Chapter 39
Edith arrives two days before the wedding on a train that pulls into Grand Central Station.
Katherine is waiting for her, face upturned, soaking in the warm rays of sunlight that stream down from the windows high above, illuminating the marble floors. Sometimes she wonders how the sun can reach its rays through all smog and dust of the city to light everything up so brightly. She looks away, however, when the train pulls in, blinking as she scans the windows, seeking for a hope of her sister.
There's still something irrational deep inside of Katherine's chest that is determined that Edith won't step off the train, that she'll shun her like the rest of the family has. But she does, carrying a particularly stylish carpet bag that is, in Katherine's opinion, far too large for a stay of four days. She doesn't hug Katherine when she opens her arms, instead taking the opportunity to hand the carpet bag to her sister. The inside of Katherine's mouth tastes sour and metallic, like rejection.
Still, it's going to take more than that to dull Katherine's mood. Her sister is here and she's getting married to the love of her life in less than two days.
By the time they reach the restaurant, however, Katherine seems to have exhausted all possible topics of conversation, faced with the icy wall of Edith's monosyllabic replies. Katherine orders them both drinks, then asks Edith about her summer, which had been spent, it turns out, mostly alone at the school, as most of the other girls returned home.
Edith breezily gives Katherine a thumbnail sketch of her summer, ruled over by the odious housemistress Mrs. Pinks and in the company of the only two other girls who hadn't returned home for the summer, Rosa Nelson and Emily Powell. Rosa was only nine, and therefore, according to the playground politics, a completely unsuitable companion, and Emily Powell apparently had rather unfortunate ears. Katherine privately wonders what exactly it is about a person's ears that could cause Edith to deem them 'unfortunate', but decides that it's probably better not to ask.
"So," Edith says, coming to the end of her little speech, "summer there was awful. I hope Father has the house finished before long. I should rather die than spend many more holidays there."
Katherine nods. Living a life so closely intertwined with the newsies has changed her perspective beyond repair, to the point where she wants to shake her little sister for her lack of gratitude. She doesn't, though. Instead, sipping at her drink, she makes an offer.
"You could stay with Jack and I, at Christmas, if you like."
Edith frowns, clearly blindsided. "Doesn't he want your first married Christmas to be just the two of you?"
"We'll have about thirty newsies invading our house on Christmas Day anyway;" Katherine laughs, "one more person isn't going to make a jot of difference to Jack. Besides, you know he loves you to pieces."
She's just on the wrong side of too nervous to meet her little sister's eyes as she makes the offer, so Katherine studies the menu in front of her with intensity. She's never looked so interested in different types of pasta whilst simultaneously not caring about them in the slightest. When she finally chances looking up, Edith is staring back at her as if she isn't entirely sure what to do with this information. Finally, the girl nods.
"Only if I'm not imposing."
"You're family." Katherine replies, waving her hand, dismissive, despite having to squash down an internal cheer.
The restaurant, she decides, is probably what sways it – their father had brought them here, once, as children, on Lucy's birthday. They'd had ice cream sundaes (Katherine's was bigger than her head and she'd been sick after, but it was completely worth it) and she remembers that Edith, only about three, at the time, had been mesmerised by the chandelier and the flecks of light that it refracted onto the walls. Katherine hopes that Edith remembers it properly, that the location has something to do with her agreement. It's one of very few happy memories they have, as a family, and she wants, despite it all, Edith to remember Joseph Pulitzer that way, as the father who bought them ice cream sundaes. In Katherine's mind he'll always be overshadowed by the man he's become, but there's still a chance for Edith.
"So?" Edith wrinkles her pretty nose, drawing Katherine out of the past. "Plenty of family are still impositions. Think about Uncle Worthington. It was an imposition every time he stayed."
