook my head and pushed her hand holding the stamp down on the card. “Please move faster.”
She chuckled, and I looked at the clock without really seeing it.
I had actually written several new poems, but none were ready for anyone else’s eyes. I’d only ever showed her the one, but then once I got back home I lit that poem on fire because it was nowhere near good enough, no matter her kind words.
She slid me my stack.
Eight books in less than eight minutes. “Thank you!” I swept them back into my bag and hoofed it out of the library, my T-straps slapping against the wood floors so loudly I made Carla shush me all over again and Mary laugh so hard she had to cover her mouth.
“Sorry,” I shouted.
Outside the gentle drizzle had turned to a full pour, so I stuck the bag under my coat to protect the books, and I grinned. That might be the record for my fastest-ever library visit. This visit was so quick it was an absolute triumph. I should write a poem about how perfectly well this went.
But I was now fifteen minutes late.
And I’d have to run through the rain.
* * *
Mrs. Allen’s home was filled with elegant coiffed girls I’ve known since we were children, sitting in perfect rows reading stapled stacks of papers. I entered soaked as a wet rat dumped from a hurricane; just completely out of breath and fighting the rising acid of a good upchuck, about twenty minutes late. I ducked out of my wet coat and hung it on the coat stand, checked to make sure my books had made the journey without damage, and then I shook out the rest of me like I owned the place.
Bea waved from her chair near the window, and Mira put her legs down from the seat they’d saved for me. As I crossed the room, some of the girls shot me worried looks or said hello, but Greta muttered something about my clinging dress to her friends, and from the look in her eye, I knew it wasn’t the dress she was mocking; it was the body beneath it.
I stopped in front of her fancy friends and glared. We’d just worked together not a month ago at the Chat, and now she sat with her friends like I hadn’t trusted her with a Beretta aimed at my shoulders.
“Oh good,” I said. “It’s just you all. I thought there’d be some real competition.” I wrung out my wet hair and dripped all over her papers, and then I smiled as I stepped over the ankle Greta had stuck out to trip me as I made my way to my friends.
I dumped my bag under the chair and sat. “What’d I miss?”
“It’s a lifelong,” Bea said. She handed me my own stack of papers.
“Yeah? What’s his name?”
“They don’t say.”
Odd. I glanced through the papers. It was a questionnaire all about our likes and interests, and how we’d handle different charming situations. We’ve taken assessment tests before, but this was massive: eight pages front and back, including questions about Shakespeare, world economics, and long division.
“They’re being all hoity-toity about it too,” Mira said. “Matrons popping in to watch us answer the questions.”
There were maybe twenty girls in the room. As I studied them, I noticed who among the Wives-to-be had not been invited, and who was here. They’d brought in girls from different chapters across the country. Girls I’d only seen once or twice but knew by reputation. Girls of all races, religions, and socioeconomic status.
All the top-tested Wives.
Each of us would one day marry a man the society would make influential. A good man, worthy of the title. Someone smart and charming. Someone who would listen and fight against injustices as he led business empires or media conglomerates. Someone we would encourage to be braver, calm if we needed to, and change his mind if circumstances demanded it. We were to be the voice and the chance of representation our founding fathers wouldn’t give to us.
These girls were the only ones who understood my life, and they were also the only ones who could keep me from it.
“And it’s timed,” Bea said. “We’ve got ten more minutes.”
Jeepers. I grabbed the pen, and I raced through the answers like I was running down the street, but even as I frantically tried to catch up, a small part of me kept thinking of what this could possibly mean. My friends and I had charmed many young men the society would one day help place in positions of power, but we’d never been assigned someone above a priority five. My own brother had been a priority four, who, by his own compassion and a few of my mother’s machinations, had made himself a priority three. He was on a path to becoming a justice one day.
And wouldn’t I be so proud then?
But this test had to be for someone higher.
I did my absolute best, as quickly as possible, with adrenaline racing through my veins. My friends might tease me for this, but I’ve always loved a test. It felt so good to be challenged, to use every aspect of my thinking and capacity.
