“What in tarnation has gotten into you, Cook?” Aunt Ida said, her hands on her hips. “I swear you’re getting clumsier by the day!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Cook said. “I’ll try to be more careful from now on.”
“You better,” Aunt Ida said. “Now that my niece is here to help, you might just find yourself out of a job!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cook said. She set the tumbler on the table, folded the last napkin, and hobbled out of the room.
Aunt Ida stuffed her handkerchief back into her sleeve, then looked Emma up and down. “What in heaven’s name are you wearing, child? That dress looks like something out of my grandmother’s closet. Not to mention it’s much too big!”
“I know it doesn’t fit properly,” Emma said. “But it’s all I—”
“Maggie!” Ida shouted over her shoulder, making Emma jump. When Maggie didn’t respond right away, Aunt Ida shook her head and frowned. “Maggie, come in here this instant!”
From the back of the house, footsteps rushed down a flight of wooden stairs. A few seconds later a young girl hurried into the dining room, her face flushed. “Yes, Mrs. Shawcross?”
“See to it we have enough material to make new dresses for my niece,” she said. “She’ll need one for everyday, one for housework, and two for going out.”
“Yes, Mrs. Shawcross,” Maggie said. “I’ll run to the dress shop first thing in the morning.”
Aunt Ida turned to face Maggie. “No. You’ll run to the dress shop right now.”
“Yes, Mrs. Shawcross.” Maggie curtsied and hurried out of the room.
“Why don’t you let Emma get settled before you try to fix something about her, Ma?” Percy said.
“It’s fine, really,” Emma said, forcing a smile. “But if you don’t mind, nothing too fancy, please. I like to keep my clothes comfortable and simple.”
Ida laughed. “Now, don’t you fret none about that,” she said. “We’re not going to spend good money dressing you up like a little doll. These are hard times, Emma. It’s enough that we’ve agreed to put a roof over your head, don’t you think?”
Emma nodded, heat rising in her cheeks.
“Shall I show Emma to her living quarters so she can freshen up?” Percy said.
“No, no,” Ida said. “I’ll do it. Go and fetch your father. Dinner will be ready in a half hour.”
“Yes, Ma,” Percy said. He nodded once at Emma and left.
Aunt Ida hooked an arm through Emma’s and led her out of the dining room into a hall, one pudgy hand patting her wrist. They crossed the hall and went through the sitting room, where Aunt Ida used to stand over Percy while he practiced the piano, swatting him upside the head when he hit the wrong key. No matter how hard he tried, Percy made mistakes during every song. Once, when no one was in the room, Emma lightly touched the keys, trying to play the song, “Oh My Darling, Clementine” by ear. But like a shot, Aunt Ida stormed in and nearly shut the cover on Emma’s fingers, warning her never to touch the piano again. She never did.
When they entered the parlor, Emma’s throat started to close. She knew seeing the room again would bring back painful memories, but she’d hoped it had been rearranged or redecorated in the past nine years. It looked unchanged. She could still picture Albert’s small body, laid out for viewing beneath the brass chandelier. Black ribbons and violets had hung from every door, crepe had covered all the mirrors, and the hands on the clocks had been stilled. Emma had said nothing when her aunt insisted she pose next to her brother for a mourning portrait. Then she stayed in the darkened room, refusing to sleep, eat, or leave his side until her parents came back from Manhattan. Instead, she waited in a wingback chair in the corner, watching tiny droplets of river water fall from Albert’s thawing body and darken the Persian rug beneath the bier.
When she finally saw her parents coming through the parlor door, she held her breath, unable to move, certain they would never speak to her again. Then they approached Albert, her mother with trembling fingers over her mouth, her father’s face twisting in grief, and Emma finally stood.
“Mama,” she said, and her legs collapsed beneath her.
Her mother ran across the parlor and caught her, dropping to her knees and hugging Emma to her chest. When Emma started to shake and howl, shedding tears for the first time since her brother drowned, her mother held on tight, telling her over and over that everything was going to be all right. Her father ran his hand over her cheeks, begging her to be strong, because they couldn’t bear it if something happened to her too.
