A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  She had a sharp eye for her own appearance and watched everything I did. She wanted the hat just so. The ruffles of the blouse should be out, not in. At one point, I wondered if her white gloves were too bright for the suit; did Miss Benchley perhaps have a gray pair? Miss Benchley did and was satisfied with the result.

  Smiling, Mrs. Benchley said to her daughter, “I think she’ll do very well for you, don’t you?”

  She put an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, but the young woman disengaged herself, saying, “And I suppose she’ll be doing very well for Louise as well.”

  Mrs. Benchley said, “Your father feels…”

  Charlotte tugged angrily on her gloves. “It’s absurd. He brings us here, expects us to manage, then doesn’t provide the most basic…” She waved a hand, dismissing any answer her mother could make. Then, taking up her bag, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’m late. Very nice to meet you, Miss … whatever your name is. Who knows if you shall be here when I return.”

  As she said this last, our eyes met and I got my first clear look at the young lady of whom so much would be written in the months to come. I decided that Mrs. Gibbes had been very wrong to dismiss Charlotte Benchley as a pretty little thing.

  As we made our way down the hall, Mrs. Benchley sighed. “It’s too hard, having two daughters. I don’t worry about Charlotte. She may be a tiny bit stubborn about getting her own way, but very often she’s right. But Louise, my eldest! If you could help me with Louise, well, you would be I can’t say what, but something like an angel. She’s a good girl. Most modern girls don’t listen to their mothers, and Louise does, you know. But poor thing, she can’t seem to…”

  We were at the third door. Mrs. Benchley whispered, “Well, you’ll see what I mean. Louise!” She rapped on the door.

  A small voice said, “Yes?” and we went in.

  My first impression of Louise Benchley was of a turtle without its shell. As we entered her room, she was sitting at her dressing table, her shoulders hunched and her long back stooped. She was too thin. Her hair was a dull blond; it hung lank on her head, as if despairing of its lack of shape. Her gray eyes were large and protruding. Her arms were long, so long she often seemed to forget she had hands at the end of them. Clearly—and unfortunately—she did listen to her mother; her dress was much in her mother’s style. The shade of cherry bordered on cruel.

  She leapt up as we came in, extending an uncertain hand as her mother introduced us. Her anxiety was catching, and I found myself at a loss until I noticed an array of dolls upon her bed and remarked what a lovely collection she had.

  “Oh.” Louise glanced around the room. Truthfully, the dolls made me uneasy. Rows and rows of little female forms with porcelain faces and stiff, tiny hands. They sat suffocated in ruffles and ribbons. Mouths too perfect and small to permit breath, let alone utterance. Their hair was beautifully set—all human hair. I could not help thinking these creatures had cannibalized real women to make themselves even more perfect.

  I said, “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you seek in a maid.”

  Louise looked panicked. “Oh, I don’t know. Anything.”

  Mrs. Benchley said, “Louise—” But she was interrupted by a shriek and crash from downstairs. Hurrying toward the door, Mrs. Benchley exhorted our better acquaintance and left.

  Gazing at the dolls, Louise said, “Have you met my sister?”

  “Miss Charlotte. Yes, I have.”

  She took the hand of one of the dolls, swung it as if they were walking together. “She belonged to Charlotte. When we moved, Charlotte wanted to throw them out. Maybe it was silly, but I couldn’t bear it. Something you’ve had always, just tossed aside. I suppose that’s why I have so many.” She looked up at me. “I warn you now that I am completely hopeless.”

  “My uncle is a reverend. He says no one is completely hopeless.”

  “Well, I am. At everything. Everything that matters. Except badminton.” For a moment, she brightened. “I am very good at badminton.”

  “Loyalty and athleticism—admirable qualities,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” said Louise. “I’m a ninny. I have been all my life. But it didn’t seem to matter as much when we weren’t … as we are now. Charlotte managed straightaway. She’s so pretty, so stylish. Brave. When we summered at the shore, she would go rushing into the waves, while I clung to Mother and cried. And it’s the same here. Everything she finds so wonderful about this life I find impossible.”