This could be my shot at something more for my life. I would fight to prove my life could matter. Mira lowered her shoulder so Bea and I could check our answers on the math; Bea glanced over our recipes, correcting how much flour I’d need for cookies and scratching out yeast on Mira’s; and I made sure they could read my answers on Shakespeare to tweak theirs in their own voices.
And then it was over. A Matron collected our papers, and I sat damp and shivering in the window draft. One by one they called girls in, and then one by one those girls either returned to the chairs or they collected their coats and left.
When Bea was called in, Mira and I waited with fingers crossed until she came out smiling. Mira strutted to answer her called name with more confidence than any other girl here, only to return a few minutes later trembling like a mouse as she walked back to her seat.
And then they called me.
I swallowed and walked into the same dining room where they’d once given me my title.
Three Matrons sat around the table, while the woman at the center of the table studied a picture of my face and my test marked in red. I took the only spare chair. I knew Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Alvarez of course, but I’d never met the woman holding my assessment. She was white and plump, with light brown hair twisted into a bun, and she looked down at my assessment like I wasn’t sitting in front of her. I recognized her as one of the Matron heads from the Midwest chapter. Mrs. Brown if my research was correct.
I tucked my rain-ruined hair behind my ears.
“She’s a stout girl,” Mrs. Brown said, referring to the larger size of clothing that fit my body.
“And proud of it,” I answered, refusing to duck my chin. “Although I prefer the word buxom actually. Or voluptuous. Like a romantic painting. Statuesque is another word I enjoy…” I trailed off when they glanced up at me.
“Prone to speeches,” Mrs. Brown said.
“You get used to it,” Mrs. Alvarez said with a slight teasing smile that I returned. Mrs. Alvarez was the most compassionate of our two chapter head leaders. She looked great in her light tan wool dress, it set off the deep brown of her skin nicely as she handed Mrs. Brown my best photo from the file.
Mrs. Brown still didn’t look at my face. “Quite pretty.”
“Thank you,” I answered, though it wasn’t a question.
Mrs. Allen tapped the papers. “She’s Nathaniel Fawcett’s sister.”
Mrs. Brown collected my papers like an answer had been reached. She looked up and smiled at me. “Go retake your seat, Elsie.”
I should have been grateful, dutiful, and obedient like I’d been trained. But my emotions were rumbling like a storm in my chest and I didn’t move. “You don’t want to ask me any questions?”
Mrs. Brown was already moving on to the next girl’s file. “We know enough.”
“I could quote Shakespeare if you like? Or demonstrate a flirtation, or I could tell you the history of our society, name all the chapter heads from Abigail Adams on down.”
“I’m sure you could. But with your family—”
“—I am more than just my brother’s sister.”
They were quiet.
But I couldn’t be. “I need my life and my brain to matter as much as my brother’s will. Do you understand?”
They were quiet. Mrs. Brown wrote something she wouldn’t let me see on my file.
“Go sit back down, Elsie,” Mrs. Allen said. “Before we change our mind.”
I stood reluctantly and left the room. Bea and Mira stared at me. I nodded and retook my seat next to them, but then I couldn’t speak. I felt like I had said something true. Something important.
And yet it was like they forgot me already.
When there were only seven girls left in the parlor chairs, Mrs. Brown entered the room with the Matrons following behind her like baby ducks.
“Where is she from again?” Mira whispered.
My friends didn’t do research quite like I did. “She’s one of the heads of the Midwest chapters.”
“Long drive,” Bea said.
She was right. This was a long way to come to meet us. Bea had a talent for noticing things that I’d missed. I clasped both of their hands tight.
The flickering sconce lights traced Mrs. Brown’s face. She was dressed in a blue embroidered work dress, her hair twisted up and her expression warm but weighted as she examined each of us like she was checking the price of groceries and found us marked too high. Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Alvarez hovered behind her, their faces not giving any sign of how we’d done.
