A Trip to North Yorkshire

New York, 1896

Alice Goldstein

New York, 1896

     I clamber into the carriage, steadying myself on the small wooden door, and slide in next to Father on the dark leather seat. The door clicks shut behind me and as the carriage bounces along, I can hear the sharp clicking of horses' hooves on the rain-splattered cobblestones. Out of the window, my eyes flick over the New York street; Men in dark coats with bent heads, women hustling along with children clutched in their arms, all avoiding the fat drops beginning to fall from the gray, wet sky ever so characteristic to March on the East Coast.

     I turn to Father. His face is angular and aged, arched eyebrows and a hooked nose making it almost solemn in appearance. Though Father is only forty years old he appears to be much older, lines of worry creasing his face. For years he has spent time investing in railways all over America, an affair that brings in hundreds of dollars a year, or in my mind, enough to buy me lacy gloves galore. At nineteen, Father and Mother have tried to pawn me off for marriage copious times, not once succeeding. Marriage will come later. For now, I hope to study, perhaps to become an author or a historian, and to attend a fine university. We have the money to send me away, and I'm sure my sixteen year old sister Rose could be the one to marry a rich man. She would actually like that; I, on the other hand, have higher goals.

     "You fetched me from French lessons early," I say pryingly. "I'm sure Madame Legrande wouldn't appreciate that." Hopefully this is enough to cajole him into telling me his reasoning.

      "Your mother and I have . . . news to dicuss with you. And Rose. At home." His pursed lips and seeming conviction tell me the matter is closed. At this point, the fretting side of me that Mother says came from my grandmother starts in, and I worry about family death, bankruptcy, disease. Or persecution - Jews in New York can earn money, but not always respect.

     By the time we reach the house, the rain is a full fledged downpour. Still pitted with dread, I hurry behind Father out of the carriage and enter the doorway, utterly sodden. Normally I would have scrambled upstairs to perhaps bathe and change into a different dress, but Father herds me into the living room instead.

    Mother and Rose are perched on a deep red velvet lounge, Mother with her lips pinched tightly into her signature terse smile. Rose, on the other hand, looks positively jubilant, her usual simpering persona turned into something far more bubbly.

    "Alice!" Mother sits up quickly. "Let me get you something? You must be cold. Tea?" she offers almost apologetically. I watch as father sinks slowly into a wooden rocking chair, hands crossed daintily. It dawns on me that I am probably the only one unaware of whatever new occurence has reached our undesirably uneventful lives.

     "No, I'm . . . not thirsty," I say, my eyes dubiously darting from one family member to the next.

     I am not a particularly patient or leniant young woman, and there's nothing I dislike more than feeling uninformed or naive.  "Father said we had business to discuss. Would anybody care to tell me  what has happenned?" As the governess always taught us, it's a rudiment of being a good daughter to never speak out so blatantly, but I can't help it.

     "Yes, of course, Alice darling. You see, your father recently was contacted by a wealthy business connection of his currently living in England. If you remember, you once met his daughter. Margaret. She's a year older than you. You were young . . . " Mother is forthright and sharp, and like myself, isn't one for dillydallying.

     I remember Margaret. They had visited us once years ago, for dinner. I have blurred memory fragments of us playing outside by the house, with new dolls that her father had brought us.

      "They used to live in Massachusetts, and I collaborated with Mr. Clarke," Father continues gruffly. Already he is dragging on a deflated cigar, the air around him stale and musty. "They are Jewish as well." He takes a long sip of bitter air and blows it our from between of his chapped lips in a thin stream of smoke. "Mr. Clarke left this country eight years ago when his daughter married an English Duke."

     As Mother speaks, I begin anxiously fingering my pearl bracelet. I am almost certain of what is coming next.

     "As Jews in America, no matter how much money your father earns, we still cannot earn much respect or appreciation; there's only so far we can go. In England, however . . . "

     "We're leaving for England? Just to be more. . . more famous?" I spit harshly. They can't tear me from my life, my routines. I have goals here that must be accomplished. The university? A writer?

       "No, Alice, not quite that . . . "

      This time it's Rose who pipes up. "Alice, don't fret so! It's just the two of us. We'll spend a season over in England, stay with Mr. Clarke, and look for a suitable husband! It's an opportunity for our family's status. And imagine! Once we're married off, we'll be rich and respected! And just think of the men we'll meet . . . " She floats off into her reverie, elated with girlish joy.

      A season in England with my sister, in pursuit of something that doesn't matter to me in the least; social standing. I specialize in my studies, not in flirting and fawning. And this is all with the bidding of two heinous traitors; Mother and Father.

     I am not exhilerated. I am furious.