by Jane Steen
“Naturally.” Mrs. Calderwood folded her short arms and stuck out her chin. “As your employer, I am responsible for your moral welfare. Who, I ask again, is this man?”
“A friend.” I was aware I sounded defensive.
“A Mr. Martin Rutherford of Chicago. A single man? He mentions no wife.”
“So you did read my letter. I thought as much.” I fought to keep the anger out of my voice.
“I could hardly let it pass without scrutiny. And my husband must see it.”
I had learned that Dr. Calderwood was in charge of the day-to-day administration of the seminary as Dr. Adema’s assistant. I’d seen him read out the notices before our daily chapel service. He was a massive man with a mane of tawny hair and huge white teeth, which showed frequently in an uncertain smile as his ever-darting gaze sought out his small, round wife in the front pew.
“Dr. Calderwood will find nothing wrong in Mr. Rutherford’s letter,” I said. “Mr. Rutherford is an old friend of the family who has known me since I was a small child. I entrusted him with the keeping and increase of what capital I have. He’s much older than me.”
Eleven years older, to be precise, which made Martin the grand old age of thirty. Still, I was ready to make him sound as old as Dr. Adema if that would allow me to receive his letters.
“And those ribbons? Those lengths of lace? Those hat trimmings?”
“Samples,” I said. “Mr. Rutherford is a draper. He’s building a store in Chicago.”
“Building a store? That must be costing him a mint of money.” Mrs. Calderwood smoothed out the thin sheets of paper, which had the words “Rutherford & Co.” emblazoned across the top, and looked at them again with greater interest. “Is he rich?”
“I suppose he must be.” I saw my way forward in the avid glint in the little woman’s eyes. “I’ve never thought to inquire, but he is building a large store in a prime position. He’s no doubt likely to become one of the richest men in Chicago.”
“Which is a most prosperous city by all accounts.” The voice that cut across Mrs. Calderwood’s was musical and wholly unexpected.
I turned to look at the man standing behind me. It was a young man I’d seen in Dr. Calderwood’s company—a handsome young man. A head of glossy black curls framed high cheekbones; he had a beautifully shaped mouth and eyes of that peculiar shade of blue that’s sometimes called violet, slanted upward at the corners and adorned by long black lashes.
Mrs. Calderwood bestowed a gracious smile upon the newcomer. She must have seen him approaching, even though I hadn’t heard his footfalls on the black-and-white marble tiles.
“Mr. Poulton is well informed in business matters,” she said before clearly realizing she had just put herself in a position where an introduction—to a man!—would be necessary unless she were to be blatantly rude to me. I saw the latter possibility flicker over her face for the merest fraction of a second, and then she nodded at me.
“Mrs. Lillington, this is Mr. Poulton, our Old Testament teacher.” She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Lillington has taken up the position of seamstress.”
We shook hands, Mr. Poulton’s eyes sparkling with evident awareness of Mrs. Calderwood’s reluctance to introduce me. “I’ve seen you in chapel. With your baby and companion.”
I felt my eyebrows rise. Mr. Poulton must have good eyesight. He was always seated at the front of the chapel while Tess, Sarah, and I occupied a half pew near the back. Our view was partially obscured by a pillar, on the other side of which sat Mrs. Drummond and the handful of white servants. The other servants, former slaves, sat behind us. A wide aisle and waist-high screen separated us from the curious glances of the students.
“So you’re friends with a rich Chicago merchant?” Mr. Poulton glanced at the letter Mrs. Calderwood held.
“A rising one,” I said. “He’s an old family friend and kind enough to write to us and send us a few little trinkets. Mrs. Calderwood doubts the propriety of the communication.” I stared at the little woman, whose expression was less malicious than it had been a few minutes before.
“May I see?” Mr. Poulton took the letter from Mrs. Calderwood’s unprotesting hands and scanned it while I tried not to look as indignant as I felt. I needed allies, even nosy ones.
“It’s quite brotherly,” he said, handing it back.
