A SUITABLE WOMAN (excerpt)

by Sunny Mason

Arriving at the French modiste, Le Cler, the elegant sanctuary of silk and refinement, and most certainly gossip, Amanda stood silent, gathering her thoughts. The air smelled faintly of lavender and starch, but it was thick with whispers. As she had suspected, she met an unwelcome sight, a former school mate, known less for her wit than for her dulcet cruelty, stood poised upon the fitting dais, receiving a final adjustment to an extravagant new ball gown in gleaming crimson silk.

Standing here among the dreamy notioned illusions, Amanda Lytchfield found her thoughts wandering to her mother’s fervent words on matrimony and oft-repeated aspirations, held on her behalf, echoing in her head.

“Amanda, my darling, you could bring scandal upon our family name. Don’t you see? I accepted your pursuit of education, but working? No fitting husband will want a wife who is not devoted.” 

Ever mindful of propriety and position, her mother considered it most unsuitable—indeed, bordering on scandalous—that a young woman of Amanda’s station should entertain notions of employment, let alone work at the family owned bank. 

Twisting a hanging thread on her sleeve, chest tightening, she pushed the thoughts away. Determined to protect her independence, especially from the impending debutante season, a veritable marriage market, after all, there was no need to marry, unless she chose to—which, at present, held no interest.

Finding her resolve, Amanda drew in a steadying breath, her heart quickening and her gloved fingers tightening imperceptibly at her sides. She had come merely to retrieve her own modest frock and had hoped, perhaps in vain, to escape the barbed tongues she knew might be present. Chin held high, she made way to the register.

“I’m here to collect my package. Under the name…Miss Lytchfield ,” she said to modiste behind the counter. The honorific tasted of acid on her tongue. Miss. Not Missus.

A loud peel of laughter drew Amanda’s attention. Turning, a face, recognizable and one she disliked, commented. It was obvious that Amanda’s gown was not one suitable for a ball. The laugh followed by remarks, sharp as a winter’s icy draft, pricked at her ears.

“Amanda’s dress cannot be intended for the upcoming season—why, it’s so plain, like a mere day dress, not a ball gown at all.”

The voice, now rising, continued.

“You know Amanda Lytchfield—she’s educated,” the words mocked.

“So very high and mighty, is she not? She deigns to participate in the season and even professes to disavow marriage. I’ve heard tell she refers to it as a constraint upon the spirit of women. I wonder if she shall ever find a husband, poor creature?” The volume pitched deliberately, ensuring all within earshot might heed the remarks.

Though stung, Amanda maintained her composure against the sniggling. Gathering her package with haste, she sought refuge from the cruel on-dits, quickly departing the dressmakers only to be embraced by bitter temperatures, which was no match for the sting of gossip that lingered. Adjusting her bonnet and scarf to shield against the wintry assault, she quickened her pace as she made her way along the frost-glazed avenue’s footpath on her way back toward the bank. It wouldn’t do to be late back from her lunch hour.     

Crossing the familiar threshold, Amanda felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Here, among ledgers and accounts, she was herself. The hushed order of the place soothed her, a welcome reprieve from society’s relentless scrutiny. In her small office, she set aside her belongings, lowered herself into the comfort of her well-worn chair, and let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.

Her musings were interrupted as one of the tellers entered her office in an agitated state.

“Madame, might I trouble you to come to the counter? We have a customer issue.” He fidgeted nervously, wringing his hands as he spoke. “I deeply apologize for the intrusion.” His voice trembled.

“What seems to be the matter?” Amanda inquired, her tone calm but resolute.

“It’s Mrs. Wilson. She claims to have a bank box and wishes to deposit something in it, but the box appears to be in her husband’s name. Her name is absent from the card, and I explained that I couldn’t grant her access.” The teller handed Amanda a file card bearing Mr. Wilson’s signature, the words Private—Mr. Wilson’s Use Only plainly inscribed.

Amanda scrutinized the card. “If she has a key, she is entitled to access the box.”