And, to be fair, she has a point. Katherine is disinclined to speak ill of the dead, but lord knows she's glad that she hasn't had to deal with his nonsense for the three years since his death. Uncle Worthington, having never married (which was a circumstance easily explained by those who knew him, if not those who knew his bank balance) was invited every year, without fail, to Christmas and Easter dinners. Uncle Worthington was a gruff man who had appalling table manners and an accent that dripped with old money. He was perpetually being asked do you know the Bishop of Norwich? and, having consumed the quantities of port that one can assume from that phrase, would promptly fall asleep at the dinner table. One particularly memorable year, this temporary loss of consciousness caused his toupée to slip off his head and into the flame of the candle set in the centre of the dining table. Katherine had been sent to her room without dessert for taking what her mother termed uncharitable delight in another's misfortune.
"Yes, well, you aren't nearly so irritating as Uncle Worthington. You don't fall asleep at the dinner table or correct people's pronunciation. And, our family isn't really that representative. Jack got me to realise that."
"Jack?" Edith frowns. "He doesn't have a family."
"Yes, he does." Katherine replies, the corners of her mouth turning up a little in a sad smile as she reaches across the table to cover Edith's hand with her own. "Jack just had to find his. We're lucky. We've got one already."
It's a family that Katherine grows ashamed of, however, when she introduces Edith to Medda and Daisy in the back room of the theatre where they're going to get ready for the wedding.
"Miss Medda, Daisy, this is my sister, Edith."
"Pleased to meet you." The girl nods to Medda, before turning her gaze on Daisy, looking the woman up and down. "I'm surprised I haven't met you before, if you're going to be Katherine's bridesmaid. What does your father do?"
Daisy looks rather taken aback by the question, shooting a questioning glance over Edith's head to Katherine. Katherine resists the urge to hide her face in her hands at her sister's inability to read the sodding room. What does your father do? To be fair, she can't completely blame her sister, after all, in the kind of circles that Edith is used to moving in, it's a very reasonable question. Still. Maybe they need to have a conversation about tactfulness. Katherine wonders, distantly, when exactly she took on the parental role in this relationship.
"My father's dead." Daisy says, her voice flat.
"I'm very sorry." Edith says, not sounding very sorry at all. She doesn't think she'd mind all that much if her father died, not like she minded when Lucy died. Her father dying would mean that she wouldn't have to go to boarding school anymore, and that she would have a lot of money. It's not like she ever sees him anyway. "What did he do?"
"He worked down at the docks. My ma took in laundry." Edith's expression remains carefully schooled throughout Daisy's pronouncement, but there's something hard in it. "Curious little thing, ain't you?"
All subsequent interactions are similarly tense, though Edith doesn't say anything outright rude until Katherine ushers her into the dressing room to try on her bridesmaid's dress.
"Seriously, Katherine, another child of a dockyard worker? Really?"
And Katherine could deal with Edith's snobbery well enough, goodness knows that two years ago she'd have felt the same, if it wasn't for the word 'another'. Because she knows all too well who that another is referring to. She can't believe Edith, sometimes, after the all the kindness that Jack's displayed towards her, taking her to the park, comforting her after the fire, and this is how she repays him, mocking his parentage?
"Mind your manners." Katherine grits out. She is not going to ruin this over one word.
"Mind whose company you're in." Edith replies, her tone mild, derisive. "She's a showgirl, Katherine."
"And you're rude. Put your dress on –" Katherine says, turning around to hand it to her sister, then stopping mid-sentence, "- is that a corset?"
It's a silly question, really, because of course it is. There's nothing else that looks quite like that. It's an underbust corset, at least, thank goodness, but still. Katherine hadn't worn her first one until she was sixteen.
"Mrs. Pinks got it for me;" Edith says, casual as anything, slipping the offered dress on over her head, "she says it will improve my figure."
"Edith, you're fourteen."
"And?" The girl looks back over her shoulder, daring. Katherine sighs.
"Never mind. Just put your dress on and get sorted."
…
That night, Katherine finds a letter, postmarked as delivered that morning, in her pigeonhole in Miss Morton's hallway.
