by Jane Steen
Miss Baker was not a live-in governess. She lived with several women friends in a house near Bridgeport and preferred to keep her independence. It seemed a little unusual—but who was I to deprive another woman of her freedom? So she viewed our move to Aldine Square with equanimity and, despite the incident with the marbles, told me she’d like to persevere with Sarah.
The move to our own home buoyed my uncertain spirits. For the first time in almost five years, I was the mistress of my own household again. That household included a smart green rockaway with carmine wheels, which Tess instantly commandeered for a visit to Mary. I could only imagine what an impression her regular appearance in a carriage was making in the Back of the Yards.
“How is Mary?” was my tentative question when she returned.
“She says I shouldn’t be your housekeeper.” Tess was never one to dwell on polite nothings.
“You know I’d be happy for you to do nothing at all,” I pointed out. “It’s entirely up to you to arrange matters with Alice.”
“Why would I want to be idle?” Tess’s scanty eyebrows rose above her round spectacles. “‘A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep: so shall thy poverty come as one that traveleth, and thy want as an armed man.’ That’s in Proverbs, and it means we shouldn’t be lazy. You’re never lazy.”
“Well, that’s true, I suppose.” Tess’s biblical certainties always left me nonplussed. “Of course, we wouldn’t be poor even if we did nothing. Martin’s arranged things so well that we can easily afford this house and our daily expenditures.”
I indicated the parlor in which we were busy arranging our belongings. It was pleasantly furnished with the Katzenmeiers’ heavy but not overwhelming armchairs and tables. A profusion of walnut trim gave the room a fashionable solidity, but the walls were painted cream rather than festooned with the usual patterned wallpaper. The velvet drapes were an attractive dark green color. We faced north across the central gardens of the square, so our view would soon be of burgeoning leaves and bright flowers.
“It’s a nice house.” Tess found her Bible and placed it on the table near the armchair she had selected as her own. “My bedroom is comfortable, and imagine—Sary has her own little room to sleep in! You don’t think she’ll be afraid, do you?”
“I’ll be close by.” We had, in fact, designated the dressing room off the largest bedroom—where I slept—to hold a small bed, soon to be delivered. That seemed preferable to putting such a little girl upstairs in the nursery-schoolroom. Sarah felt mightily grown-up to have a room of her own.
“I thought Sarah seemed a touch less sulky this morning,” I observed. “She let Miss Baker show her how to make a paper boat and helped her arrange the schoolroom. And she likes the pond in the garden.” A momentary image of Sarah somehow ensuring that Miss Baker fell into the pond entered my mind, and I firmly kicked it out of doors.
“Sary’s really a good little girl,” Tess said. “She’s just being naughty because she doesn’t like things to change.”
“I don’t much like all the upheaval either. But I think our new house is a change for the better.”
The change I liked best of all was that a box room on the north side of the house had been cleared so that I could use it as a sewing room. I planned to spend as much money as I wanted on getting it fitted out with shelves, a cutting table, a pressing table, and a brand new sewing machine. Had I not been so worried about Martin, the excitement of such a project—and the prospect of useful occupation—might have consumed my days.
“If Martin were free, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you, Nell?” Tess’s words broke into my thoughts with uncanny aptness.
“If none of this had happened, we might be making plans to leave Chicago.” I was arranging Sarah’s picture books and Tess’s novels in a neat row on a shelf by the fireplace and kept my head turned away from Tess. “But what’s the use of talking about might-have-beens?”
I furtively wiped away a tear and turned to smile at Tess, who returned my look with sympathy in her eyes. We still hadn't talked openly about my relationship with Martin, but I was aware that somehow Tess knew. I swallowed.
“I’ve made a mess of things, Tess.”
“You’re not responsible for everything that happens.” Sometimes Tess had more sense than any of us. “Besides, when we make a mess we can clean it up, can’t we, Nell? Is there anything you can do?”
Again, she had hit on something that lurked in my mind, where I thought nobody else could find it. Now the notion resurfaced from somewhere deep down. I reached into my workbasket and pulled out a scrap of newsprint.
