by Kate Hewitt
Ellen looked around at everyone, her dearest friends and family, and felt her heart swell with love and a strange, sweet sorrow.
“Ellen, you look as if you’re going to cry!” Andrew, seven years old and utterly disdainful of all things girlish, sounded appalled by such a prospect.
“Don’t cry, Ellen.” Nine-year-old Ruthie slid onto her lap with childish ease and hooked one arm around Ellen’s neck, burrowing close to her.
Ellen sniffed and blinked back her tears as she cuddled her young cousin. “I won’t cry, I promise,” she said, her voice wobbling only slightly. “They would be happy tears, in any case, Ruthie. I’m just so thankful for all of you.” Her gaze moved around the room, resting on each person in turn and yet carefully avoiding Jed.
He and Louisa had returned from Toronto last week and she hadn’t spoken to him yet, although Louisa had stopped by the farmhouse to regale all of the McCaffertys with the luxurious details of her honeymoon, paid for, Ellen suspected, by Mr. Hopper. Ellen had listened with the right amount of enthusiasm and interest, but when Rose had turned to take the kettle off the stove, she’d caught her eye and given her a sympathetic smile that had made Ellen cringe inside.
Now she forced all that aside as she kissed Ruthie’s cheek.
“Time for bed,” Rose announced. “Before we all turn into pumpkins.”
“Yes, we ought to get back, shouldn’t we, Jed?” Louisa hooked a proprietorial arm through her husband’s. “We’re still exhausted from all our travels.”
“I’m sure,” Ellen murmured. She picked up a tray ovf tea things to take back to the kitchen, more an attempt to make herself scarce than actually be helpful. Everyone was making to go, collecting hats and coats.
Outside the kitchen window a harvest moon hung huge and orange in a starlit sky. The night was crisp and still, a harbinger of autumn. Ellen stood there for a moment, savoring the silence and solitude, when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Ellen.”
She turned around slowly and saw Jed standing in the doorway, as she knew he would be.
“Hello, Jed.” Her voice, thankfully, came out sounding normal. “Thank you for the soaps. They’re lovely.”
“Louisa picked them out.” Jed ducked his head. “You know I don’t know anything about things like that.”
“I suppose not,” Ellen allowed with a small smile. She took a deep breath and set about cleaing up, pumping water into the kettle before plonking it on top of the range. “From the sounds of it, you had quite the time in Toronto—shows and dinners in fancy hotels. I can only imagine.”
“It was all right,” Jed allowed, and Ellen let out a little laugh.
“High praise indeed, coming from you.”
She met his gaze then, and wished she hadn’t. His grey eyes were so familiar, that crooked smile so beloved. And she had no business, absolutely no business at all, thinking that way, and so she wouldn’t. She turned away, putting cups and saucers in the washing basin as if her very life depended on it.
“Anyway,” Jed said, and cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say goodbye. You’ll do great things at that art school, Ellen, I’m sure of it.”
Ellen blinked, dangerously near tears for the second time that night. It was nothing, and yet it felt so final, in so many ways. “Thank you, Jed,” she said after a moment, her lowered gaze still on the dishes. “I trust you and Louisa will have a good honeymoon year, on the farm.”
“It will be a lot of hard work.” He sounded dubious, and Ellen wondered how well Louisa had turned her hand to the mundane chores and duties of a farmer’s wife. It would all be behind her soon.
“Anyway…” Jed pause and Ellen dared not look at him. “Goodbye,” he said at last, and she listened to him walk away, squeezing her eyes shut and releasing a shuddering breath before the kettle began to whistle.
The next morning Dyle drove her to the little ferry station where Captain Jonah waited with his tiny tug. Back when Ellen had been thirteen, Captain Jonah had piloted what amounted to little more than a rowboat, but just like Ellen, he’d moved up in the world.
“Get yourself in, girl,” he called, spitting tobacco juice neatly into the blue-green waters of Lake Ontario. “I can’t wait forever, you know.”