  I asked, “What is it you find so difficult, Miss Benchley?”

  She was quiet a long while before she burst out, “Anything with people. You try so hard to be pleasant and they just look right through you. You’re not clever enough, not pretty enough, not … well, we certainly have money, but even that’s not enough. Not unless you’ve been here a hundred years and have one of five last names.”

  I thought of how Mrs. Armslow used to rail against the Astors as upstarts, and said, “You would be surprised how quickly money can grow old in this city.”

  “It’s all supposed to be so gracious, so agreeable. But in truth, it feels almost … violent. Everyone wants the same thing. All the girls hoping to marry into the same fortune. Their mothers wanting to be invited here or there. Oh, Mrs. Tyler tries to be kind—but all we are to those people is one less chance for them.” She looked up. “Sometimes, in those rooms, it almost feels like they want to kill you.”

  Trying to make light of it, I said, “Well, I have never seen anyone stabbed with a fish knife or bludgeoned with a champagne bottle.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said vaguely.

  For a moment, I inspected Louise Benchley. I had met three of the four Benchleys, and I could vividly imagine their failings as employers. And yet I felt the irresistible pull of need, the sense that I might be useful here. For Charlotte, I could do no more than any maid. But for Louise, there could be something else.

  “Come,” I said, taking her face and turning it to the mirror. “Let’s have this hair the envy of every debutante in New York. Let the mothers bring their knives and cudgels. We are not afraid.”

  “I’m afraid I am afraid,” said Louise, but she was smiling.

  Of course, I did not take her talk of killing seriously. At the time, I thought Louise Benchley was indulging in that fascination with death that so many who live far beyond its grip—the young, healthy, and wealthy—have.

  Tragically, she was far closer to the truth than I was.

  2

  It occurs to me that if I am to tell other people’s secrets, I should have none of my own. I was one of the multitudes, a drop in the great flood that landed on these shores at the end of the last century. My father was another, my mother was not. She lies with my infant sister somewhere in the ocean.

  My father was with me off the boat, I remember that much. It seemed to me the new place was just a crowd of strangers, packed in, irritable, shoving and desperate to get somewhere else. I leaned against my father’s leg as we stood in line or else sat on the floor, knees drawn up. I must have whined to be picked up, because he snapped, “Stand on your own, you’re a big girl, you can.”

  The bench I remember feeling happy about. A spot, a space of my own, where I could sit out of the press of people. My father suddenly excited as he said, “Come on,” pulling me along and quickly setting me on the wood seat.

  Then he said, “Stay right here,” and stepped away.

  I resisted when he tried to let go of my hand. It is not something I recall by sight, but by feel. My fingers fought with his, twisting and catching. I grabbed hold of his thumb in my fist, but he pulled loose. His knuckles and nails against my palm. A fistful of wool, thick and coarse—his trousers, I suppose, or sleeve. A slight burn and my hand was empty.

  Do I have a last vision of him? I can’t be sure. There were so many men in short, dark coats, running, hurrying. The one I remember, who looked over his shoulder as he walked away, is that man really my father? Or have I created a moment of
doubt that my father never had as he ran to start his new life?

  After that, I chiefly remember shoes. Mine, unable to reach the floor. I remember thinking Swing and being curious that they did.

  For a long time, I thought the man who carried me away from the bench was my uncle. But my uncle says it was a policeman, who found my uncle’s name and address, pinned to the back of my coat.

  It is not every man who will take responsibility for the child his brother has abandoned. Nor every man who decides that a refuge for prostitutes is a likely home for a child; but my uncle is like that. Once he decides the right thing to do, he does it—without the sensitivity to complexities that make most of us hesitate to do anything.

  I remember some education. I learned to read, write, and add with the women who came to the refuge. At eight, I can recall trying to explain to a Russian woman why the letter C should sound one way in “curtain” but another in “certain.” I took sewing classes with the ladies, and when I got older, practiced my hairdressing skills on them.

