The Carousel Painter

by Judith Miller

  “Tyson? The fellow you talked about when you were in Paris?”

  Color flooded Augusta’s cheeks, and I knew I’d remembered correctly.

  “No matter what I’ve said about him in the past, he truly is a nice enough fellow. And Mother approves of him. The Farnsworths live in New York City, and their family is on the social register.”

  I should have known the social register would be enough of a draw to garner Mrs. Galloway’s approval when selecting a suitor for her daughter. Then again, who was I to judge? I had no expertise in such matters.

  Still, I did recall a number of comments Augusta had made about Tyson while living in Paris. Comments about his boorish and ungentlemanly behavior. On several occasions he’d treated her with little respect, canceling their plans to go off with another woman. I couldn’t understand her interest in this man, but she seemed willing to forgive and forget. I wouldn’t question her decision, but it didn’t mean I approved. “Then you should have a wonderful time at the party.”

  Even my lackluster tone didn’t dampen her enthusiasm. She clapped her hands and bounced forward on the carriage seat. “Only if you promise to come. I’ll ask Ronald to act as your escort, and I have a dress you can alter and wear. I’ll pack it in your trunk.”

  Augusta flashed me a smile that said she’d resolved any possible reason for my refusal. Now that her mood had lightened, I didn’t want her spirits to plummet. When the carriage jerked to a halt, I offered a silent prayer of thanks that I could defer my answer until another time.

  “This looks promising,” I called to Thomas. The gardener-turned-driver hurried to the side of the carriage and pulled open the door. I squinted at the posting on the front railing of the clapboard house. The signage didn’t reflect whether there were any vacancies.

  Augusta and Thomas agreed to wait at the carriage while I questioned the owner. My inquiry didn’t take long. The housekeeper informed me they had no openings. “We’ve a waiting list as long as my arm. It’s the fine cooking. The men are willin’ to pay extra to live here,” she proudly added.

  “Could you tell me where I might find a room for rent?”

  She balanced a broom against the doorjamb and propped a hand on her hip. Straining to one side, she peered across the street. “Around here?”

  I could hear the misgiving in her voice. Why would someone with a fine carriage and driver be seeking a room in the factory district? “Someplace within walking distance of the carousel factory,” I said.

  “You’ll not find much of anything open. The workers from the factories hereabouts fill ’em up as quick as they empty.” She hesitated. “ ’Cept for Minnie Wilson’s place. She’s always got empty rooms.” The woman’s lips curled in disgust. “Horrid food. The woman can’t boil a potato that’s fit to eat. Her boarders stay only until they can find themselves someplace else to live.”

  After I’d secured Mrs. Wilson’s address, I thanked the woman and turned to leave.

  “If you rent a room at Minnie’s, you better come back tomorrow and get your name on our waiting list,” she called after me.

  I waved and thanked her again, envisioning the horror awaiting me at Minnie Wilson’s boardinghouse.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The carriage stopped in front of a tidy white frame house. Flower boxes punctuated the wide windows, and a thick wood railing fronted the broad porch. My fear diminished a tad. A sign hung from the porch railing and announced in bold black lettering that we’d arrived at Wilsons’ Boardinghouse. Directly beneath the boardinghouse name, the word Vacancy had been painted on a removable piece of wood that teetered back and forth in the breeze.

  “Here we are. Would you like to come with me?” I glanced over my shoulder at Augusta.

  She agreed, but if she felt any jubilation at my find, she kept it well hidden. “I don’t think this is a good location. These houses are occupied by factory workers. You won’t be safe here.”

  I looped arms with Augusta. “You forget that I’m a factory worker, too. Trust me. I’ll be fine. Now let’s see what Mrs. Wilson has to offer.”

  Augusta tugged on my arm after I’d knocked on the front door. “What is that terrible smell? It’s as vile as that awful glue in the carousel J u d i t h M i l l e r factory.” She wrinkled her nose and looked over her shoulder. “Do you think it’s coming from one of the factories? You’ll never be able to tolerate it.” She clasped a hand to her bodice. “And you’ll be forced to keep your windows closed in the heat of summer. How will you survive?”