Ellen smiled as she handed her hatbox to him, and Uncle Dyle took her steamer trunk. Captain Jonah was an ornery and eccentric staple of island life, and she’d miss him and his odd ways along with everyone else.
“Now, Ellen, my girl,” Uncle Dyle said, chucking her under her chin as he’d done when she was so much smaller. “You will take care, won’t you? And you’ll write us, especially your aunt, because you know how she worries.”
“Yes, every week, I promise.” Ellen’s eyes swam with tears and she blinked them back with determination. She was a leaky tap, indeed.
“And you also will always remember that you have a home here with us?” Uncle Dyle continued, his eyes that usually twinkled with humor now looking terribly serious. “No matter where you are or how far you go, whether you become the grandest lady artist there is, or it all goes bust and you feel as if you’ve got nothing left… you’ve got us, Ellen, my girl. Always.”
“I know.” Ellen could barely squeeze the words out through her constricted throat. “I know that, Uncle Dyle. I’ve always known that.”
“Come on, then.” He held his arms out and without a moment’s hesitation Ellen walked into them, just as if she were a child. She pressed her cheek against the rough stuff cloth of his work coat, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and pipe tobacco. She thought briefly of her own father, so far away, so distant in so many ways, and Uncle Dyle gave her an extra squeeze.
“Come on, then,” Captain Jonah called, and with a watery smile Ellen stepped back.
“You take care, Ellen,” Uncle Dyle called as she boarded the little boat. “We’ll be praying for you.”
“And I, you,” she called back.
She watched her uncle get smaller and smaller on the dock as the boat made its way for the mainland, the blue-green waters of Lake Ontario ruffled up like white lace.
Ellen had taken the train from Ogdensburg to Seaton many times, and it wasn’t so different to take it to New York City instead, with a stream of green fields going by for the first few hours, and then giving way to the mills and factories found lower in the state, before pulling in to Grand Central Station in the evening.
Ellen stepped out onto the platform, clutching her hatbox, with a porter fetching her steamer trunk. People hurried by, jostling and chatting, and for a moment she felt completely overwhelmed. It had been a very long time indeed since she’d been in New York, or any city at all. Kingston, where she’d done a year of nurse’s training, paled in comparison.
With the help of the porter, Ellen managed to get to the outside of the imposing station and into one of the New York Taxicab Company’s new yellow automobiles. Although the price of such journey was dear indeed, she knew of no other way to get to her boarding house with a trunk in tow.
Outside the city glowed with electric streetlights, unlike anything Ellen had ever seen, street after street incandescent, the sidewalks full of people even though it was becoming late.
She craned her head to get a better view as the taxicab rumbled on towards Gramercy Park—doormen standing proudly in their smart uniforms with top hats; elegant ladies and gentlemen coming from the theatre or dinners in one of the city’s many restaurants. Amidst the glamour were the harsher realities of city life—beggar children with sooty faces and threadbare clothes darting in and out of the well-heeled crowds; factory workers only just finishing a shift walking grimly home, heads lowered against the autumn cold.
Then, finally, the taxicab came to a stop in front of a pleasant townhouse on a tree-lined square.
“Number Eighty-Seven, Gramercy Park,” he announced, and walked around to open her door. After parting with the princely sum of five whole dollars for the journey, Ellen mounted the steps—the driver had,
thankfully, already shouldered her trunk up them—and knocked on the door of the boarding house where she intended to spend the next two nights, before boarding the S.S. Furnessia for Glasgow.
A stern-faced woman with severe hair and a beaky nose answered the door, making Ellen jump a little at her fierce expression.
“Hello, I’m Ellen Copley…”
“I know who you are. You’re awfully late.”
“I’d sent a telegram,” Ellen offered hesitantly. “Because of the train…”
“Yes, that’s right.” The woman looked her up and down once and then gave a brief nod, as if deciding that Ellen did indeed pass muster, if only just. “Come in. You must be half-starved. There’s nothing ever decent to eat on trains, and they’re so frightfully dirty.”