  In the evenings, after dinner, he would read to me from the Bible. Injustice was a favored theme: “Her officials within her are like wolves tearing their prey; they shed blood and kill people to make unjust gain.” Also duty: “Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right. The hearing ear, and the seeing eye, the Lord hath made even both of them.” That passage always left me squirming.

  When Mrs. Armslow made her offer of employment, he did not argue, only asked whether I would like to go. I asked what the difference would be between life at the refuge and life at Mrs. Armslow’s. My uncle outlined my duties, which would be mostly cleaning at first, then said, “Of course, at Mrs. Armslow’s, you will be paid.”

  This had not occurred to me. The notion that someone would give me money for the tasks I did every day seemed extraordinary, intoxicating. I felt my uncle must be wrong. If I could earn money … visions of what I might do with it, as simple as buying an apple and as wild as traveling to London, leapt into my head.

  I said quickly, “Then, yes, I would like to.”

  “For the money?” My uncle raised an eyebrow.

  I knew my uncle believed that while it was difficult to do things without money, money was not a dignified reason to do anything. But I felt something new, a stubborn sense that I no longer wanted to answer questions about what I wished to do and why—and money might mean I didn’t have to.

  The day I left, my uncle said, “Do not get in the habit of thinking yourself a servant. Be diligent, be honest. But”—he could not find safe words—“know that we have work for you here.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I said. And hugged him for the first time.

  * * *

  And so I began my work with the Benchleys. I took my place in a small room on the top floor of the Benchley house, along with five other staff members. The ceiling was low, the furnishings sparse, and it was often cold. Many employers felt that servants would feel more comfortable if their rooms were similar to the humble dwellings from which they came. But it was quiet, and I had it all to myself.

  Being maid to Louise and Charlotte proved to be two very different tasks. At first, Charlotte put me through a series of tests. Her comb was not placed right. Her dress had a crease. The bun that crowned her chignon was sloppy. Her dressing table was not arranged as she liked it—and a million variations on that theme. But as time passed, I gained her confidence, and the tests stopped. Charlotte received many invitations and was a full job in and of herself. And I had Louise to attend as well.

  Poor Louise! Louise, the non-son, the eldest but not best, the lagger behind, the not quite as anything as anyone else. She was a girl always described at a deficit with others. She was not as pretty as Charlotte, not as gracious as her mother, and nowhere near as intelligent as she should have been, given how lacking she was elsewhere. Mrs. Benchley was deeply aware of her maternal responsibilities with regard to her daughters’ futures. She joined several philanthropic causes, although it was difficult for her to keep them straight. Her enthusiasms were both energetic and democratic; she took up only those things embraced by the public at large. Most of her passions were harmless, although a few of them not so, as we were to discover.

  In all things, she was guided by Mrs. Tyler. Through that lady’s aegis, the Benchleys were granted entry to many of the finest homes. Through artful fawning and strategic expenditure, Charlotte managed to get herself invited to the Bartletts’ for golf, to the Apsleys’ home in Newport, and to tennis in Central Park with the very best crowd.

  These entertainments brought her into contact with all the eligible bachelors of the day. The graceful, slightly balding Edward Lauder, who was a favorite with young ladies, such a favorite it was slightly odd he had not yet married. The hearty Henry Pargeter, who swung Charlotte around the dance floor with great vigor, at times only narrowly missing other dancers. And Freddie Holbrooke, who everyone understood was to marry his cousin Edith—everyone, perhaps, except Freddie.

  The arrival of the Benchley girls had caused alarm among New York families with daughters in need of a husband. The crop of suitable young men and widowers was somewhat small that year, and Mrs. Tyler’s championing of the Benchleys met with recrimination in some circles. Mrs. Gibbes reminded Mrs. Tyler that she herself had two daughters, the fascinating, dark-eyed Beatrice and her pert younger sister, Emily.

