Hannah's Dream

by Lenore Butler

  Margaret's stare was hard, and Pierre felt anger rising in his chest, but he remained calm.

  "Of course, Margaret, I will do as you ask."

  "Good. It's nice to know we understand each other."

  Margaret rang the bell she kept by her place at the table, and Ginny, the kitchen maid, appeared at her side.

  "Yes, ma'am," she said.

  "Bring Mr. Rousseau his breakfast, Ginny."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Ginny quickly returned to the kitchen while Margaret rose from the table.

  "You won't sit with me while I eat?" he said.

  "I've things to attend to. I'm sure you will be fine, Pierre."

  He watched Margaret walk away. She was an enigma to him; a woman immune to his charms. He didn't know how to act around her, and didn't trust her, either, but he would stay here as long as he could; he would even work as a teacher if he had to, to stay in this fine house. This is where Jean-Pierre Renault, who now went by the name Pierre Rousseau, belonged, and if he played his cards right, he would own this house one day.

  Chapter 8

  Summer, 1895

  John Liberty was sitting on his porch railing waiting for Hannah to come outside. He wanted to tell her his news, but wasn't sure how she'd react. He'd been putting it off for a week now, and since he would be leaving for school tomorrow, it just couldn't wait any longer.

  He heard the front door to Hannah's house open and close, then he saw her strawberry blonde hair, made into one long braid down her back. She also had a straw hat on her head. She turned and saw him sitting on the railing and smiled. Hannah had just turned fifteen, and John got a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he saw her. There was something about her eyes and the contour of her face, or maybe it was her smile. John couldn't understand why she affected him this way, but since turning seventeen, he was having trouble understanding anything anymore.

  "Hi, John!" she said.

  She waved and smiled at him as she walked across the porch.

  Good, he thought, she's in a good mood.

  He got off the railing and went to meet her on the sidewalk.

  "Have you been waiting for me, John Liberty?"

  "Naw, I was just watching Mavis Bartles walking with Jenny Frye."

  He was pleased when he saw the flash of anger cross her face.

  "Well, then, I guess you won't be walking to town with me. I wouldn't want to take you away from Mavis and Jenny."

  She walked away from him as quickly as she could, but he followed close behind.

  "Actually, Hannah, I have to talk to you."

  She didn't respond, but kept walking.

  "Come on, Hannah, please slow down."

  She slowed down a bit so he could come up alongside her, but she kept her eyes looking ahead.

  "Remember when my father wanted me to go to private school before going to college and I persuaded him to let me stay here?"

  "Yes, I remember."

  "Well, he's changed his mind. He's sending me to a private school now."

  She stopped and turned to look at him.

  "Oh?" she said. Now she looked concerned. "When does he want you to go?"

  "I'm leaving tomorrow."

  Hannah felt as though the world was crashing down around her. Even though she knew he would be going off to college next year, she wasn't ready to let him go.

  "But you're supposed to be here one more year."

  "I know, but he, I, oh, Hannah, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you, I did, but I..."

  "It's all right, John." She put her hand on his arm and squeezed. "I'll miss you."

  John looked into her eyes. He wanted to ask her a question but was uncertain of her response and hesitated.

  "Hannah," he said. "Will you wait for me?"

  Since she was eight years old, Hannah had wanted to marry John Liberty, but because boys didn't talk about their feelings, she was unsure how he felt about her. Her heart began to beat faster, and she smiled broadly.

  "Yes, of course I'll wait for you."

  "Will you write to me?"

  "Yes, every day."

  John put his arm out and she took it. Her acceptance of his request to wait meant that one day they would marry, and with that settled, John could go to New Brunswick without fear that some other boy would steal her away.

  They walked together to the center of town and headed toward the beach. Hannah felt so grown up walking on John's arm that she almost forgot he would be leaving the next day. They chatted about what he planned to do after he finished college -- John didn't know what he wanted to be. Then they talked about their dreams.

  "I want to work in a museum, John" Hannah said. "And I want to be an artist."

  She waited for his response. She had told others of her dream to become an artist, and they scoffed at the idea. Women became wives and mothers, and within the scope of their marriage, attended social functions for charities, or planned dinner parties, but a married woman never worked outside the home. Art was an acceptable hobby, but one simply did not make a living at it, and certainly not a woman.

  When John didn't reply, she continued.

  "Mr. Rousseau said I have a gift that shouldn't be squandered. That was the word he used -- squandered."

  "It would be...difficult," John said.

  She wondered at his hesitation.

  "What do you think, John?"

  "I always loved your sand castles, and I still have the dog you made me out of clay. But you're talking about making a living from it. People will think your husband can't support you."

  "Mr. Rousseau said there's an artist colony in Point Pleasant. I don't think the people living there would think that way."

  She turned up her nose.

  "You asked me what I thought," he said. "I didn't make the rules, Hannah."

  "Rules can be changed, John Liberty," she said.

  She pulled her arm away from his and quickened her steps, moving ahead of him. When he caught up with her, he gently took her hand and held it, forcing her to stop.

