The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

After a quick chat with Hawkins, I head in for dinner, too excited about my after-dinner plans to taste much of what Mrs. Hawkins serves. Once Grandmary retires to the parlor, I grab Samantha’s hand and lead her out to what Hawkins calls the carriage house. He wheels out a bicycle at my knock, and her eyes go wide as I offer to teach her to ride. Cheeks flushing, she checks for Grandmary, sees no sign of her, and climbs on, tucking her skirt beneath her leg to keep it from the chain.

Hawkins jogs alongside Samantha across the yard, releasing her once she’s got some balance, but she wobbles and crashes into the grass, undiscouraged despite catching her dress in the chain, which he has to work free, leaving a torn, grease-streaked hem. She looks defeated, brushing grass from her sleeve and eyeing the ruined hem, but it only makes me more determined. She needs bloomers, I tell her.

Minutes later, Samantha steps out of the shed in my shirt and capris while I wear her dress and pinafore, both of us giggling, her at the freedom of pants, me at the thought of biking in what I’m wearing now, all buttons and stiff fabric. No wonder girls didn’t ride bikes in her time.

In bloomers, Samantha climbs on with new confidence, rides successfully across the yard, and turns back with Hawkins’s help, her smile widening as she picks up speed, right as the back door creaks open and Grandmary calls out sternly.

Samantha skids to an unladylike stop, untangles herself, brushes off her rumpled skirt, and curtsies, her face suddenly nothing like it was moments ago. I speak up: it was my idea, a gift for how kind they’ve both been, knowing how badly she wanted to learn. She squeezes my hand. Hawkins adds that bicycling is supposed to be healthy exercise. Grandmary says nothing, and my heart pounds through the silence.

Finally, Grandmary declares that’s enough riding for today. Samantha looks relieved, having braced for worse, then surprises me by asking, sitting tall and meeting her grandmother’s eyes, whether she might ride more at Piney Point. I cross my fingers behind my back and hold my breath.

Grandmary considers it a long moment, tapping her chin, before clearing her throat: no more riding until Samantha has a safer bicycle, one built for young ladies, and proper bloomers of her own. She’s going to buy her a bicycle. She’s going to let her ride!