Emma had no idea it was possible to cry so hard you could barely breathe, your sobs bursting from your throat as if they were coming from the bottom of your soul. She remembered wondering briefly if it was possible to lose your mind at ten years old. Then her parents died in the fire and she’d fallen apart all over again, certain the sheer agony of losing them would kill her. That time, she’d been in a white hospital room with a stone-faced doctor and a glassy-eyed nurse standing at her bedside, with no one to hold her, no one to tell her everything would be all right, no one to kiss her sweaty brow. Thinking about it now, a fresh wave of grief nearly brought her to her knees.
“Emma?” Aunt Ida said, bringing her back to the here and now.
She blinked. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was wondering what you thought of the new drapes,” Aunt Ida said proudly, as if she had made them herself. “The old ones were so old and faded, I just had to get rid of them!”
“They’re very nice,” Emma said, trying to sound like she cared. As far as she could tell, the curtains looked exactly the same as they did nine years ago.
Aunt Ida led her through the white-tiled kitchen toward the rear of the house, their footsteps echoing on the floorboards. They moved through a door into a short hall, then started up the steep, narrow stairway toward the servants’ quarters.
“I do hope you’ll forgive me,” Aunt Ida said. “But the room you and . . .” She hesitated, pausing on the steps. “Oh, mercy me. I can barely say his name without feeling faint.”
“Albert?”
“Yes, your poor brother, Albert. God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and continued up the stairs. “Such a shame. And with his whole life ahead him. Now my poor sister is gone too.” She shook her head, her face crumpling in on itself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . It’s all too painful for me. I never imagined my life would turn out so sad.”
Emma gripped the banister tighter. “I know what you mean.”
“There’s just so much wretchedness in this world,” Aunt Ida said, sniffing. “It can be terribly hard on a sensitive person like me. I wish I didn’t have to see or hear about people suffering. That’s why I try to focus on happy things, for my own sake.”
If only it were that easy, Emma thought. Then she remembered the boy slumped next to the telephone pole, and Albert’s twin with the missing leg. “Speaking of suffering,” she said. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course, dear,” Aunt Ida said. “Anything.”
“On the way here, I saw two young boys in the village,” she said. “One was missing a limb, and another had a leg brace. Do you know what happened to them?”
Aunt Ida stopped on the stairwell again. She put a hand over her brooch. “Oh dear,” she said. “You mean those poor breaker boys?”
“Breaker boys? Who are they?”
Aunt Ida held up a finger, indicating that Emma should stop speaking. “Please,” she said. “It’s much too depressing for me to talk about right now. We’ve had enough sorrow for one day, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said.
Her aunt continued climbing the stairwell, wheezing with the effort. Then she smiled, her mood suddenly turning. “As I was saying, the room where you and Albert stayed last time has been converted into a sewing room. And Maggie is the most fabulous seamstress. Wait until you see the beautiful dresses she makes for me! Anyway, there’s no longer e
nough room for you in the main part of the house.”
“That’s fine,” Emma said. “I don’t need much.”
In truth, Emma was relieved. The bedroom she had shared with Albert would be filled with memories of playing hide-and-seek in closets and beneath beds, peeking out the windows to spy on Percy when he was being tutored in the backyard, competing at Pick-Up Sticks and Twenty Questions when Uncle Otis locked them in their room during dinner parties. It would be too hard to stay in there.
At the top of the steps, Aunt Ida led her down a narrow, whitewashed hall and stopped in front of a squat door. She paused, trying to catch her breath, then said, “Most of the help has been let go because we just can’t find good people anymore.” She pointed toward the end of the hall. “The water closet is down there. Now, mind you, you’ll have to share it with Maggie and Cook, but it should be sufficient.” She pulled a ring of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked the door. “I’m certain you’ll have all the space you need right here.”