“Alas, that is the issue. She doesn’t hold the key.”

Amanda rose briskly. “I’ll be right there.” She gave the quivering young teller a pleasant and reassuring smile.

With haste, she unlocked the door to another room lined with filing cabinets. Moving swiftly, she opened the drawer of one and searched through the cards for Mrs. Wilson’s file. Mrs. Wilson and her husband were members of the bank’s board, and Amanda was acutely aware of Mr. Wilson’s disdain for her position. He had made no effort to conceal his views.

“A position of authority should be reserved for a man,” he had once declared to Loyd, Amanda’s father and bank president, without so much as a shred of logic to justify his opinion.

A misstep in this matter might well furnish Mr. Wilson with the necessary ammunition to lodge a formal grievance against her before the board. She was resolved, therefore, to observe the bank’s protocols with the most scrupulous exactitude.

At length, a smile of triumph graced her countenance. “Yes!” she whispered to herself. Mrs. Wilson’s card had been erroneously filed amongst the M’s—her Christian name being Marian.

To Amanda’s profound relief, Marian Wilson maintained her own private bank box, entirely separate from her husband’s. It was Amanda herself who had recently instituted a new policy, permitting all patrons, including women, to rent bank boxes in their own right. This innovation, however, had been met with no small measure of disdain by Mr. Wilson, who had taken it upon himself to grumble to Loyd regarding Amanda’s growing influence over the bank’s affairs. “I desire the bank to be managed with propriety, and now a woman is dictating policy,” he’d complained.

Greatly relieved to have located the misplaced card, Amanda departed the file room, taking care to secure the door behind her before making her way to the teller’s counter, where Mrs. Wilson stood in waiting, her arms folded, her handbag dangling, and her foot tapping with evident impatience. Her pinched expression spoke volumes of her vexation.

Amanda greeted her with a warm, conciliatory smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Wilson,” she began, bracing herself for the torrent of displeasure she knew would follow.

“Well, young lady,” Mrs. Wilson began sharply, “I do hope you have an explanation for this absurdity. This young man knows nothing. He claims I don’t have a bank box. I assure you, I most certainly do.”

“I must apologize for the inconvenience, Mrs. Wilson,” Amanda replied evenly. “It seems your card was misfiled, and I regret the oversight. However, I’ve located it, and I’m happy to assist you now.” She produced the card, holding it up for Mrs. Wilson to see.

Mrs. Wilson’s expression softened, though her tone retained its sharp edge. “Well, that’s more like it. However,” she added brusquely, “I appear to have misplaced my key, and I require access to my box.”

“Of course,” Amanda said, maintaining her composure. “Please allow me a moment to retrieve the spare key.” She gestured toward a pair of upholstered chairs near the entryway. “Why not make yourself comfortable while you wait?”

After retrieving the key and leading Mrs. Wilson to the secure vault, Amanda unlocked the door and guided her to her box. “Once you’ve finished, please return the key to me before your departure,” she instructed with firm but courteous authority.

Later, Mrs. Wilson appeared at Amanda’s office, handing back the key with a measured expression. Amanda invited her to sit, prepared for whatever critique might follow.

“Amanda, I’m obliged and must thank you for sorting out this morning’s difficulties,” Mrs. Wilson began, though her voice still carried a note of exasperation. “However, you must appreciate the considerable inconvenience I’ve endured.” She paused, her gaze sharp. “You’re no doubt aware that I am no ordinary customer—I hold a seat on the board with my husband.”

Rising with an air of authority, Mrs Wilson bestowed a final remark. “Permit me to say this, to conduct business with a woman is a rare pleasure, indeed. However, you must be better than your male counterparts. No missteps shall be tolerated.”

***

 After a busy day at the bank, Amanda made her way home, carefully cradling the new dress she’d collected during her lunch hour. Treading carefully upon the frozen sidewalk leading to Lytchfield House, the family’s stately residence, she heard approaching footsteps behind her. Turning swiftly, she met her father’s familiar countenance.