Dear Katherine,
I hope this letter arrives prior to the wedding; I have sent it in plenty of time, however you know all too well the perils of the transatlantic postal service.
If it does, I urge you to reconsider. I know that you will wish to burn this letter for that mere sentence, but I beg of you, as your mother, to hear what I have to say. Marriage is not the romantic notion you seem to have so eagerly adopted, swayed by good looks and charm. I was like that too, once, if you can believe such things of your father, knowing him as he is now. He was young, handsome, ambitious. He also was courting another woman whilst he was courting me and failed to inform me of his Jewish heritage until after we were married. I tell you these things not to give you further fuel for your hatred of your father, as I know you do not need it, but to inform you as to the nature of men. You are young, so very young, though I know you do not feel it, and you know little of their ways. Your young man will hurt you, if you are not careful. He has already destroyed your reputation, do not let him destroy you as well.
If, however, you are as immovable as you seem, then allow me to give you some advice. Keep a tight hold on your finances, and save whatever dowry your father gives you out of your husband's way, for I fought long and hard for you to have one. Men of his class are too quick to fritter away their pay on drink and bets. You will know, I think, even if you have not fallen already, what to expect from the marriage bed. My only advice is that it will hurt less with time and that you should endeavour not to show your discomfort. It is not something to be gossiped about, and is of less importance than others will make it out to be, as if one is compliant it will go by quite quickly.
I shall try to write to you when I can, though I must insist that when I return from France that you do not approach the house. Your father will not wish to be distressed by your presence. I do, however, hope to return from France soon. The waters and air of Aix-les-Bains have improved my health greatly and most days I am able to emerge from the villa for two or three hours at a time without experiencing tremors. Constance is also benefitting from the climate; she is grown taller and has more colour in her cheeks. She does, however, plague her governess endlessly. I believe she shall grow up to be more like you are than I had hoped.
I beg of you, Katherine, to heed what I have written. It is not often that something changes your life so wholly as marriage does.
Your loving mother,
Kate Pulitzer
It takes until her third read through for Katherine to realise that her mother never once used Jack's name. She burns the letter in the fire, watches it crumple and crinkle and blacken in the fire's invisible fingers as she dresses for bed.
Katherine falls asleep staring at a darkened ceiling, imagining that she can see constellations.
…
Jack is informed, in no uncertain terms, that he will be spending the night before the wedding at the Jacobs'. He grumbles about it, unused to this idea of getting ready with other people, but Davey doesn't give him much of an option. He draws the line, however, when Esther tries to make Les give up his bed for Jack. Not a chance is Jack ruining that cushy little setup that kid has going on with his bedroom, and he puts his foot down, insisting on taking the couch. Which is how Jack ends up, on the night before his wedding, ensconced in the comfortable Jacobs family circle, a fire in the grate and a smile on his face. Mayer has fallen asleep in his chair by the fire, which means that he can finally relax and pay attention to the flurry of questions that Les is throwing at him.
"Have you ever stolen an apple?" Les asks, thoughtful, from his place on the rug where he's playing some sort of snap with Sarah that features different types of fruit on the cards.
Jack wonders whether it's possible for the bottom of your stomach to just drop straight out of you. He flicks his eyes to Esther. Lie, Kelly, you're good enough at it.
"I plead the fourth." Jack laughs, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
"It's the fifth, you nitwit." Davey grins, and just like that, what he's said is funny and not evasive, putting all the blame onto Les and his interrogations.
"'S why I keeps you around, ain't it?" Jack punches Davey's arm, then regrets the gesture, even as gentle as it was, his eyes flicking back to Esther. "You's my lawyer an' all that."
"I am never defending you in court." David snorts.
"Rude. Why not?"
"Because you would definitely be found guilty."
Oh, Dave, if only you knew. If only you knew how often I've been found guilty. Jack hopes, a sick kind of shame in his stomach, that none of the Jacobs ever figure out quite how many times he's been got up in front of a judge.
"How dare you." Jack claps a hand to his heart and gasps in mock dismay. Les giggles. "I'd be innocent."