Inside the narrow room, a single bed with an iron headboard sat pushed against one wall, the mattress covered with a brown wool blanket. Opposite the bed, a six-paned window overlooked the side yard. There was a wooden washstand, a blue dresser, a spindle-back chair, and a green threadbare rug covering half the plank floor. Yellow wallpaper with tiny roses covered the back wall. The other walls had been painted white.
Emma forced a smile. “It’s perfect,” she said.
“I’m delighted you think so,” Aunt Ida said. “I was so afraid you’d be upset because you’re not in the main house with us.”
“Not at all. It’s bigger than my bedroom was back in Manhattan.” Emma set down her suitcase, unpinned her hat, and laid it and her purse on the bed. “But if you don’t mind, the train ride was exhausting. I could use a little rest.”
“Right now?” Aunt Ida said, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something rotten. “But your uncle will be expecting you at dinner! You know how he gets when—”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “You’re right. I’ll freshen up a bit, then I’ll be right down.”
Aunt Ida tented her hands beneath her chin as if praying, and shook them. “It’s for the best,” she said. “We have a lot to talk about, Emma. This is your home now, and your uncle has certain rules and expectations. You don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”
“Of course not,” Emma said. Nerves prickled the skin around her lips. She gripped the door handle and started closing the door, ushering Aunt Ida backward into the hall.
“Twenty minutes,” Aunt Ida said. “No longer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Remember what your uncle always says,” Aunt Ida said. “Clocks were made for a reason!”
“Yes, Aunt Ida. I remember.”
The door clicked shut, and Emma took a step back, staring at the white knob, trying to keep her wits about her. It was no use. Panic clawed at her insides like a cat inside a sack. With shaking hands, she tore open her drawstring purse, yanked out the mourning veil, and grabbed the glass vial. She pulled out the stopper and took a tiny swallow of the bitter liquid inside. Then she took off her shoes and collapsed on the bed. Closing her eyes, she put her hands over her face, homesickness and grief washing over her in torrential waves.
After a few long, unbearable minutes, she felt the laudanum slithering through her veins and muscles, loosening the crush of anguish inside her chest. When she thought she could trust herself to sit up without feeling dizzy, she swung her legs over the bed and stood. She unbuttoned the long sleeves and high collar of the mourning dress, undid the waistband, and slipped the garment over her head. The skirt’s underwire caught in her hair, and for a minute she was stuck. Finally she ripped the heavy garment over her head, tearing out a small clump of hair. Tears of pain sprang up in her eyes, and she blinked against a new flood of despair. She removed her petticoat, untied her corset, and took off her stockings.
Finally able to breath, she opened her suitcase and retrieved the copy of the New York Times from the inside pocket—given to her by a nurse before she left the hospital. She sat down on the bed, turned to the page featuring the list of theater employees who had died in the fire, and read her parents’ names for the hundredth time.
Back in Manhattan, when she and her father used to walk past the offices of the New York Times at One Times Square, he always joked that the only time he’d get his name in the paper was after he was dead. When that day came, he used to say, he wanted her to remember that he had lived the life he wanted, and that he loved her more than anything on Earth. No matter how much she missed him after he was gone, he wanted her to look forward, toward the rest of her life, and make the choice to be happy.
The black and white print blurred on the page, and Emma tried to make the choice to be happy. It didn’t work. She returned the newspaper to the suitcase and slipped off her chemise.
At the nightstand, a thin towel hung from a wrought-iron hook, and a bar of lavender soap sat on top of a folded washcloth. She lifted the pitcher and was relieved to find it full of water. She filled the washbasin and rinsed her face, then used the washcloth and soap to clean her arms, hands, and neck, scrubbing three days’ worth of grime and sweat from her skin. How she longed to soak in a tub of hot, soapy water, to wash her dirty hair and relax her tired muscles. But there wasn’t time.
She finished washing, unpinned her hair, brushed the snarls out of it, and worked it into one long braid, leaving it free to hang down her back. She put on her petticoat and the broadcloth skirt, unbuckled the belt and tied it around her waist to keep the skirt from falling off, then put on the baggy, shawl-collared blouse and her only pair of shoes—lace-up boots with heels and pointed toes. Then she took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door, and went downstairs.
