“Don’t you agree, Mrs. Triggs?” Before Mrs. Triggs had a chance to reply, the woman continued. “And the food they served was simply atrocious. The omelet was cold, the salmon was slimy—” She glanced at me again. She screamed. “Oh my God, Sir Arthur! The filthiest vagrant creature I’ve ever seen is standing in your doorway!” She turned her head away. Sir Arthur started when he saw me. “John, Sir Arthur, somebody, please make it go away.”
“My, my, Miss Davish, you look like Saint George battling the dragon. Did the dragon win this time?” Lieutenant Triggs laughed at his own joke.
“Gentlemen, ladies, if you will excuse me for a moment.” With a scowl Sir Arthur indicated that he wanted me to precede him out of the room. The moment he closed the door behind him, he turned on me.
“Hattie, what the devil have you been doing this morning?” he scolded, scrutinizing my torn and filthy dress and wet rubber boots. “As you could see, our guests have arrived. And yet you were nowhere to be found, only to appear in my parlor as an unkempt vagabond. I don’t need to tell you how disappointed I am. I’ve come to expect more from you than this. I demand an explanation.”
“I’m sorry, sir, my appearance is unacceptable, even to me, but with good cause, I assure you.”
“And what would that be?”
“Gertie Reynard fell through the ice on the river this morning and I was the only one about to help. I was running late and didn’t have time to change.”
Sir Arthur stared at me for a moment and then roared with laughter. “My God, Hattie Davish, is there nothing you can’t do?” Then he sent me upstairs to change. Once presentable again, I returned to the parlor.
“. . . And I’d be more than happy to help with the—” The woman by the fire was cut off mid-sentence by Sir Arthur.
“Ah, there’s the secretary I know. Hattie, I’d like to introduce you to our new guests,” Sir Arthur said, indicating the man by the fire and the woman who had been talking when I came in. “Mr. and Mrs. John Baines, my secretary and personal assistant, Miss Hattie Davish. Despite her awkward appearance earlier, she is extremely capable and will aid you in anything you need here during your stay.”
“Charmed,” John Baines said, tipping his head. His eye twitched again.
His wife, with a blank expression on her face, said, “Good. As I didn’t bring my maid and yours did clean up well, I’ll need help unpacking. And I’d like a bath drawn before ten.”
“Rachel,” her husband hissed, “I don’t think that’s what Sir Arthur meant.”
“But I’m simply exhausted from my journey, darling,” she said.
Relieved that Mr. Baines had come to my rescue, I said, “Ida will be more than happy to help you, Mrs. Baines.”
“Yes, Hattie’s probably been too busy this morning typing up manuscript notes and rescuing little girls to see to anything else,” Sir Arthur said.
“Rescuing little girls?” Mrs. Triggs said, swinging her head around to look at me.
“That’s why Hattie appeared before us in tatters,” Sir Arthur said. “She’s been out on the river near General Starrett’s house. Tell them the story, Hattie.” I related the story of this morning’s adventure. Everyone seemed riveted by my tale, everyone except Mrs. Baines, who stood up and yawned.
“Excuse me, I’m going to my room now,” she said. “I’m simply exhausted by the journey. John, are you coming?” Her husband didn’t appear to hear her. “John? John? Jack!”
“Yes?” John Baines said.
“I said, are you coming?”
“I’ll be up in a moment,” he said. “Please, Miss Davish, you had me on the edge of my chair.” His wife stared at him, and then she glanced over at Lieutenant and Mrs. Triggs, who also seemed eager for the conclusion of my story.
“Mrs. Triggs,” Mrs. Baines said, “you look as exhausted as I feel. Wouldn’t you like to retire to your room?”
Mrs. Triggs’s shoulders drooped and all the color, except two rosy spots on her cheeks, left her face. She dropped her eyes to her lap.
“I didn’t notice it before,” Lieutenant Triggs said, “but you look unwell, Priscilla. Maybe you should lie down.” Mrs. Triggs visibly wilted before my eyes.
“But what about Hattie’s story and the little girl?” Priscilla Triggs said, almost in a whisper.