“It’s a ridiculous idea, I know, but—look at this.”
Tess read the advertisement slowly and carefully. “Young women of clean and neat appearance, with good English and of ready address, are invited to apply to Gambarelli’s Emporium for employment on the sales floor. Terms and conditions upon application.”
She read it again, silently this time, her lips moving. Then she looked at me.
“If you worked at Gambarelli’s, you could find out things. And you wouldn’t fret so much.”
I let out my breath. “Precisely. It would mean being away from home a lot.”
“And you’d have to pretend to be the sort of woman who needs money.” Tess wrinkled her brow. “That shouldn’t be too hard. You still have some of the clothes you wore when you worked as a seamstress, don’t you? You couldn’t go into Gambarelli’s dressed like a rich lady.”
“You’re very clever.” I couldn’t help smiling. “I’d have to take the horse car along State Street all by myself. But working women do that, don’t they?” Somehow the idea of freedom from the rules and regulations appertaining to society women more than made up for any slight danger or unpleasantness.
Tess pursed her lips. “I shouldn’t tell our servants what you’re doing—except maybe Alice. We can tell the others you’re busy doing charity work.” She glanced at my face and sniffed. “If you don’t think I can keep a secret, you’re wrong. When you ran away from the Poor Farm, I had to pretend I didn’t know where you were going, and I did know, didn’t I?”
I left what I was doing and went to hug Tess. “I know I can trust you absolutely.”
“And I’ll try not to go to the Back of the Yards too often so that Sary doesn’t get lonely.” Tess attempted a severe expression. “But that doesn’t mean I’m staying with you forever."
18
Typhus
It was Good Friday, and we’d been to church twice. That was my daily limit. Tess had been spirited away by Aileen for an afternoon Mass to counteract our two visits to Saint James’s. I had nothing to do except sit by the fire and fret over my forthcoming application in person to Gambarelli’s.
“Momma, can’t you ring for Zofia to put the lights on? I like hearing them pop, and it’s nearly dark.”
Sarah lifted her head from her game, which involved the creation of an entire society made out of people cut from old fashion plates. Every one of them had names Sarah had made up, and she told herself stories about “her people” in a continuous monologue as she played.
“Go and push the button,” I said. “And don’t slide along the floor in your stockinged feet.”
A swishing sound informed me that Sarah had ignored the latter injunction. Fortunately, Miss Baker didn’t mind darning stockings. Zofia was a very young Polish woman Alice had found as a maid-of-all-work. She was pale and thin, but her capacity for work was impressive.
“You look tired, Momma.” Sarah abandoned her game and climbed into my lap.
“I’m not, really. I just don’t like days like today when you’re supposed to do nothing. And I really can’t read one more sermon.” I smoothed a hand over her braids. “It’s not so much fun for you either.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Sarah laid her head against my chest, seeking the position in which she could best hear my heartbeat. “Church was sad, but I’m glad I have no lessons to
day.”
“Is Miss Baker really so dreadful?” For a moment, I almost weakened and told Sarah I would dismiss her.
“She does tell me interesting things,” Sarah admitted. “Did you know, Momma, that most people work all day?”
“I worked all day in Kansas.” I grinned and dropped a kiss on her hair.
“But you liked it. Most people have to work for a long, long time, even if their work’s really hard. Like cutting up meat and hitting—I can’t remember the word. How you make big pieces of metal stay together.”
“Rivets?”
Sarah nodded. “They make them very hot so that they’re soft, and then they hit them. I would think it would be hard to do that for ten or twelve hours. And they can’t stop and play with their little girls like you did in Kansas.”
Satisfied that my heart was still beating, Sarah straightened up and began to run a finger along the ruffles on the front of my dress. “Miss Baker says I’m streemly clever,” she observed. “She says I’m too clever by half.” Her jade-green eyes glowed in the firelight. “She says if I were in school, I’d have to be in a class with bigger girls.”