"Unlikely," Davey raises his eyebrows, "and even if you were, you'd annoy the judge enough to be held in contempt of court."
"Lotsa people hold me in contempt, ain't done me no harm 'fore now."
Esther laughs at that and something proud blooms inside of Jack's chest at the sound. He hopes that her laughter means that she doesn't know about how many apples he's actually stolen, and how many times he's actually annoyed a judge. Because this, a family around the fire, laughing – he thinks that it's something that he could get used to. He can't wait until this is him and Kath.
Eventually, however, Les is shepherded off to bed and Mayer is roused from his slumber by the fire. Davey claps him on the shoulder before following suit. Sarah, however, is slower to gather herself, picking at the threads she's weaving together with her needle.
"Are you nervous?" She asks, as Davey heads toward the bedroom that he and Les share.
"Nah, not really." Jack grins, stuffing his hand in his hair. "I's wanted it for so long I's jus' ready for it to happen, now."
Esther reappears in the doorway, having successfully tucked (or, more likely, wrangled) Les into bed and places her hand on Jack's shoulder. He flinches, the touch unexpected, the doorway being behind the sofa where he's sat, but frankly he's counting it as a win that he's managed to remain seated and hasn't thrown himself to the other side of the room.
"Are you alright, Jack? You've got everything you need? Blankets-"
"I's jus' swell, ma'am, thank you." He cuts her off.
It's a strange feeling, being fussed over. Katherine does it, naturally, but it's different, coming from her. She's a little more subtle about it, a little more teasing in a way that helps him to feel a little bit less like she's saving him all over again. Esther has no such qualms. It's pleasant, don't get him wrong, but it's not something he's used to. It's not something he trusts.
"Jack-"
"Sorry, sorry, Esther." Jack laughs a little, ducking his head. "I really 'ppreciate you openin' your home to me."
"You know that you're always welcome. Just come and find us if you need anything, okay?"
"Thank you."
"Sarah," Esther raises her gaze to her daughter, curled in the armchair, and gives her the kind of look that Jack isn't entirely sure what it means, "don't be too long."
"I won't." Sarah meets her mother's eyes in something like defiance.
Lines appear on Esther's forehead and she purses her lips a little, but she does nothing more than give Jack's shoulder a final squeeze and retire to bed. Jack stares into the fire, his eyes boring into smouldering embers, unsure of quite how to talk to Sarah. He only has two ways of talking to girls. He has flirting (which would be entirely inappropriate given that he's getting married tomorrow and she's his best friend's sister) and he has the way that he talks to Katherine, which is something like flirting, except that, you know, he's ridiculously, pathetically in love with her and would be quite content to do nothing other than talk to her for the rest of his days.
"You're sure that you'll be happy?" Sarah finally asks, continuing to work at a piece of lace, her feet tucked up under her in the cradle of the armchair.
"Well, nobody can ever be sure o' that, can they?" He shrugs. "I jus' know Kath's the one I wanta work on bein' happy with."
So, Sarah gets up and goes to bed, and thinks enough, because it's not the easy decision, but it's the right one.
And Jack lies on the sofa in the Jacobs' living room, staring at a ceiling cross-crossed with beams, and thinks about how, this time tomorrow, he'll be married to the love of his life; because it's not been easy, him and Katherine, but it's right.
...
Author's note: They get married in the next chapter. Get excited. Comments, as always, make my day.
The details given in the letter about Joseph Pulitzer are historically accurate. 'Do you know the Bishop of Norwich?' was a question asked when a man, having poured himself a glass from the port bottle, failed to pass the bottle along to the person next to him, thus preventing the beverage from circulating around the table. The person being asked would say 'no' and then the asker would reply with 'terribly nice fellow, but he always forgets to pass the port', as a subtle hint to make the person pass the port. This is one of my favourite historical facts and I just had to get it in somewhere (and I have been at a very posh dinner where it was used, though I'm sad to say that it was not me who did the asking).