“This assignment is a priority one,” Mrs. Brown said without preamble. My stomach dipped. “And as such, this will be a responsibility not only to our society but to the world. It will be high risk, and high stress, so before we go any further, I need you to search your own feelings and capacity to ensure that you can handle such a role. If not, leave now with our blessing and highest regards. Leaving will not affect any future placement, of that I give my word as a Matron. I need to know that you are ready, not only for the task, for the responsibility of the life, but for marriage itself.”
My fingers grew numb and my chest buzzed.
She paused, and we all looked at one another as the weight of her words settled in. A girl grabbed her bag and left silently. Another sat with tears down her cheeks, her knee bobbing. Mrs. Brown watched her as Mira’s hand in mine began to tremble.
“I don’t know,” Mira whispered. “I don’t know.”
Mira was the bravest girl I knew, and this terrified her.
“Am I too young for this?” Bea squeaked at my other side.
They were both terrified, but my heartbeat was steady and my nerves were electric with excitement. Priority one. This was what I wanted. This was the opportunity I’ve always hoped for, but never thought possible. This wasn’t a choice for me—this was a chance to breathe when it sometimes felt like I’d been drowning. This was air. This was the promise of every fairy tale I’d ever read. I didn’t ask myself even for an instant if I was ready. I felt like I’d been waiting for this my whole life.
But I knew I couldn’t do it by myself.
“You stay put,” I said. “Both of you. And we help each other. If we work together, one of us can win and then we lift all our stations higher.”
Bea and Mira both nodded, and we clutched one another’s hands tightly to keep us steady as the crying girl slipped out. And then another girl left.
Until there were only four of us still sitting in the room. The three of us.
And Greta.
Of course it had to be Greta.
Mrs. Brown nodded, and the Matrons locked the doors and lowered the window shades. “His name is Andrew Shaw. Eighteen years old. He’s marked to become president of the United States.”
I leaned against the seat back, my mouth gaping. This was … This was more than an assignment. This was more than meeting my future husband. This was a chance at the most powerful position for a woman in the society. In the world.
And Mrs. Brown had just given it to four of the most ambitious girls I’ve ever met.
I glanced at my friends. My sisters. Bea’s eyes were glistening, Mira let out a sharp laugh and then covered her mouth. Across the room, Greta’s eyebrows lowered, already scheming.
My competition.
Any one of us could have a life more impactful than I ever dreamed.
All we had to do was make one man fall in love with us first.
CHAPTER THREE
The rain had cleared by the time the Helpers dropped me back home. I had an hour to pack before someone was coming to drive us all to our target’s hometown.
Before the priority one, my friends and I would have walked home, Mira stopping in the wealthiest section of town, Bea and I moving farther, and then Bea walking the rest of the way home on her own. But now, the night was deemed too dangerous for the woman whom we might become. We were now precious to the society, much more than before. So now we needed to be protected.
I was going to charm a priority one.
How positively nifty was that?
The only thing that soured my excitement was our Helper Elizabeth’s slumped posture and heavy sighs. A few gentle questions later, and she’d opened up to us. Poor thing. Her mother was ill. Bea and I were able to talk through her feelings for most of the drive. It must be so difficult to carry all her mother’s heartbreak and illness, when she was already holding up from her own struggles.
If I wasn’t leaving so soon, I would have stopped in on both Elizabeth and her mother in the next week.
The car hit a bump, and Bea and I jostled into each other. Bea stared out the window.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. She didn’t have an ill mother too, did she?
“Nothing.” Bea shook her head, and I knew it was because she didn’t like the attention centered on her. Bea preferred to be the one who helped others.
I just looked at her, and the silence turned into the prompting she needed.
“It’s just … It feels like you all are so much better at this than I am.”
“That’s not true. I’ve seen your scores; you are brilliantly charming.”
“I know. Still…” The car’s tires crunched through pebble road as Elizabeth pulled into my neighborhood. “It sometimes feels like you all are leaving me behind.”