“You don’t need to hear the whole thing. We know the girl’s okay, right, Miss Davish?” Priscilla’s husband said. I nodded slowly, saddened by the sudden turn of events. Mrs. Triggs looked miserable as Rachel Baines took her arm.
“That story’s nothing,” Rachel Baines said. Priscilla Triggs looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes wide and filling with tears.
“But . . . ,” Priscilla said as Rachel Baines escorted her from the room.
“Did you know I was a nurse in the war?” Mrs. Baines said. “Well, let me tell you about the time I saved three boys from . . .”
Soon afterward, I excused myself to tend to the delivery that had arrived from Mrs. Brendel’s shop. With Ida’s and Harvey’s help, I spent the remainder of the morning decorating Sir Arthur’s house. We put bouquets of red and white roses in every room, except the Triggses’ bedroom, for flowers made the lieutenant sneeze. We laid boughs of holly across every windowsill and mantel throughout the house. We wrapped evergreen roping on the porch balustrade and pillars and draped it over every doorway, filling the house with the scent of fir and pine. As Harvey hung a branch of mistletoe from the entranceway chandelier, I couldn’t help but wish Walter were here.
All that was left was the red velvet ribbon to be draped from the dining room chandelier, and, most important, the Christmas tree. Although a vendor at Market House Square sold trees, I’d arranged for Harvey and me to take the horse and sleigh into the countryside to cut one down. I’d discovered a nice stand of white pines on one of my hikes. I was dressed to go and ready to leave when Ida came running out of the kitchen.
“He wants to see you, ja?” she said. Sir Arthur knew we were going to get the Christmas tree; what could it be now?
“Un, deux, trois. . . ,” I began to count under my breath.
I’d been looking forward to getting the tree. I’d made an effort all morning to enjoy the decorating and not dwell on the incident with Gertie and the consequences that followed. We hadn’t heard how the little girl fared and it took all of my discipline not to let it occupy my thoughts. But no Christmas was complete without a tree. I used to cut down our Christmas tree with my father when I was a little girl and had eagerly awaited doing it again for the first time as an adult, even if my only company was a gruff carriage driver. I was frustrated and let out a big sigh.
“Can you wait a few minutes, Harvey?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “but I won’t wait too long. Got too much shoveling to do.”
Sir Arthur was in the library.
“Come in,” he called after I knocked. “Ah, Hattie. This stuff is brilliant.” He had the notes General Starrett had dictated to me spread out on his desk before him. “I have a few points of clarification, but we’ll go over those later. First, this arrived for you.” He handed me an envelope of what looked like another Christmas card. It was postmarked St. Louis. I couldn’t recall knowing anyone from St. Louis. Then he picked up a simple, gold-bordered white card and waved it at me. I recognized it as General Starrett’s stationery. “Second, I have some interesting news for you.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”
“Sir Arthur, I was looking at what the servants have done in the front parlor and I thought”—Rachel Baines stopped when she saw me, but only momentarily—“ that the front parlor mantel was too plain for the prominence of the room. I think it needs more embellishments, like red ribbon and gold-painted pinecones. Several different-sized candles would do nicely as well. When we decorate our home in Chicago, we always have—”
“Certainly, Rachel. I want you to feel at home. If you want more candles and ribbon, I’m sure that can be eas
ily arranged.”
“And gold-painted pinecones?” she asked.
“Of course.” Sir Arthur looked at me. I nodded my assent to take care of it. “Anything else?”
“Well, I would also like to discuss the menu for Christmas dinner.”
“Of course, if you don’t mind waiting. I was about to relay some news to Hattie, here. We won’t be long, as she’s off to cut down our Christmas tree.” I was pleased that he remembered but growing impatient to hear about Gertrude Reynard’s recovery. I was careful not to allow my countenance to reveal either emotion.
“Of course. For you Sir Arthur,” Rachel Baines said, “I’ll wait.” But instead of excusing herself from the room, she deliberately sat down. Sir Arthur didn’t seem to notice, but I did.
“Hattie, this is an invitation from the Reynards for their dinner party tonight,” Sir Arthur said, waving the card at me again.
“Yes, sir,” I said. What was his point? I’d been the one who had delivered the invitation myself. What more did that have to do with me? And what about the little girl? What about Gertrude Reynard?