“Mr. Rutherford’s the nearest thing to a brother that I have,” I said. “I have no male relatives—no relatives at all except some cousins in Connecticut. And I haven’t kept in touch with them,” I hastened to add. I would be on dangerous ground if induced to talk about my cousins in the East. “Please, Mrs. Calderwood—I give you my word there’s nothing improper going on.”
Mrs. Calderwood looked at me and then at Mr. Poulton.
“She has given you her word,” said that gentleman, smiling. His smile was as appealing as the rest of his person, and Mrs. Calderwood visibly melted.
“Well, if you say so, Mr. Poulton.” She handed the letter to me. “You may collect your package before supper, Mrs. Lillington.”
“And may I write to him also?”
“I’m sure Mrs. Lillington will sing your praises for your kindness,” added Mr. Poulton smoothly. There was something in his tone that put my senses on the alert. A conscious look crossed Mrs. Calderwood’s face, and I wondered—did she open outgoing letters too? I would have to make sure no word of complaint made it onto the pages of my letter.
Once more, I reflected, I had sought freedom only to render myself powerless. As a married woman, I would have been in bondage to one man; as an unmarried one, I was apparently in bondage to everyone else.
“You may. Doubtless you have work to do, Mrs. Lillington.”
Mrs. Calderwood moved off in the direction of the wide, steep staircase, bathed in multi-colored pools of light from the row of stained-glass windows above its first landing. She glanced back at us, her face a vivid green as she passed through one of the filtered splashes of illumination.
“I must go back to my workroom,” I said, turning away from Mr. Poulton. “I’m under an obligation to you, sir.”
He said nothing but bowed and smiled as he moved away, his face raised to Mrs. Calderwood, who was still looking at us. He raised a hand in a salute to her; she dipped her head in acknowledgment and continued on her way, her pattering footsteps echoing in the silent hall.
3
New friends
I tried hard to stay out of the corridors between classes, but when you have a baby in your care, things don't always go as you intend. Like a salmon swimming against the current, I soon found myself trying to ascend the staircase in the face of a rushing torrent of male humanity. The boys parted around us, to be sure, but impeded my progress more than I liked.
Sarah’s eyes were wide with excitement at the noise. The boys’ voices, ranging from bass to falsetto, bounced off the wooden paneling and surged around us as we climbed higher. My efforts to keep the soiled portion of my baby’s nether regions away from my own clothing complicated my progress.
Some of the students weren’t much younger than me. In the way of boys, some of the older ones looked more like full-grown men while others still had the smooth faces and high voices of childhood. Many, I noticed, had inches of flesh peeping from the wrists of their jackets and the ankles of their pantaloons. I had better ask Mrs. Drummond how to go about ensuring that I let out or replaced their clothing as needed.
“And whom do we have here?”
A hand on my arm arrested my climb as a short, balding, older man passed me. From the step above him, I had an excellent view of the pink patch in his black wavy hair as he took off his academic cap to scratch his head. He then remembered his manners and tipped the cap in my direction.
Bright, curious black eyes took in the sight of Sarah, who wasn’t the least bit discomfited by her damp condition. She returned his interest by stretching out avid little hands toward the buttons on his rather dandified waistcoat. From his academic gown, I concluded he was a teacher
of some kind. Mr. Poulton had not worn one, and I thought the custom had gone out during the war, but the gown suited this man.
“The new seamstress.” The little man answered his own question. “And her bonny baby.” He chucked Sarah under the chin, and she squealed. “You’re a widow, I hear, ma’am?”
“I am.” I nodded, too busy shifting Sarah into a better position to feel the usual pangs of a guilty conscience.
“Well, we’re fortunate to have you, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. What do you think of the theories of Mr. Darwin? For or against?”
I was dumbstruck by the peculiar question. Darwin? I knew about him, of course, and had read one or two diatribes against his theories in the papers. But an opinion?
“I have no opinion whatsoever,” I confessed, wishing I could find a way to end the conversation and tend to Sarah. “I manage to go through my day’s work without giving Mr. Darwin’s theories the least consideration.”
But I couldn’t help smiling. The professor’s eyes shone brighter as his weather-beaten face wrinkled into an answering grin, showing heavily stained teeth.