  “It’s all very well to feel Bea’s future is secure, as she and Norrie have practically been settled since childhood,” Mrs. Gibbes said at an afternoon tea. “But you’ve still got Emily to think of.”

  You will have read much about “Norrie,” or Robert Norris Newsome Jr. He was young, rich, and extremely good-looking, with dark brown hair that flowed to his collar, and sparkling hazel eyes. His smile was charmingly crooked, his manner joking—or spiteful, depending on your humor. And he was the sole male heir of Robert Newsome, head of one of the oldest families in New York.

  The Newsomes were regular visitors to the Armslow house, and Mrs. Armslow sometimes compared their family line with her own. The Newsomes had been among the first English settlers to displace Mrs. Armslow’s Dutch ancestors. The first Newsome of note was James, a devout Protestant who built a shipping business on the slave trade. Mrs. Armslow said there was a worthless streak in the Newsomes, which seems to have started with James’s son, Edward, a drunkard and spendthrift. The family wealth was all but gone when Robert Newsome Sr.’s father built it back up in coal mines. The current Robert Newsome had extended the family’s interests to steel, an industry heavily reliant on coal. This ensured the Newsomes’ place as one of the wealthiest families in America.

  In the words of those who admired him, Norrie was always doing something “unique.” These bursts of uniqueness included driving the family car into a lake, throwing up on his cousin Phoebe’s slippers at a supper dance, and getting expelled from not one but three schools. It was difficult to tell if it was his wealth, name, or looks, or his general air of not giving a damn about any of it, that insulated him from the censure that would have otherwise followed. But it was devoutly hoped that Norrie would settle down once married to Beatrice Tyler.

  Adding to Norrie’s controversial glamour was the fact that his family had just endured a scandal that made his antics seem like boyhood pranks. But more of that later.

  I first heard Norrie Newsome’s name in the Benchley house when the three ladies returned from a festive July 4 party at the Adamses’. Hearing them come in, I went to be of assistance. When I arrived at Louise’s room, Charlotte was gleefully reliving the night’s exploits. “What a drama Eleanor Adams makes of her health! Cough, cough, cough all night long. Pity the man who marries her, unless she dies the next day. And did you see Lucinda Newsome? What a frump! I barely got a word out of her all night, and when I did, they weren’t worth the effort. Droning on about ‘worthy service’ and wanting to be a nurse. How can she be Norrie Newsome’s sister?”

  At the mentio
n of Norrie Newsome’s name, Mrs. Benchley and Louise exchanged nervous glances. Then Mrs. Benchley kissed her daughters and retired to her room.

  When her mother had gone, Louise had spirit enough to say, “I liked Lucinda better than I liked Norrie.”

  Lolling on Louise’s bed, Charlotte said, “You’re just being perverse because he didn’t pay attention to you. Norrie likes fun, and you’re not fun, Louise.”

  “Perhaps you paid too much attention to him,” Louise mumbled as I helped her into her nightgown.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Charlotte sighed. “I think I might adore Norrie Newsome.”

  “You can’t,” said Louise. “What about Beatrice?”

  Charlotte waved a hand in the air. “What about her?”

  “She’s engaged to him. Or almost is.”

  “And I suppose that would worry me if I cared what Beatrice Tyler thinks.” Charlotte rolled over and looked squarely at her sister. “But I don’t.”

  * * *

  I forgot about the exchange until a week later when I was carrying a basket of laundry down for cleaning. Mrs. Benchley had taken Louise out shopping, and Charlotte was in her room.

  When the doorbell rang, I waited for someone to answer it. When it rang again, I went myself. Announcing, “Benchley residence, may I help you?” I saw a dazzling young man whose identity I could not immediately place.

  He said, “You can tell Charlotte I’m here,” omitting the pleasantries of “please” and “Miss.” That was when I recognized Norrie Newsome, whom I knew from his visits to the Armslow homes.

  “If you’ll wait here, sir,” I said, “I’ll see if she will see you.”