CHAPTER 3
They sat beneath a gas chandelier in the dining room, tiny, flickering flames reflected in the walnut-paneled ceiling. Uncle Otis was at the head of the table, Aunt Ida to his left and Percy to his right, wine bottle in hand, studying its label. Aunt Ida had insisted that Emma be seated next to Percy to avoid having to shout along the length of the outlandishly long piece of furniture. Behind Aunt Ida, platters of roasted beef filled the sideboard, along with bowls of green beans and pickled beets, and a basket of fresh-out-of-the-oven tea rolls. Nearly nauseated by the thought of eating, Emma would have been happy with a glass of cool water. The only beverages on the table were wine, coffee, and hot tea. To her dismay, the small sip of laudanum was already beginning to wear off, leaving her with the heightened sense of feeling trapped. She thought about having a glass of wine, but was afraid she wouldn’t stop drinking once she started. All she could smell was warm dust drifting up from the Persian carpet. She wanted to ask if she could open one of the three tall windows, but thought better of it.
The dark wood walls and an enormous canvas painting above the stone fireplace heightened the feeling of suffocation. The portrait showed the Shawcross family, Uncle Otis in a black suit and plaid tie, sitting in a ladder-back chair, looking bored. Aunt Ida stood beside him in a red gauze dress, her bosom corseted nearly up to her double chin, one hand on Uncle Otis’s shoulder. A young Percy stood in the center, wearing a white sailor suit with a blue collar, his chubby legs like sausages stuffed inside navy leggings, his face pale as a ghoul’s.
Emma thought back to the day her parents left her and Albert in Coal River while they went back to Manhattan to look for new jobs. On the wagon ride back to her uncle’s after dropping them off at the train station, she held her mother’s locket so hard, the edges nearly cut her fingers. Then, later, at this very dinner table, Uncle Otis informed her and Albert that from that day on, they would be expected to earn their keep. After all, he had taken them in after their parents lost their jobs in New York, and they’d already stayed twice as long as planned. The next morning, Albert polished shoes while Emma scrubbed the bathroom floor on her hands and knees, Aunt Ida standing over her to make sure she rinsed t
wice. Every day after that, Emma polished the silver, folded the linens, swept the rooms, and pressed the clothes while Albert slopped the hogs, split and hauled wood, and cleaned and filled the oil lamps.
Once, during a winter thaw, Uncle Otis sent Emma up a ladder to wash the outside of the second-story windows. She begged him not to make her do it, and Albert even offered to do the job in her place. But Uncle Otis refused his offer, insisting Emma face her fears. When she froze at the top of the ladder and couldn’t climb back down, he sent the stable hand up to rescue her. As punishment, he withheld her supper for the next two days, accusing her of weaseling her way out of the job. A week later, when Albert forgot to lock the hog pen, Uncle Otis forced him to kneel on a corncob in the mudroom for three hours, then told him to “buck up” when he limped into the kitchen with red and swollen knees.
Now Emma had to face Uncle Otis alone, without Albert to make faces behind his back during his nightly lectures and angry rants. How would she get through this without her brother?
“While she’s living in this house,” Uncle Otis said, “she must wear the proper mourning clothes!”
“Her mourning dress is too big,” Aunt Ida said. “Even the outfit she’s wearing now is too loose. I don’t think her parents made enough money to buy proper attire for the poor thing. God rest their souls.”
Emma opened her mouth to respond, but Uncle Otis interrupted.
“Then have a new one made for her! It’s bad enough she’s sitting at my table with no respect for her dead parents. I won’t tolerate it in public.” He yanked his napkin from beneath his silverware, wiped his brow with it, then stuffed it into his vest like a bib.
“The rules are changing, Uncle,” Emma said, her fists in her lap. “In the city, women are turning away from wearing black during mourning. Now, it’s gray or purple, or even mauve. My mother only wore a mourning dress for a week after my brother died. Albert knew she loved him, so it didn’t matter what she wore.”
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