“Would you like that?”
“No.” Sarah shook her head. “Big girls try to tell little girls what to do. A big girl in the park told me not to climb the tree.”
This was news to me. “You were climbing trees?”
“Miss Baker said I’d tear my dress, and the trees are too little anyway. She says that when we find some really nice trees, she’ll put me in old clothes and teach me how to climb up safely.”
I watched as Zofia entered and lit a taper from the fire, then visited each light in turn. Sarah followed her, staying at a safe distance from the popping noise the lights made. As she no doubt had known would happen, Zofia—who ate a great deal despite or perhaps because of her slenderness—suggested a visit to the kitchen to try Mrs. Power’s popovers, and I was left to my musing. Or was it moping?
It would be two days before Mr. Salazar could visit again. Did they celebrate Easter at the county jail? Would Martin receive some variation in his diet of beans and coffee? I knew his attorneys were meeting with the judge next week, but little else about what was happening to him. Mr. Salazar continued to visit him every day except Saturdays.
I sank into my chair, eyeing the paper people Sarah had spread out on the carpet, unable to help noticing details of outmoded styles. Zofia had closed the drapes, but I could hear the rain beating on the windows. The bad weather made the parlor seem even more snug and warm by comparison, and I thought of Martin for the thousandth time that day. Was he warm?
The clang of the doorbell a floor below startled me out of my reverie. I looked at the clock—it was almost Sarah’s bedtime. Nobody could possibly be calling on me on Good Friday, especially at this hour. I crossed to the door in six strides and yanked it open.
“Mr. Salazar.” Ignoring etiquette, I ran down the stairs to where Zofia was helping Mr. Salazar out of a coat so wet it was dripping all over the marble floor. He had told me once he had to be home early on Friday nights to celebrate the beginning of the Sabbath. Fear coursed through me.
“What’s wrong?”
Mr. Salazar paused, and in the silence, Sarah’s high-pitched giggle could be heard from the kitchen. Arthur Nutt, who was a great friend of Mrs. Power’s, had probably dropped by to drink tea with her and was even now telling Sarah funny stories.
“May we go upstairs?”
“Zofia, please put Mr. Salazar’s coat near the fire to dry.” I eyed the fine wool coat with its Astrakhan collar, from which a steady stream of drips was still cascading. “And take Miss Sarah up to her room when she’s done eating. I’ll come up soon.”
“Come up and warm yourself by the parlor fire,” I said to Mr. Salazar. I led the way, trying to behave normally despite the thudding of my heart. “And whatever it is, don’t spare me.”
It only took a minute or so to get Mr. Salazar settled in the chair nearest the fire and put a fresh log onto the embers. But it seemed like a long minute before I could ask the question that was uppermost in my mind.
“Is Martin all right?”
“For now.” Mr. Salazar held out his hands to the fire. “He’s in quarantine. I tried to see him earlier, but they don’t allow visitors on Good Friday, and besides, they may not allow anyone in now.”
My shoulders had slumped a little in relief at his initial words, but the word “quarantine” sent pins and needles into my hands. “Quarantine for what?”
“His cellmate has typhus, and four more cases were diagnosed in the jail today. They think it was brought in by a new prisoner who hadn’t been deloused thoroughly enough.”
I shuddered. “Can’t they move him?”
“For now, he’s quarantined with half a dozen men who may also have been exposed, and they’ve boiled their clothes and burned their bedding. Prisons are used to typhus.” He grimaced. “I will go to the jail tomorrow and try to bring him nourishing foods and tonics. I just hope my womenfolk will understand—my mother-in-law in particular.”
I could feel my hands forming themselves into fists. “He should not be in there.”
“No. And believe me, his attorneys will make much of this. We brought in a new lawyer, a most argumentative fellow whose specialty is arguing for the release of the prisoner. He’s well connected politically, and we’re hoping he can bring some kind of action against the judge.”
“If you see Martin, let him know I’m thinking of him.”
With a rueful look at the cheerful fire, Mr. Salazar rose to his feet. “I will. And now I must absolutely get back.”