  "They can be changed, Hannah, but it takes time," he said softly. "I know you have talent, and since we were kids I've seen how your eyes light up when you create something. I'd be a fool to ask you to give that up."

  "But you still wouldn't want your wife to work for money," she said.

  "Not if she doesn't have to. That would be taking a job away from a man with a family. If you have a husband who provides for you, why would you do that? It wouldn't be right."

  "Then perhaps I shouldn't have a husband."

  Hannah turned and walked away, and this time John let her go. There were times in their relationship when Hannah became impossible to reason with, and John had learned to just let her go. He watched her until her form disappeared in the distance and decided to go to her house later that day to say goodbye.

  Hannah's eyes glistened with tears. She cared for John Liberty, but she loved art. The stained glass windows in the church had given her the impetus to learn more about the great artists of the Renaissance and the impressionist movement in Europe. She longed to go to Paris and walk through The Louvre museum. For Hannah, her desire to work in a museum stemmed from her love of art, and the desire to be in an environment that made her feel alive. How could she reconcile her two loves? Would she have to abandon one to keep the other?

  When she got home, she sat on a rocking chair on the porch and took off her hat, held it on her lap and ran her fingers over the lilac ribbon around the crown. A soft breeze ruffled her hair, and a few strands blew across her face. She brushed them back, putting them behind her ear. The sky was bright blue and the clouds, full and fluffy white, were marbled with gray highlights. The world was full of artistic inspiration. She could feel the clay in her hand as she shaped those clouds. She didn't realize she was molding the air until Becky came onto the porch and began to laugh.

  "What are you making this time?" she asked.

  Hannah smiled.

  "I was mak
ing that cloud up there," she said, pointing to the sky.

  Becky looked up.

  "It is pretty. So, I saw you walk off with John, but you came back alone."

  "We had a fight," Hannah said.

  "Not again," Becky said.

  She sat in the other rocking chair.

  "He said a woman shouldn't work if she has a husband to support her."

  "Oh, he did, did he? Hasn't he heard of women's suffrage?"

  Becky had become entranced by the burgeoning woman's movement. At the age of twelve, her interest in bettering the lot of women had begun the day she asked her father why women couldn't vote, and he slapped her so hard across the face that she fell into the wall.

  "You'll never get a husband talking like that," he said.

  At that moment, Becky decided that in that case, she didn't want a husband.

  I'll provide for myself, she thought.

  At that age, she didn't understand how limited her choices for employment would be, and when, at sixteen she went looking for work, the only jobs she could find were for servants and shop girls. Becky wasn't plain, but she had a tendency to look angry, with narrowed eyes and a pinched mouth. Her brown hair was as straight as a stick, and she usually wore it in a tight bun to keep it in place. She hated stray hairs and would often pull them out if they annoyed her, and then would have to deal with the short hairs that resulted from her habit.

  Shopkeepers wanted happy, pretty girls working in their shops, so Becky began her career as a kitchen maid at the house of Marian's parents in Philadelphia. When Marian married, Becky was sent with her to the house in New Beach where she worked as both housekeeper and ladies' maid. She and Marian had grown close since Randall died, and every night, before going to sleep, she thanked God for bringing them together.

  She looked at Hannah's sweet face and sighed.

  "Men think they rule the world. Wouldn't it be something if they knew the truth?"

  "He's leaving, Becky," Hannah said. "His father is sending him to New Brunswick to some private school to prepare him for college."

  "That sounds like a good idea. Give the boy a leg up on the others."

  "But I didn't think he was leaving until next year."

  Becky saw one tear roll down Hannah's face.

  "Now, don't go getting all upset," Becky said as she patted Hannah's hand. "Did he say he'd write to you?"

  Hannah nodded.

  "He even asked me to wait for him."

  "Well, now, see?"

  "I know, but he's my best friend. What will I do without him?"

  "You'll find a new friend. Maybe some nice girl who has no friends, too."

  "I've never been close to a girl. All they talk about is getting married."

  "Well, I've got nothing to say to that. I saw you come up the stairs and came out to tell you lunch is ready."

  Becky got up and went inside, leaving Hannah on the porch to brood. John was walking past her house and she stood up, glared at him, went inside, and slammed the door so he'd know she was still angry with him.

  Chapter 9

  John Liberty left New Beach in a hired carriage that would take him to the train in Red Bank. He left early in the morning, and he was still upset with Hannah for not seeing him the night before. He had gone to her porch to say goodbye, and Becky said she was indisposed, but John knew she was just being stubborn. He asked Becky to tell her goodbye for him, and she smiled and said she would. She also wished him luck.

  Hannah woke to the sound of the carriage pulling away from the Liberty home and she jumped out of bed and looked out her window. After the big hurricane broke Hannah's window, Horace Beecham had installed a window seat under the window and her bed remained in the middle of the room. She kneeled on the window seat and looked out in time to see John as the carriage passed her house. She couldn't get the window open fast enough to wave to him and she felt remorse over not seeing him the night before.