“Come, come, you are in a place of learning.” He watched as Sarah, fascinated by the play of light on his gaudy waistcoat, leaned toward it with a crooning sound. “A place, moreover, which exists for the ‘bold and fervent defense of orthodoxy through the enlightened pursuit of knowledge.’”
I nodded. I had heard that phrase from Dr. Adema, who explained that his mission was to produce thinkers with a sound faith rather than dull conformists. Looking at the ragtag of noisy students heading to their classes, I wondered if there were any real thinkers among them.
Except for the one who stopped next to the professor and smiled at both of us. He looked a little more smartly dressed and sophisticated than the majority of the young men. Indeed, he exuded confidence and wealth. His suit was plain but well cut, showing no spare inches of flesh but fitting him in every particular. His boots shone, and his corn-blond hair was neatly trimmed and carefully oiled. Perhaps he was a teacher too, I thought, although he looked much the same age as me.
“Every man should have an opinion,” the professor pronounced, reaching out to smooth back Sarah’s frizzy curls. “And every woman too.” He seemed to recollect himself and bowed to me. “I beg your pardon for not introducing myself. I am Gervaise Wale—W-A-L-E—no relation to the denizens of the deep. I teach Hebrew and Greek.”
“And I’m Reiner Lehmann,” the young man said, also bowing, “and I learn Hebrew and Greek. And you’re going to be late for class, Professor Wale.” His blue eyes lit up as he watched the professor try to capture one of Sarah’s little hands as she made a grab for his waistcoat buttons. She retreated from his gesture and grabbed my hair, dislodging a hairpin.
Professor Wale looked at the splendid gold watch Mr. Lehmann had pulled from his pocket and flipped open, grimaced, and replaced his cap on his head.
“Class. Of course. Good day, Mrs.—?” He looked puzzled, as if trying to recollect my name, which I hadn’t given him.
“Lillington. Eleanor Lillington.” I held out my hand for the hairpin Mr. Lehmann had retrieved for me and poked it randomly back into my curls. “Thank you.”
We both watched Professor Wale descending the staircase at a fast trot, his gown billowing out behind him like a ship at sail.
“I must go,” I said. Sarah was becoming difficult to handle and smellier by the second.
“And so must I.” But the young man remained in place, and I could feel his gaze fixed on me as I climbed the staircase. Reiner Lehmann, I mused. A student—a wealthy one. And from the look in his eyes, I had gained an admirer.
My impression that something about me had struck a chord of admiration in Mr. Reiner Lehmann received affirmation later that month.
Tess and I had gone outside for a little fresh air before the seminary’s early supper. Sarah was already asleep under the watchful eye of a servant called Dorcas, who was busying herself with sorting sheets in the linen room. The servants had taken a shine to Sarah, and I encountered frequent offers to “watch the chile for a spell.” They'd whisk her off to the kitchen and ply her with pieces of cornbread and her favorite treat, tiny crumbles of crisp bacon. I was still nursing her, but she was fast learning to eat and drink on her own, and I didn’t think it would be long before I weaned her.
The weather had turned pleasant with the arrival of May. The constant breeze that stirred the prairie was now warm, soughing over the green grasses and setting them tossing like waves. The air had a freshness that caused windows to be flung open all over the seminary building. It was a time when being in such an isolated position didn’t seem like hardship.
“She was such a pretty lady.” Tess rested her hand on my shoulder, the better to peer at the face I was sketching.
“She was like—like a dainty porcelain doll, Tess. To look at, in any case. I exceeded her height by the time I was twelve and a half.”
I tilted my head to one side, contemplating the drawing of Mama. I added a few more touches to suggest the shine on her beautiful pale blond hair, which I had drawn coiled and twisted into her habitual smooth, elegant style.
Grief was an odd process, I found. Mama had been gone for eight months—the best part of a year—and there were days when I didn’t consciously think of her much. And then sadness and longing would hit me like a wave, catching me unawares. Tess and I had spent the day in concentrated activity, but in the quiet hour before the dinner bell, my pencil moved almost by itself, striving to delineate my mother’s gentle face. At times like this, I missed her terribly.
