Masen household front gate, Lake view-July 1908
The streetcar clattered down the line with a lurch, metal wheels shrieking faintly on the tracks. Edward waited at the corner, satchel slung over one shoulder, gloved hands tucked politely behind his back like he'd been taught. He shifted from foot to foot, shoes polished so sharply they caught the light. His cap was slightly crooked from all the fussing.
Beside him stood his mother, wrapped in her grey wool coat with the fur trim, cheeks pink in the morning chill. She'd insisted on seeing him off, even though the school was hardly ten minutes by tram and he'd been making the journey with the maid since spring.
"Darling, stand still," Elizabeth murmured, fussing with his collar again.
"Mama, it's fine," Edward said, ducking.
She caught his chin and tilted it up. "Don't argue, dear. Your tie's going sideways again."
He sighed through his nose, letting her fix it. She'd already kissed him three times—forehead, cheek, the tip of his nose—and now a fourth print had bloomed faintly on his other cheek. Not red, not bold, but the soft petal-pink of her French rouge. He could smell it still: rice powder and lavender water.
"You've got rouge on me again," he muttered, swiping his mitten across his face.
Elizabeth gasped as if wounded. "Let me see—oh, darling, don't rub it, you'll make it worse!"
He groaned quietly, tilting his head back in long-suffering surrender. "All the boys are going to see…"
"Well, then they'll see how dearly your mother loves you," she said with a smile, reaching up with a lace handkerchief to dab at the smudge.
He bore it nobly. Stoically, even. Like a man off to war.
The streetcar pulled up with a hiss of brakes. Edward's nanny, who had been standing discreetly to one side with her hands clasped over her handbag, stepped forward.
"I'll have him back by three, ma'am," she said kindly.
Elizabeth nodded, her gloved fingers squeezing Edward's shoulder. "Be good today," she said softly. "Listen to your teachers. And don't give your Latin master that look you do."
"I don't do a look."
"You most certainly do. It's the one your father makes when the bank writes to him." She kissed his forehead once more—right between the eyes, like a benediction.
Edward climbed aboard with a puff of breath, sliding onto the nearest bench beside his nanny. He glanced once back out the window as the car pulled away.
His mother was still standing there on the corner, watching him go.
He wiped his cheek again, hoping the last of the lipstick was gone.