  Just then the front door popped open. There was no doubt the smell was coming from inside the snug dwelling. An apple-cheeked woman, nearly as broad as she was tall, greeted us with a smile that matched her size. She seemed oblivious to the odor.

  “How can I help you two young ladies?” She stepped to the side and waved us forward. “Come in, come in.”

  I ignored Augusta’s frown and proceeded across the threshold. “You can wait in the carriage if you prefer,” I whispered over my shoulder.

  Augusta shook her head and remained close on my heels as Mrs. Wilson led us into the parlor. While I explained my situation to Mrs. Wilson, I heard Augusta inhale a huge gulp of air. A minute or two later, a loud whoosh escaped her lips. Both Mrs. Wilson and I turned to stare.

  “Breathing through the mouth in large gulps helps to clear the lungs of impurities,” Augusta said.

  I couldn’t believe she managed to keep a straight face.

  “I’ve never heard that before,” Mrs. Wilson said. “But I’m always willing to try something new.” She sucked in a mouthful of air and clamped her lips together in a tight fold. Her face soon turned the shade of a ripe persimmon.

  I was thankful when she clasped a hand to her chest and exhaled a gush of air. “I do believe you’re right. This deep breathing is cleansing.”

  Without warning an irrepressible giggle hit the back of my throat. I turned toward the door, covered my mouth with one hand, and feigned a cough. I swallowed hard and forced myself to regain control. “May I see the room, Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Silly me. Of course.” She waved me toward the hallway. “I hope the smell in here isn’t too bad. I tried my hand at frying cabbage a little while ago. It was a complete disaster.”

  I offered what I hoped was a sympathetic nod. Yet why anyone would even want to fry cabbage was beyond my comprehension. I hoped if I moved in, Mrs. Wilson would give up on the idea of cooking that particular dish.

  “Cabbage isn’t as easy to cook as you might think,” she continued. “I burned my first attempt, but I had another head of cabbage, so I boiled that one.” She stopped at the bottom of the steps. “The pot boiled dry on my second attempt, so that head got a little crispy on the bottom. Maybe the crispy part will taste like fried cabbage.”

  There was a lilt to her voice, and it was clear Mrs. Wilson believed she’d achieved a level of success. My giggle returned full force. I clamped my lips together and pinched my nose between my thumb and forefinger. The technique stifled any laughter and also eliminated any odor of burned cabbage, but I’d soon need to breathe.

  “There’s an empty room on this floor, but you’d have to share the bathroom with my two gentlemen boarders. If you don’t mind another flight of steps, there’s no one else on the third floor, and you could have a bathroom for yourself.”

  A bathroom! I couldn’t believe my good fortune. “I’d prefer the third floor.” I reached behind me and squeezed Augusta’s hand. “I’m surprised to learn you have indoor plumbing.” For a bathroom all to myself, I would have danced up the remaining flight of stairs. Besides, I’d be even farther away from the odors emanating from the kitchen.

  Mrs. Wilson stopped at the end of the hall and leaned on the banister leading to the next floor. “My Herman, God rest his soul, thought bathrooms would be the answer to renting every room in our boardinghouse.” She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “As you can see, he was wrong. Not to say Herman didn’t m
ean well, but I still haven’t made back what it cost. And he’s been dead more than three years now.” She clung to the railing and hiked herself up several steps. “Three years. Doesn’t seem possible.”

  A stitch of guilt niggled at my conscience for taking such pleasure in Mrs. Wilson’s bad fortune. I salved my conscience with the knowledge that my rent money would help pay for the bathroom.

  We stopped in front of a third-floor door that had been painted to match the white woodwork. A tiny brass frame had been nailed to the door. Inside was a card with the room number and a line for the occupant’s name. Mrs. Wilson withdrew a ring of keys from her apron pocket. She pushed the keys around the metal loop until she met with success.

  “Here it is,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. She shoved the key into the lock, turned the knob, and pushed open the door. “You can see what you think. It’ll be a little musty from being closed up for so long. If you decide you want it, I’ll air it out before you move in.” Mrs. Wilson stepped back and rested her arms across her broad waist.