“You’re dainty too, Nell. No—that’s the wrong word—you’re elegant.”
Tess lowered her head so her chin rested on my shoulder. I felt the tickle of her fine, wispy hair against my cheek and the movement of her jaw as she stifled a small yawn.
I leaned my head sideways a little so that my cheek touched Tess’s. “And you’re dearer to me than any sister could have been, Tess. What would I do without you?”
Tess considered this for a moment. “You’d have to do more sewing,” was her conclusion. “Like the basting. I always do that.”
I chuckled—Tess was always literal—but my eyes were on my sketch of Mama. We’d been such a tiny family, Grandmama, Mama, and I. What would they think if they could see me now, a seamstress on the remote frontier, rejecting their dreams of a fine marriage for me?
“You’re quite the artist, Mrs. Lillington. May I sit down?” Mr. Lehmann nodded at Tess as he bent over my drawing.
“Of course, although—“ I looked toward the seminary. It was a huge edifice of yellow stone, crenellated and turreted at the corners, surmounted by an odd tiered tower finished with a cupola of weathered copper. Its rows of windows were dark holes in the light stone. We were at the front, eastern side of the building, and the setting sun was behind it; the ornate outline stood stark against the soft yellows and oranges of the late afternoon sky.
“Although what?” Mr. Lehmann folded his body into a kneeling position on one corner of the rug we’d brought outside. He wasn’t handsome by any means; his features were a little irregular, and he had the kind of sturdy muscularity that might run to fat later. Yet there was something appealing about his broad, open face, and his smile showed teeth that were even, white, and strong. Not handsome, but likable. And quite out of bounds to me in Mrs. Calderwood’s mind.
“I’m not supposed to talk to the students.”
“Why not? Our last seamstress married one—at least, he came back for her after he’d been out in the world for a couple of years. And she wasn’t nearly as pretty as you.”
“Perhaps that’s why.” I couldn’t help laughing at the expression on his face. “And I don’t have any intention of marrying. I’m here to work.”
“Mrs. Drummond doesn’t want the students to have any distractions,” Tess declared. I was constantly surprised by how well Tess got on with the housekeeper—and I wondered just
how much Mrs. Drummond had told her.
“But we need distractions. It’s so dull out here.” Mr. Lehmann extended a hand in Tess’s direction. “My name is Reiner Lehmann, by the way. Mighty nice to make your acquaintance.”
“I am Theresa O’Dugan.” Tess’s dignified reply was somewhat spoiled by a huge yawn that she half hid behind her left hand as she shook Mr. Lehmann’s with her right. A group of boys sauntered by, staring at us with open curiosity, some nodding to Mr. Lehmann. He returned their greetings with the lazy, careless air of a prince acknowledging the existence of his subjects. One of them must have made a joke—the others erupted in gales of laughter and a tussle began, with one of the smaller boys getting the worst of it.
“Silly oafs.” Mr. Lehmann shifted his position so his back was to the group of shouting boys, gazing at me with what, unfortunately, was starting to look like slavish adoration. I was going to have to put a stop to that, I decided.
“It’s not just Mrs. Drummond who disapproves of me talking to the students,” I said, trying to sound as reproving as I could. “Mrs. Calderwood—“ I stopped short, wondering what, exactly, I could tell this young man without revealing too much of my past.
“Oh, the Mouse likes me,” said Mr. Lehmann. “She won’t bother us if I choose to talk to you.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked, amused. The Mouse? Well, I supposed she did look a little mouse-like with those beady black eyes and small, grasping hands. I suppressed a giggle.
“My pop’s a generous—exceedingly generous—supporter of the cause of spreading the light of orthodoxy over the plains.” Mr. Lehmann extracted his gold watch from his pocket and flipped open the case. A diamond set into a ring on his little finger caught the fire of the setting sun, winking like a tiny orange flame.
“Are you telling me you’re allowed to do as you please just because your father gives money to the seminary? I can’t imagine Dr. Adema abandoning his principles for money.”