“But your coat—the rain—you’ll make yourself ill. And you have so many people depending on you.”
“I’ll be all right.” Again, the smile that transformed his lean, solemn face. “I’ll be thoroughly scolded, but my Leah will fill me with broth and cover me with blankets. We men are nothing without our good women.”
By the time I had said good night to him, it was I who was shivering violently. I wasn’t cold—I was scared half to death. Martin was a strong man, but typhus was a dangerous disease.
I’d done my best to make Easter morning bright and cheerful with cards and papier-maché boxes at each of our breakfast places. I arranged an Easter egg hunt through our new domain for all of us, family and servants.
There was church, of course, and a large luncheon of roast leg of lamb, which Mrs. Power did exceptionally well. We could eat cold roast lamb in the evening, so I was able to give all the servants the rest of the day off. For a few hours, there were just the three of us again. I made every effort to push Martin out of my mind as we played games and walked in the square’s garden together, exchanging greetings with various other residents. For a day, we could be an ordinary family.
I played my part well, but I was exhausted by the time we’d eaten our cold supper and settled down in front of the fire. Exhausted and yet unable to sleep. Tess and I put Sarah to bed once she started yawning and then returned to our armchairs. I had copies of Peterson’s Magazine and a new French journal, Le Salon de la Mode, which I had discovered for sale in a small shop on State Street. Tess had bought a piece of open-weave fabric and an embroidery hoop. She was trying to learn cross-stitch by filling in a simple flower I had drawn for her on the fabric.
I was carefully studying a “Cerisse bodice for a miss of sixteen,” adapting it in my mind’s eye into a more sophisticated version, when I heard the bell. Fortunately, it was a loud one since none of the servants had yet returned. I knew who it would be and was out of my chair and running down the stairs in a moment.
“He’s all right,” said Mr. Salazar as he stepped over the threshold. The rain had cleared away with the dawn of Easter morning, and his coat and silk hat were dry and well brushed. In front of my house, a smart landau waited, the driver having climbed down to talk to the horses.
I invited Mr. Salazar up to the parlor, and he shook Tess’s hand. He refused my offe
r of refreshment—just as well since I didn’t know my way around my own kitchen—and explained he intended to stay only a few minutes.
“I came here tonight because I believe I can at last find you an opportunity to speak with Martin,” he said. “It would have to be very early tomorrow morning, before the press realizes that he’s been moved.”
“Moved?” My heart lurched with excitement and fear. I would see him—I would actually see him at last.
“To Harrison Street Jail. It’s a filthy hole, but it’s not infected with typhus. Two of the men in quarantine with Martin went down with the illness, and our lawyer kicked up the devil of a fuss. He’s managed to get the judge removed on suspicion of taking bribes, which he clearly was, and the new judge seems ready to listen to the petition. Given the typhus, he also agreed that it would be best to put Martin somewhere else while he listens to the facts of the case and deliberates. He realizes they’d hear no end of it if they allow an innocent man to contract a dangerous disease. So Martin’s probably even now undergoing a second delousing. He'll be moved tonight under conditions of strict secrecy. Harrison Street is a lockup for petty crimes, and you can visit there with far less formality than at the county jail.”
“What time tomorrow?” I asked.
“Would five o’clock in the morning be too early to call?” asked Mr. Salazar. He nodded as I shook my head to indicate no, it would not be too early. I would have walked to the jail in bare feet at midnight if necessary.
“Then I’ll be waiting for you outside—you saw my carriage.”
I felt a momentary pleasure at knowing Martin paid this loyal man enough to buy him the splendid landau I’d seen. But there was another important question to ask.
“Does Martin know?”
Mr. Salazar shook his head slowly. “I have no way of informing him without risking the disclosure he’s been trying so hard to avoid. Even now I’m taking a huge risk. The only assurance I have is that the move to Harrison Street will be undertaken secretly. They’re still nervous about lynch mobs or—well, connections of the Gambarellis.”