  Augusta followed me inside. The room was bigger than I’d expected. A large wardrobe sat opposite the bed, and what appeared to be a comfortable chair was positioned near one window. It was a corner room and would provide good light. Although a desk would be nice, there wasn’t adequate space.

  Augusta crooked her finger and I crossed the room. “You’re going to rent it, aren’t you?” she whispered.

  I nodded. “I’ll have my own bathroom,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “Unless someone else moves into the other room. Besides, Mrs. Wilson can’t cook. You’ll starve to death,” she hissed.

  “It’s a lovely room, don’t you think, Augusta?” I asked in my normal tone.

  Mrs. Wilson stepped forward, her large form filling the doorframe. “I’m glad you like it. It would be wonderful to have another woman in the house. The men are nice, but they tend to talk about work all the time.”

  “And I surmise you’d like someone who’s able to discuss the finer points of food preparation and such,” Augusta said, a half smile lurking behind her cheeky remark.

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Wilson said. She pointed to the brass frame on the door. “Shall I write your name on the card, Miss Brouwer?”

  “Oui, please do.”

  “Are you French?” Mrs. Wilson beamed. “I’ve never met a person from France before.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Wilson, but I’m not French. I lived in France for a number of years.”

  I ignored Augusta’s grunt of displeasure as she edged her way past me. “I think you’ll be sorry,” she whispered. Giving Mrs. Wilson a look that said You need to move, she strode toward the door. “I’m going outside for some fresh air. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”

  If Augusta’s comment had embarrassed Mrs. Wilson, she gave no indication. But she did remove a limp handkerchief from her pocket and fan the air. “It is a bit warm up here, isn’t it? The third floor always seems a tad warmer. Heat rises—that’s what my Herman, God rest his soul, always said.”

  I nodded in agreement. Partly because I had learned long ago that heat rises and partly because, after three long years, Herman Wilson’s soul needed to be put to rest—just in case God hadn’t already seen to the task.

  Using the pad of her index finger, Mrs. Wilson prodded the identification card out of the brass frame. “I’ll print your name on the card before you move in.”

  I held on to the banister and clattered down the steps, feeling quite pleased with myself. I’d set aside my fears, obtained a job, and rented a place to live. I was certain I’d made the correct decision. By the time I bid Mrs. Wilson good-bye, the tightness in my stomach had completely disappeared. Now if only the smell of burned cabbage could do the same.

  The mood at supper was a mixture of sorrow and joy: Augusta’s disappointment was offset by Mrs. Galloway’s exhilaration. Throughout the meal, Mr. Galloway did his best to maintain a degree of loyalty to both wife and daughter. I didn’t think he was managing to please either one. Augusta attributed her bad humor to my looming departure. Mrs. Galloway credited her jubilant demeanor to an invitation to join the Fair Oaks ladies for tea next week. There was no way to know if Mrs. Galloway’s explanation was true, but I had my doubts.

  A lull settled over the table, and I decided to use the time to advantage. “There is one hurdle remaining before I can move.” I hoped Mrs. Galloway would rise to the bait.

  My anticipation intensified when her lips drooped into her now familiar frown. “And what might that be?” The sparkle had disappeared from her eyes.

  “My paintings that you’ve so graciously stored beneath the stairs. I can’t possibly leave them here indefinitely, yet there’s insufficient space in my room.” I looked at Augusta for confirmation of my dilemma.

  A bob of her head caused wisps of auburn hair to dance across her forehead. “And that’s another reason why you should stay here until you can find a place that’s more suitable. There’s plenty of time. We won’t be—”

  “Your paintings won’t present any problem at all. You can arrange to have the crate stored at the factory. They’ll be safe from the weather, and there’s more than adequate space, isn’t there, Howard? Since you’ll be working at the factory, it’s a perfect solution.”

  When he didn’t immediately respond, she pinned her husband with an icy stare. “Well? Isn’t it, Howard?”

  His wife’s voice had risen an octave or two, but Mr. Galloway appeared unperturbed when he glanced in her direction. “I was waiting to make certain it was time to speak.”