“Oh, Father! Did you enjoy your walk?” Amanda inquired.

“A fine walk, albeit a brisk one,” Loyd replied, his breath visible in the frosty air. His gaze fell on the parcel Amanda carried. “Ah, I see you have retrieved the garment you mentioned.”

Amanda’s face lit with a radiant smile. “Indeed, I have! I mean to wear it to dinner this evening. It’s a rare pleasure to make a purchase with one’s own earnings.”

Her father’s expression softened, pride glimmering in his eyes. Amanda felt her heart warm at his approval. He’d been steadfast in his support of her new role as Vice President of Lytchfield-Moorings Bank, their family-owned establishment situated in the bustling heart of booming downtown St. Louis.

Side by side, they quickly ascended the porch of the newly constructed mansion, stately and comfortably appointed, with every modern convenience of the age. Evelyn, their housekeeper, appeared at the door to greet them.

“Good evening, Mr. Lytchfield. Good evening, Miss Amanda.” She motioned for them to enter. “I trust the day treated you well?” she said warmly, holding the door open against the biting chill. “Dinner shall be served shortly.”

“Good evening, Evelyn.” Father and daughter spoke in unison as they stepped indoors, grateful to be inside enveloped in the warmth.

Amanda deposited her winter coat and package at the base of the staircase before hurrying to the kitchen, eager to lend her assistance. Already, her younger sisters, Clara and Charlotte, were bustling about under their mother’s direction.

Clara, the youngest, whom Amanda adored yet often found exasperating, wasted no time in pressing a basket of bath buns into her hands. “Amanda, place these on the dining table, if you please.”

Rubbing her chilled hands together, Amanda furrowed her brow at Clara’s boldness. She had only just arrived home after a hard day’s work, after all! Yet, despite her mild vexation, she admired her sister’s audacity, a quality she both loved and lamented. Clara, with her pale hair, mischievous blue eyes, and charm as irresistible as it was deliberate, wielded her wit with startling sharpness. With a wry smile, Amanda took the basket.

“I shall indulge you this once,” Amanda said lightly.

Clara grinned impishly. “Why, dearest sister, I merely wanted to afford you the pleasure of joining the fun.”

Amanda shook her head but smiled, nonetheless. Meanwhile, Charlotte, the middle sister and Amanda’s confidante, was carefully transferring a dessert onto a glass cake stand destined for the dining room. Charlotte, though delicate in appearance, possessed an inner strength that Amanda admired. She was traditional to a fault, hesitant to embrace the changes of the modern world, but her gentle spirit was a source of comfort to Amanda.

“How was your day, Amanda?” Charlotte inquired, her voice gentle, a subtle attempt to ease the tension.

“Save for one minor skirmish, it was quite pleasant,” Amanda replied with a playful smile.

With her sister’s directive in mind, Amanda carried the basket into the dining room and arranged its contents neatly, setting it on the table before returning to the kitchen.

“If you don’t mind, I shall retire to my room to freshen up before dinner. All seems well in hand here,” Amanda announced, casting a mischievous glance at Clara before sticking out her tongue in mock defiance.

Clara couldn’t contain her laughter, victorious at having provoked her elder sister into a final show.

“Very well, dear,” their mother chimed in, pausing as she retrieved a salad from the larder. “But do hurry. Dinner is nearly ready.”

Amanda ascended the staircase taking two steps at a time, hurriedly retreating to her room. She quickly donned her new frock, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction. The garment suited her figure splendidly, and although it was loose fitting and comfortable, she felt a swell of pride at her purchase, despite the biting remarks made at the modiste. What did they know anyway? she thought, then descended to the dining room. She had anticipated her sister’s comments regarding the dress, but was met instead with silence. No one remarked on her new investment, unlike the young women at the modiste, which she found a relief.

As the meal progressed, Loyd cleared his throat. Silence fell, and he seized the moment to deliver some news. “A letter arrived today from London,” he began. “It’s from your Aunt Fiona. She has extended an invitation for Amanda and Charlotte to stay with her and attend the Season.”