Ellen was suddenly and poignantly reminded of her Aunt Ruth, saying something very similar when she’d arrived in Vermont from New York with a soot stain on one cheek and her hair in a tangle. Her aunt had made her feel small and unwelcome at first, but later Ellen had learned later that that was just her way. Aunt Ruth had been hard but loving, and several months after her death, Ellen still missed her. Perhaps this woman was the same as her aunt.
“I’m Mrs. Stamm,” she said as she led Ellen back towards the kitchen. “I’m not serving dinner any longer, of course, but there’s bread and cheese if you’d like it.”
“Oh, I would,” Ellen exclaimed, deciding to meet Mrs. Stamm’s sternness with a friendly gratitude of her own. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Stamm.”
Mrs. Stamm nodded, seeming to thaw slightly, and indicated with a nod for Ellen to sit at the oak table in the center of the kitchen while she fetched the promised bread and cheese.
Ellen sank onto a chair, a wave of exhaustion crashing over her. She glanced around the kitchen, everything neat and orderly, a far cry from the comfortable clutter of the kitchen back at Jasper Lane.
For a moment she let herself picture Aunt Rose by the range, smiling over her shoulder as she poured from the kettle, or Ruthie or Sarah at the table, shelling peas or just keeping company. Jasper Lane always had people in and out and around; Ellen had never felt alone. Lonely.
And so she wouldn’t now. She smiled and murmured her thanks as Mrs. Stamm set a plate of bread and cheese and a cup of tea in front of her.
“Get that in you,” she ordered. “And then I’ll show you your room.”
Ellen ate and drank rather quickly under Mrs. Stamm’s decidedly beady eye, and then followed her landlady out of the kitchen and up the front stairs with their worn carpet and polished brass runner.
“There are currently four other young ladies residing here,” Mrs. Stamm informed her. “One young woman who, like you, is travelling onwards, and two who reside her permanently.”
“Permanently?” Ellen couldn’t help but be curious. “What do they do?”
Mrs. Stamm sniffed. “One works behind the glove counter at Arnold Constable. The other works in a typing pool at the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company.” Her landlady did not sound particularly approving of these pursuits. “But you said in your letter that you were travelling on to Scotland?”
“Yes, to attend art school.” As Ellen had expected, Mrs. Stamm looked startled and then disproving at this notion.
“Art school,” she repeated as she took a brass key from her apron pocket and opened a bedroom door at the top of the house. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s quite well renowned,” Ellen said with a smile. “It was founded by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, the architect?”
Mrs. Stamm sniffed again. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s quite well known in Scotland,” Ellen said, although she hadn’t actually heard of him until Henry McCallister, the art school trustee she’d met on the train last spring, had mentioned him. It was thanks to Mr. McCallister that she was here at all; if he hadn’t asked her to send him some sketches, and then arranged a place as well as a bursary…
“Here you are.” Mrs. Stamm opened the door and Ellen peeked in to see a modest room with bed, bureau, and chair. “Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp, and supper at six. If you wish for your laundry to be done, it will be another dollar.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Ellen murmured. “This is lovely, thank you.” Her trunk had already been brought up by a boy Mrs. Stamm employed for such a purpose, and after lingering for a moment, looking as if she regretted offering bed and board to an aspiring lady artist, Mrs. Stamm said goodnight and shut the door firmly behind her.
Ellen let out a breath as she unpinned her hat and put it carefully on the bureau. She’d only brought two—a serviceable straw boater and a fancier although still modest concoction with a feather and a cluster of berries. Neither could hold a candle to Louisa’s creations, but Ellen hoped she might find something a bit more daring when she did her shopping tomorrow.
In addition to a hat, she would need an evening gown for the ship, as well as another dress or two. Her years in Vermont and on the island, as well as nursing school, had not prepared her to become a young woman of some means and style.
For now she slipped out of her travelling costume and unpinned her hair, grateful to be free from the confines of corset and pins, shirtwaist and pinching shoes. Clad in her nightgown, her hair in a plait down her back, she pried open the little window and breathed in the damp, coal-scented night air. She felt a pang of loneliness along with a flicker of excitement. She was alone here as she’d ever been, and yet she had so much to look forward to. Taking another deep breath, Ellen closed the window and turned towards the bed.