  The frown lines surrounding Mrs. Galloway’s mouth deepened, and she expelled a loud sigh. “Please. Speak.” She folded her arms across her waist and jutted her clenched jaw.

  “I will locate a place to store your crate the next time I visit the factory. Until then, we’ll keep the paintings stored beneath the stairs.”

  Before anything further could be said, Mrs. Galloway recaptured control of the conversation. “There. You see? Your problem has been solved. And you need to give Mr. Galloway the address of your boardinghouse so he can stop and pay your rent for several weeks.” Her convivial temperament had returned.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Galloway. I believe I can manage to pay the rent, but I appreciate—”

  “We won’t hear of it, will we, Howard?”

  “My wife said we won’t hear of it, and that means we won’t hear of it. You can tell—” he hesitated a moment—“Mrs. Wilson, wasn’t it?” He arched his brows, and I nodded. “Tell Mrs. Wilson that I’ll stop by the first of the week.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  A stitch of guilt assaulted me. Even though I remembered Mr. Galloway’s earlier offer to pay my rent—after all, who could forget such a thing—I had never intended to accept.

  When I’d tossed my bait into Mrs. Galloway’s pool of solutions, I had only wanted a place to store Papa’s paintings. But I’d hooked much more. At the moment I didn’t feel particularly proud of myself. If Mama were alive, she’d give me a sound scolding. For the remainder of the meal, I didn’t say a word.

  Mrs. Galloway excused us from the table and then announced we would spend the evening going through Augusta’s old clothes. “I know there are many items that she hasn’t worn for more than a year, and you can make good use of them.” She waved Augusta and me toward the staircase. “This way, you won’t need to spend your wages on clothes and such. You’ll want to save as much as possible so that you won’t be dependent upon others for help in the future.”

  Mrs. Galloway hadn’t laid a hand on me, yet the sting of her words hit like a sharp slap—the impact so painful I touched outstretched fingers to my cheek. The biting remark had effectively shredded any remnant of my earlier guilt.

  The older woman yanked dresses and skirts from a closet—this was the first house I’d ever seen with one of those—and Augusta rifled through a chest of drawers in search of stockings, nightgowns
, and unmentionables. While I remained framed in the doorway, clothing flew toward the bed like a volley of badminton birdies.

  By the time they’d completed the task, mounds of clothing adorned the bed. I stared at the heaping array. “You can’t possibly have anything left in your closet. Please, put it back. I don’t need all of this.” I took a tentative step into the room and spread my arm in a sweeping gesture. “There isn’t space in my room for all of this.”

  “With a bit of organization, I’m sure you can make space.” Mrs. Galloway smiled at me, but there was no warmth behind it. “I know you didn’t have a mother to teach you manners, Carrington, but rebuffing those who offer help isn’t considered proper etiquette.”

  My embarrassment was now complete. Flashes of burning anger and humiliation seared me. Beneath my pale skin, heat flooded my cheeks in unrelenting waves. I hoped my eyes reflected the plea for help that lodged in my throat. And that Augusta would notice.

  “I’m sure you’re weary after your long day, Mother. I’ll help Carrie fold and pack these things. As I recall, you and Father were invited next door for a visit with Mr. and Mrs. Barton this evening. I’m sure Father would like to spend the evening in your company.”

  I couldn’t imagine why Mr. Galloway would ever want to be around his wife, but I was thankful for Augusta’s suggestion—and even more thankful when her mother agreed.

  “I’ll send Thomas to retrieve one of the trunks from the cellar, and you two can pack the clothing in there.” After one final inspection of the stacked garments, her cold eyes settled on me. “If nothing else, you’ll be better dressed than any other woman in The Bottoms.”

  Once Mrs. Galloway cleared the hallway, I leaned across the mound of nightgowns. “What’s The Bottoms?”

  “Ignore my mother. She judges people based upon where they live. That’s why she’s so anxious to move into our new house. She badgered Father until he agreed to build the house in Fair Oaks.”

  Poor Mr. Galloway. I could only imagine what he must have endured. “The Bottoms is where I’ll be living—where the factories are located. Am I right?”