The announcement was met with astonishment. Janet, their mother, straightened in her chair, her brow furrowing. “Why, my darling?” she asked sharply. “What reason could Fiona possibly have for such an invitation? Why send the girls to London? We have our own Season here, with fine young men.” She hesitated, her frown deepening. “A holiday would surely suffice?”

A surge of indignation struck Amanda. “I see no need to journey to London for the purpose of finding husbands. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own match, should I desire one, here in St. Louis. This notion of a marriage market—Father, is that truly your intention for us? It’s an auction.” Her tone sharpened. “I wouldn’t like to consider subjecting myself to the marriage mart, here or elsewhere.” Then she broke off, deciding not to complain further.

Ignoring Amanda’s protestations, Loyd turned to Charlotte. “And you, Charlotte?” He seemed eager to hear his middle daughter’s thoughts on the matter.

Charlotte hesitated, her expression thoughtful. “It’s a kind offer from Aunt Fiona, though I do not fully understand her reasons. Perhaps she knows eligible gentlemen? Beyond that, the opportunity to visit London and meet Father’s side of the family is most intriguing. But I share Amanda’s reservations about the marriage market. Any gentleman I meet must be willing to come here. I’m not sure how I would feel about living in England, so far away?”

Clara, ever eager for new adventures, interjected. “But Mother, Father, it would be marvelous to travel to London, meet our relatives, and attend grand balls! Why not?”

Loyd smiled faintly, his expression resolute. “Your mother and I shall discuss the matter further and provide you with our decision.”

Amanda’s gaze lingered on her father; she was not disposed to permit this discussion to end with such an unsatisfactory outcome. However, it wasn’t the time to press him further. She sat, perplexed, as she considered her options.

***

The following morning, the Lytchfield household was alive with a curious energy. The invitation to London, though still undecided, weighed heavily in the air. Amanda entered the dining room, her thoughts swirling with concern.

Janet, who’d appeared weary the evening before, now stood by the buffet table with Evelyn, orchestrating the morning meal with care. Plates and dishes containing all means of breakfast food were arranged meticulously, and the aroma of freshly baked scones filled the air.

“Evelyn, the scones, if you please,” Janet instructed, her voice carrying a hint of cheerfulness. “These are a Moorings family recipe, my mother’s pride and joy.”

Approaching the buffet, Amanda filled her plate while watching her mother with a careful eye. She could not help but notice Janet’s improved mood, a stark contrast to her unease at dinner the previous evening. “Good morning, Mother.” She stopped herself from broaching the subject just yet.

“Amanda, dearest, would you like coffee or tea this morning?” Janet inquired, her tone light and cordial.

“Coffee, Mother, thank you,” Amanda replied, taking her seat. As her mother poured her daughter a steaming cup of the dark brew, Charlotte entered the room, her expression expectant.

“Have you decided, Mother?” Charlotte asked hesitantly. “Will we go to London?”

Clara, who had been lingering near the doorway, swept into the room with dramatic flair. “Surely, it must be all of us! Why should Amanda and Charlotte have all the fun? I think it would be splendid to meet Aunt Fiona and attend some balls. Please allow me to go, too!”

Janet, with a calmness Amanda found admirable, shook her head. “Clara, my darling, we have spoken of this. It’s Amanda and Charlotte who have been invited, and such plans must be made with care. Now, please allow your father to speak on the matter.”

At that very moment, Loyd entered the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. He took his customary seat at the head of the table, his expression calm yet decisive.

“My dear daughters,” he began, folding his hands before him, “your mother and I have decided. After much thought, we believe it’s best that Amanda and Charlotte accept Fiona’s kind invitation. You will leave soon, so as to arrive in time not to miss out on to much of the Season. Fiona is prepared to guide you and is eager for your company.”

Charlotte let out a small sigh of anticipation, her smile soft and reserved. “I’m excited to meet Aunt Fiona and see London.”