“I’m looking forward to meeting Mrs. Reynard and this infamous General Starrett,” Mrs. Baines said. “Unfortunately, someone didn’t warn me that we would be invited out.” She playfully wagged her finger at Sir Arthur. “I packed all wrong. Now I’ll have to go shopping.”
“Um, yes. Main Street has every shop you could need,” Sir Arthur said, not knowing how to handle this interruption.
“And who is this Captain Starrett? I can’t seem to get anyone to tell me about this mysterious man,” Mrs. Baines said, laughing nervously. Now what did she have to be nervous about?
“Like I was saying, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said, not deigning to reply to this second interruption, “this invitation is for you.”
“Excuse me?” Rachel Baines and I said simultaneously. She scowled at me.
“Excuse me, Sir Arthur, but why would a servant be invited to a dinner party? I don’t understand. Are rules of society different here than everywhere else I’ve been?” She sounded sincerely confused.
“Sir, I don’t understand either.” I had to admit I actually agreed with Mrs. Baines. When Adella Reynard had mentioned the dinner party to her grandfather, I had not been mentioned as a possible guest. What had changed?
“You saved Gertrude Reynard,” Sir Arthur said, in response to my unvoiced question.
“So the little girl will recover?” I asked.
“Fully,” Sir Arthur said. I was relieved.
“What little girl?” Mrs. Baines said. “Who is Gertrude Reynard?”
“She is the daughter of Frederick and Adella Reynard. The one from Hattie’s story this morning,” Sir Arthur said. “General Starrett’s great-granddaughter.”
“But what does that have to do with your secretary being invited to our dinner party?”
“Because, Mrs. Baines,” Sir Arthur said, handing me the envelope, “Adella Reynard is expressing her gratitude by inviting Hattie to be her guest.”
“Do you think I should accept?” I didn’t want to do anything that Sir Arthur would disapprove of.
“Of course you shouldn’t accept,” Mrs. Baines said, coming to her feet. “It’s inappropriate. I know it and you know it. You’ll feel uncomfortable at a table with your betters. What a way to express gratitude! You’d think Mrs. Reynard would be more sensitive.”
“Actually,” Sir Arthur said, smirking, “I think it’s a fine idea. You deserve it, Hattie, and I heard, through the grapevine, that Mrs. Monday has even helped out with some of the desserts.”
“But, Sir Arthur, the girl will be woefully unprepared. What about the rules for everything from which fork to use to which topics of conversations are appropriate? She couldn’t possibly know how to conduct herself at a dinner table. Not to mention her lack of wardrobe. She’ll embarrass you, Sir Arthur.” Mrs. Baines turned on me suddenly and took my hand. “You wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir Arthur, would you, girl?”
I was mortified. Of course I didn’t want to embarrass Sir Arthur, but I also knew that I wouldn’t. I took great strides, and a good portion of my salary, to see that my wardrobe was fashionable, and Mrs. Chaplin’s School for Women didn’t only teach me shorthand and typewriting. I’ve been properly trained in all types of etiquette—just don’t ask me to paint or play the piano.
“No, Mrs. Baines, you do our Hattie an injustice. I can’t think of another woman I’d rather carry on a conversation with at the dinner table.” Mrs. Baines flinched, but Sir Arthur seemed oblivious to the affront he’d made. “Hattie, accept the invitation. It may mean working late afterward, but I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. I removed myself from the library. I had to find Harvey to postpone cutting the Christmas tree down. I had a little shopping of my own to do.
I had mixed emotions about going to the party. The dinner promised to be elegant, with exquisite food and interesting conversation, but Mrs. Baines was right about me not being the typical dinner party guest. And what if, like Mrs. Baines, Captain Starrett objected to my presence? He wasn’t approving of my actions when I rescued his granddaughter. What would he do when I arrived at his house as a dinner guest? And how would Sir Arthur react?
