I helped it along, because that bosom didn’t come easily. Hiding in my closet with a candle, I wrote away for a bottle of Dr. Hardee’s Female Improver. I talked one of the maids into picking it up at the post office for me. She did, after I promised to give her most of that month’s pin money when she delivered that brown bottle safe into my hands.

The instruction on the label said to rub the contents in a clockwise direction over the afflicted area. I was dubious, but desperate to catch up with a fellow classmate who wore corsets already and didn’t need to resort to ruffles to substitute for what wasn’t there.

The mixture smelled like a combination of cod’s liver oil and sour beer, but I rubbed it over my poor flat chest and waited for results. Nothing happened, except that I got my nightgown and sheets oily and the housekeeper threatened to tell Mother if I continued such quackery. My bosom finally came of its own accord one summer when I wasn’t looking.

With the development of an hourglass figure and a marked improvement in my visage, Mother decided that upon my graduation in 1877 from Miss Sumner’s Female Academy, I would enroll in Vassar College and catch myself an Easterner. I had been hoping to matriculate at a small Episcopal college in Lincoln with some of my chums. After Mother took a good look at me, she decreed that I could do better than St. Mary’s College. At Vassar, the worlds of Yale and Harvard would be mine, and a prominent place in Eastern seaboard society.

The idea held no appeal for me. I was not averse to the notion of leaving home, but it seemed practically medieval to barter my improved looks for wealth and position. I had nightmares of some bidder checking my teeth before slipping on the ring.

Mother prevailed, using her tried and true methods of coercion. She suffered all manner of palpitations and spasms between May and June to convince me that I was an ungrateful, thoughtless daughter who could relieve her distress by saying yes to Vassar. After an endless month, I felt so guilty that I would have agreed to parade naked past Omaha Barracks if only she would leave me alone. I surrendered. Mother wasted no time in informing the seamstress to begin by sewing nametags into all my underthings. I was doomed to Vassar College.

What could I do? I mooned around the house long enough for Father to come out of his usual fog and ask what the deuce was going on. He only nodded and pottered off when I told him. Later that evening at dinner, he offered me a consolation prize.

“Elizabeth,” he began, pushing away the custard pudding and leaning back in his chair, “what would you like to do this summer, before you go East to college?”

A hundred scathing replies came to mind. I almost blurted out one, when I glanced beyond him at Phil. He mouthed something. I stared at him. Phil raised his hands like something exploding, and I knew what to ask for.