Amanda, however, felt her stomach churn with unease. “Father,” she began cautiously, “do you really mean for us to try to find husbands so far from home? What if we do not like it—are we permitted to return home?”

“Of course,” Loyd replied firmly. “This is not a punishment, Amanda. It’s an opportunity. Should you find it disagreeable, you may return home, but keep in mind, we want you to accompany Charlotte. However, darling, we’re hoping that you will enjoy this experience. You will meet your family in England, that’s something.”

Clara groaned dramatically. “It’s dreadfully unfair!”

“Clara,” Janet said with firmness, her voice brooking no argument, “your time will come.”

Amanda turned her gaze to Charlotte, who seemed content. Yet Amanda’s mind raced. The idea of being paraded before London society like a piece of merchandise left her indignant, though she felt at a loss to argue further. Everything appeared to be arranged, set in stone.

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled as Amanda observed her sister with quiet scrutiny. Words lingered unspoken on Amanda’s tongue, for she knew any attempt at reason would fall upon deaf ears. Charlotte, though sweet-natured and kind, was endowed with a resolute will; once her mind was fixed, she was immovable—unwavering as the roots of the Lytchfield lineage from which she sprang.

Clara, however, could suppress her frustration no longer. “And what of me?” she demanded, her voice rising, annoyed. “Am I to sit idly by while those two get to venture to London—attending balls, parties, and indulge in all manner of diversions while I remain here with neither company nor amusement? This will just not do.” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, her lower lip pushed forward in a petulant pout.

Janet raised her gaze, a certain sharpness glinting in her eyes. “Dearest Clara,” she began with a measured tone, “it’s not my wish for all my daughters to be away in London at once. As your father has explained, Amanda is the eldest, and it’s only proper that she accompanies Charlotte. You, my darling, will remain here with me. There must be one daughter who remains at home.” She paused, her voice softening. “You can attend the local Season. I should be heartbroken were all my daughters to leave me at once.”

“But why may I not take Amanda’s place?” Clara persisted, her tone perplexed. “Amanda has no desire to go. Isn’t that so, Amanda?” She held her breath.

“Yes, let Clara take my place,” Amanda echoed with quiet resignation. “I’ve no objection.”

“Enough.” Loyd’s voice cut through the air, his authoritative tone silencing further debate. He paused. “Amanda and Charlotte shall go together. Clara, you’ll go another time. For now, you’ll remain here with your mother. Perhaps you may visit her family in New York if the notion appeals to you. But as for London, the matter is settled.” He punctuated his decree with a curt nod before resuming his breakfast. He dipped his toast into the broken yolk of his egg, wholly absorbed in his meal.

The room fell into a tense silence for a few moments before the girls continued their entreaties to Janet, attempting to sway her. Yet their father remained resolute, steadfastly ignoring the muted chorus of protests.

  Presently, Loyd set down his fork and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Amanda,” he said, rising from his chair, “would you like to accompany me on my walk to the office?” His tone was cordial. “I should like your company if you care to join me.”

 Amanda, eager to escape the strained atmosphere, leapt from her seat. “Yes, Father,” she replied, infusing her response with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I’m ready.”

 On the street, Amanda found herself quickening her pace to match her father’s brisk stride. Perhaps, she mused, she might seize the opportunity to broach the subject of her apprehensions regarding London. A fleeting visit, she reasoned, might be all that was required before she could return to her responsibilities.

They walked in silence, the early morning hum of the city enveloping them. Amanda’s heart pounded as she contemplated how best to broach the matter. Her father’s pace seemed even more hurried than usual, his expression inscrutable. Intimidated by his reticence, Amanda hesitated, uncertainty tightening her chest. At last, she drew a deep breath and ventured, “Father, might I speak with you about something?” She hesitated briefly before adding, “Could we slow our pace, a little?”

 Loyd slowed, casting a glance at his daughter. His brow furrowed slightly, though his voice betrayed no irritation. “Of course, my dear,” he said, his tone unexpectedly genial. “What is it that troubles you?”