  Marian had also arranged for a carriage to come to their house at eight a.m. She was taking Hannah to Red Bank so they could buy some new clothes, shoes, and other things Hannah would need for school. They would have lunch at Nielsen's Restaurant, visit J. J. Donahay's dry goods store, look for shoes at White and Knapp, and last but not least, go to Mrs. E. Weis' Red Bank Temple of Fashion. Marian had looked forward to visiting the newly built millinery store since reading about it in the paper.

  Mrs. Weis had lost two retail stores to fires and decided to build her new store out of brick. It was said that the new store was something to see with its ornate brickwork and the huge forged sign above the door.

  "Hannah, the carriage is here," Marian called up the stairs.

  She had donned her hat and gloves, and was waiting for Hannah as the girl descended the stairs. Marian looked at her face and sighed.

  "You look so glum," she said.

  "He didn't say goodbye," Hannah replied.

  Marian put her arms around Hannah's shoulders and hugged her.

  "To be fair, he did come to see you and you refused to come to the porch."

  "I know, but I thought I would have time to see him this morning."

  "See what pride does? It caused you to make foolish decisions that can't be undone. You'll have to ask his mother for his address and write him as soon as we get home."

  "He probably won't read my letters."

  "Oh, Hannah, John wouldn't hold a grudge. He's a kind boy and always has been. And I think he cares for you."

  Hannah's face brightened.

  "Do you truly think so?"

  "I do. Now, the carriage is waiting and we have to go."

  Marian walked to the kitchen door and opened it to find Becky at the sink peeling potatoes.

  "We're leaving now, Becky."

  "Have a good time. Dinner will be ready when you get back."

  Marian went out to the carriage where Hannah was waiting for her and the driver, a kindly, tall, older man named Edward, who wore a top hat, helped Marian up the step. She sat next to Hannah so they could both ride forward and took her hand.

  "I can't wait to see the Temple of Fashion," she said.

  "I want to see the art supplies at the dry goods store. Mr. Rousseau said since I love color so much, I should try painting."

  "What type of supplies will you need?"

  "An easel, paint, brushes, things like that."

  Marian hadn't discouraged Hannah's love of the arts, but she was a bit concerned that her daughter might be considering a "career," or thinking she would work in a museum. While Marian sympathized with women who couldn't find a husband and needed to work to support themselves, she couldn't imagine Hannah, whom she thought to be the prettiest girl in town, would become a spinster like Becky.

  Becky often spoke of women's suffrage and the need for women to vote. As a single, working woman, she wanted a say in who would run her country. Marian listened to Becky and thought there were sound reasons for giving the vote to women. She herself read the paper weekly and knew the issues. She was sure she could make a thoughtful and intelligent choice regarding an elected official and didn't understand why men were so reticent to extend the vote to women.

  Still, Marian had been thinking it would be nice to marry again. She had no issue with being a dutiful wife who ran her husband's household while he supported her. She was still young and wanted to have another child, but all the men in New Beach were either married or too young, and she despaired of ever finding another husband if she continued to live there.

  Hannah's need to create and study art concerned Marian. Her daughter's intense drive to learn all she could about art was a mystery to Marian, who had always been content to read, tend her garden, or host a ladies' tea.

  The carriage rolled over the dirt road that led to the main highway leading to Red Bank. The women were jostled and rocked from side to side. They looked straight ahead as Edward guided the horse across a small bridge, and Hannah looked over the side at the water running under the bridge. She loved the d
eep blue-green color of the water and decided she would try to copy it with paint.

  "Does Mr. Rousseau paint?" Marian asked.

  "He draws things. He drew a picture of Mavis Bartles. Everyone thinks she's so pretty because of her blond hair and her blue eyes."

  "Mavis is pretty, but you're pretty, too."

  "I'm not pretty like she is."

  "Hannah, you're very pretty."

  "You say that because you're my mother and you have to."

  Marian turned toward Hannah and put her hand under the girl's chin, turning Hannah's face toward her.

  "You are pretty, Hannah. I don't say that because I'm your mother. I say it because it's true."

  Hannah looked into her mother's eyes. She wanted to believe her mother's words, but the face she saw in the mirror every morning disproved them. Instead of arguing, though, Hannah just smiled.

  "I know," she said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  "Good, now let's think about what we have to buy today. You need new shoes and," she lowered her voice, "underwear."

  "Mother!"

  "And you'll also need dresses."

  "May we look at the shoes with higher heels this time?" Hannah asked.

  Hannah was short for her age and longed to be taller. Marian had always discouraged her from wearing higher heels as it was Marian's belief that the shoes would cause Hannah's legs to weaken. While she had no proof that this was so, she still maintained that the higher heels were dangerous and refused to buy them for Hannah.

  "You're still growing," Marian said. "Perhaps next year."

  Hannah frowned. They passed a sign that said "Red Bank Three Miles," and she decided to wait until they were in the store to continue her campaign. The salesman would help her sway Marian to her side.

  The ride to Red Bank took two and a half hours, and when they arrived in the bustling town, Marian asked Edward to drop them off at Nielsen's so they could eat before shopping. He had been hired for the day and would wait outside the restaurant.