It doesn’t matter, I thought. I may as well try to enjoy myself. Sir Arthur told me to accept the invitation and I would be attending the dinner whether my presence was disruptive or not. For despite the fact that Mrs. Baines was still arguing with Sir Arthur “on my behalf ” as she put it when I left, I knew Sir Arthur enough to know that once he’s made up his mind not even the wiles of a lovely woman could change it. Which proved to be right, for when I returned to my room after talking to Harvey a note from Mrs. Baines was on my bed. It read:
Despite my best efforts, I’m afraid Sir Arthur won’t change his mind. You’ll have to go to the dinner party. It will be tedious, but don’t worry; I will be there to assist you. If you follow my instructions, it’ll be possible to avoid the faux pas and pitfalls that await you. We can only hope our hosts are as gracious at overlooking your shortcomings as they were in extending this ill-conceived invitation.
Mrs. R. Baines
P.S. Be sure to show me your dress and hair before dinner.
She probably meant well, I thought. But then why did she always make me feel bad?
It was with this thought that I opened the Christmas card postmarked St. Louis, the glitter and gold foil sparkling under the light of the gas lamp I’d had to light on this gloomy day. I cringed and dropped the card right side down when I saw the Santa Claus, dressed in a brown robe and hat with flowing white beard and piercing blue eyes. I’d had enough of Captain Henry Starrett resembling Santa Claus. Then I saw the inscription on the back. My heart skipped a beat. It was from Walter: Spending Christmas with Mother in St. Louis, but wishing I was in Galena with you. Ever your friend, Walter Grice.
I wish you were here too, Walter, I thought.
And the thought was triggered an hour later on Main Street when I espied Enoch Jamison exiting a store. I’d been shopping at the St. Louis Department Store to buy red velvet ribbon for the dining room, a few German glass ornaments for the Christmas tree, and lace for my dress, at Siniger & Siniger’s Drug Store for gold paint, and at Owens Confectionery for ribbon candy. I’d been among a crowd enthralled with an elaborate puppet display in the show window of Barry Bros. Dry Goods when I spotted him. A full papier-mâché moon had shone down on children sleeping in a humble thatch-roof cottage when clouds had parted. Santa Claus, driving his sleigh, laden with gifts and drawn by two reindeer, had appeared from around a mountaintop, blowing his horn.
Toot-toot! Toot-toot! “Merry Christmas!” Puppet Santa Claus declared.
Everyone clapped and cheered, everyone except Enoch Jamison. He stood, purplish-black bruises circling his eyes, his arm in a sling, glancing about him furtively, as if waiting impatiently for someone. He’s the antithesis of Walter, I thought, watching
Enoch Jamison, beaten and cheerless, flinch when a man thumped him on the back.
“Merry Christmas, Enoch,” the man said. “We’re on your side. Hope you heal up quick!” Mr. Jamison bobbed his head slightly and mumbled an inaudible reply. The urge to see the strength in Walter’s eyes and the reassurance in his smile overwhelmed me.
Pull yourself together, I thought, and the moment passed. I brushed my sleeve of snowflakes that had drifted down from the store awning above me and readjusted my hat. Mr. Jamison caught a glimpse of me and frowned; I’d been staring at him.
Why did I feel compelled to spy on this poor man, anyway? I wondered.
Ashamed of myself, I abandoned the puppet show but stopped when Mr. Jamison grew agitated and approached another coming toward him. It was the man with O.C.K. in India ink on his hand. The two put their heads together and spoke furtively but indistinctly. I couldn’t understand a word. Who was this other man? He had left the G.A.R. meeting disgusted by Henry Starrett’s arguments. Was he too a “copperhead” from days gone by? But then why attend a Grand Army of the Republic meeting? Still in conference, they navigated through the now-dispersing crowd of window-shoppers and disappeared around the bend. What were they talking about? All I could do was wonder as I made my way back to Prospect Street and an afternoon of finding the perfect Christmas tree with Harvey and making cornucopias, garland, and a mess in the kitchen with Mrs. Monday and Ida. I vowed to write Walter tonight.
CHAPTER 10
“Mein Gott!” When I descended the back stairs, Ida almost dropped the bucket she was carrying. “Sehr schön, very beautiful. Mrs. Monday come see Hattie, ja?”
Mrs. Monday, in her usual highly starched, spotless white apron, strolled into the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel. Despite the heat and demands of the kitchen, not even a single strand of gray hair was displaced from her bun. She grinned. “My, my, don’t you look handsome.”
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