 Amanda studied his face, her heart pounding. She searched for a sign of his mood. Although he appeared to be in fine spirits, even though it wasn’t the opportune moment, she realized, to revisit her reluctance to embark upon the trip to England, she felt she must address her concerns. “Father, I long to discuss the upcoming trip to London,” she murmured at last.

 Her father regarded her for a moment before resuming his stride.

 Amanda drew a breath, her hands clasped tightly before her. “Who shall take my place during my absence, Father? I confess, I am plagued by the fear that, should I be gone too long, my position at the bank may be quietly dissolved—erased, as if I had never worked there at all. Surely it is not I who ought to accompany Charlotte on this journey. Can you not see the gravity of my concern? Have I failed to impress upon you the importance of my work at the bank?” She paused, her voice catching in her throat. But the silence that followed was unbroken. She stepped forward, urgency rising like a tide in her chest. “If it must be me who attends her, then I entreat you—grant me leave only to see Charlotte safely to London then to return at once. Aunt Fiona is entirely capable of chaperoning her thereafter, is she not?”

Her father, his expression softening with affection and paternal pride, looked at her. “My dearest Amanda, you must not distress yourself. Your diligence, your keen mind—both are treasures the bank cannot easily replace. Rest assured, while you are away, I shall see to your responsibilities myself, with the assistance of the clerks. Upon your return, should you wish to resume your post, it shall be waiting for you, just as before.

“Does this ease your fears?”

She smiled. At least now there was an agreement between them, she could resume her post, after London and she knew her father to be a man of his word.

***

The following day, Amanda and her mother took their luncheon together at a modest little establishment near the bank. The Rose Café, a quaint nook with lace curtains known for its satisfying home-cooked food was nestled beside one of the many breweries that had rather exuberantly appeared throughout the city, thanks to the growing German population. “Mother,” Amanda began with the deliberate charm only a daughter with purpose can wield, “after we’ve finished here, might we stroll over to Miss Mageon’s Millinery Rooms? I dearly wish to procure something becoming for my voyage to England. Though St. Louis is not London — and our fashion is a few years behind — I do believe a fresh bonnet from Miss Mageon would lend my wardrobe just the right note of continental refinement.”

Her mother nodded with agreeable resignation. “That sounds perfectly fine, sweetheart,” she said, though her eyes had wandered across the street and were fixed with a perplexed look. Lifting a manicured hand, she gestured with mild exasperation. “I declare, there are more breweries in this town than grocers these days! The German influx has fixed St. Louis with hops and sausages. First the French with their bread and cheese, now the Germans. Who, I ask you, shall be next? The Scots, with their bagpipes and oatmeal?”

“Mother!” Amanda chided gently, her tone a mixture of amusement and reproach. Eager to redirect the conversation, she leaned forward with a twinkle in her eye. “Have you visited the grand Southern hotel? I read in the newspaper they serve high tea— that would be an enjoyable outing before I depart for London. And I also read that St. Louis now boasts more westward-bound trains than ever before. The city is growing in sophistication! I shall miss it dreadfully whilst I’m away. My only fear is that it shall become unrecognizable by the time I return.”

She cast a glance about her, eyes lingering fondly on the bustle of the street, the clatter of carriage wheels, and the occasional puff of chimney smoke. Her expression softened to something almost poetic — wistful, but without melancholy.

“Shall we go, Mother?” she said at last, gathering her things. “I’ve not much time before I must return to the bank, and I should like to choose a bonnet. Perhaps I’ll select one for Charlotte as well — she has always fancied plum ribbon.”

 Amanda, ever dutiful, settled the luncheon bill. They bundled themselves in their coats and scarves, the wind increasing the already chilly temperature. Arm in arm, they stepped into the blustery afternoon. Washington Avenue, busy as a beehive at midday, stretched before them — they crossed it with the confidence of women who know the worth of a good hat — disappearing into the warm glow of Miss Mageon’s Millinery, where feathers, velvet, and good taste awaited.