Three days later Ellen was boarding the S.S. Furnessia at Chelsea Piers. The sky above was a bright, hard blue, the sun glinting off the Hudson River.
Excitement and trepidation warred within her as she went up the gangplank, carrying her reticule and a new hat box; she’d bought a slightly smaller hat than the ones Louisa had worn, but it still seemed fancy to Ellen, with three feathers and a band of pink silk.
The last few days in New York had been thrilling but also a little bit lonely, taking her meals with the other four rather dour young ladies; Mrs. Stamm did not, it had seemed, encourage conversation over breakfast or dinner.
Still, Ellen had spent a happy few days exploring the grand department stores and elegant boutiques of Manhattan’s Ladies Mile, stretching from 15th to 24th Street on Park Avenue. hops on Fifth Avenue’s Ladies’ Mile, and made some purchases. With her purse considerably lighter and her trunk packed to its gills, she was now ready for the next step in her adventure.
She kept her head held high, her fascinated gaze taking in all the details of the second class common rooms as a porter led her to her cabin.
The woman she would be sharing with was already in the cabin, having taken the bed by the porthole and arranged most of her things on the bureau and vanity.
“Well, it’s not much, is it,” she sniffed when the porter had left. She’d introduced herself as Florence Worth and she was a broad, bustling matron dressed in bottle-green bombazine, hardly the kindred spirit Ellen had been hoping for. “They’re retiring this ship next year,” Miss Worth continued. “And I must say I’m not surprised. Some of the furnishings are downright shabby.”
Ellen made some meaningless response, not wanting to agree or disagree. After spending her last ship’s journey in third class, she found her accommodation pleasing indeed, and she had no wish for Florence Worth to diminish her pleasure in the second class offerings: three course meals in the fancy dining room, the use of a library, and a lounge just for ladies.
As it turned out, it became quickly clear that Miss Worth would be spending most of her time in the cabin, as she suffered from seasickness; Ellen spent as little time there as possible, preferring to explore the ship, although she did return to check on the moaning Miss Worth, and offer to bring her beef broth or tea.
“I don’t know how you manage to look so hale and hearty,” Miss Worth moaned rather resentfully, on the
afternoon of the second day. “You are positively robust.” She made it sound like an insult, but Ellen merely smiled. She’d always been resilient, and she’d spent plenty of time on boats, albeit much smaller ones, during her time on the island.
“Do let me know if you need anything, Miss Worth,” she said solicitously. “Anything at all.”
With Miss Worth insisting she could not stomach so much as a dry biscuit, Ellen headed back out to explore the parts of the ship she hadn’t seen yet. She walked along the second class deck, enjoying the brisk, salty breeze and the endless stretch of gray-blue that led to a distant shore. It had been six years since she’d been on a ship, crossing the sea, starting another life, and it gave her a pang to think of her younger self, afraid and excited in turns, just as she was now, with so much uncertain.
She watched a few children cavort around the deck before a nanny chivvied them back inside; they didn’t look much older than she had been, back then. The sky had darkened to pewter and the wind needled her with cold.
“The wind is picking up, miss,” One of the ship stewards said to her as he walked by. “And it looks to rain. You’d best go inside, to keep warm.”
Ellen smiled her thanks and headed back to the second class library, which was an oasis of quiet calm, with only one other young woman present, sitting at a desk, writing a letter. She glanced up as Ellen alerted, her gaze alert and interested.
“I say, are you travelling alone?” she asked and a bit hesitantly, Ellen confirmed that she was. Young women travelling on their own were still eyed a bit askance; Ellen suspected that was why she’d been paired with the indomitable Miss Worth, to act as an informal chaperone.
“As am I,” the young woman exclaimed. “My name is Letitia Portman.”
“Ellen Copley. Pleased to meet you, Miss Portman.”
“Oh, but you must call me Letitia, and allow me to call you Ellen. I hope I’m not being terribly impertinent, to suggest such a thing? It’s just I can’t stand on formality. It’s such a terrible bore.”