She pulled the sheet away. “Wake up, Tommy. Wake up!” she demanded, savagely gripping his shoulders in an effort to shake him awake.
“Oh, Tommy, “ she sobbed. “I can’t do this. I can’t be left alone on this dreadful ship. Father in heaven, how can You be so cruel? Bring him back and I’ll never ask for another thing as long as I live.” Her arms held her brother’s limp corpse. The tears that washed down his lifeless cheek were hers. With her bosom against his chest, one heart raced, the other had stopped forever. Staring into space, her eyes red and wanting, she shook uncontrollably with the horror of what had happened. “I’m so afraid,” she sighed.
It was Tommy’s idea to go to America; he was the one with the courage. Any courage that Belle owned had disappeared with his spirit, his soul. She was in the middle of the ocean among strangers, deserted. What was she to do?
After Tommy’s death, Mme. Du Cartier knocked at the cabin door to pay her respects, but Belle didn’t want to talk to anyone and gave her a cool reception. Death was too huge, too ugly to believe.
When her mother died, the family had rallied together comforting each other. Her father had been a pillar of strength, helping his children heal. “Life must go on,” he had said. “Your dear mother is not gone from us; she will live in our hearts forever.” Belle needed her family now. She had no one.
The epidemic subsided, and five lives were lost, four in steerage and Tommy. Captain McDonald didn’t waste any time in conducting a mass service and dispatching the bodies to a nameless grave in the cold sea. There were no flowers to be had, but Belle remembered her Gaelic grandmother saying, “Salt is an emblem of the immortal spirit.” Belle relieved a dining table of its salt shaker and with reverence sprinkled salt, grain by grain, into the endless ocean where her brother’s body had gone to rest.
Deeply tormented with the heavy burden of losing her brother, she relived her mother’s death. Wounds she thought were healed broke open again. Anger and fear threatened to consume her. She shuddered as she remembered how the sharp bite of February had penetrated their stone house. The closed-up parlor with no fire on its hearth grew stale and dank by the time Angus Mackay led his children in to pay their last respects. The minister, dressed in his mourning hat, chanted a long prayer over the casket while the family stood there, their heads bowed, their eyes closed. Belle felt herself weaving, trembling. Tommy was there to steady her with his arm.
Granny Ferguson told Belle earlier that her mother lying in the casket would look as if she was sleeping, but she didn’t. Her corpse looked hollow and ghoulish. Her beautiful red hair hidden in a cotton munch cap, a penny on each eye, a bandage tied about her jaw, her flesh, a pasty gray.
Although Belle had learned later that her mother was simply prepared for her grave in the traditional way, that knowledge didn’t destroy the terrible image that lived in her memory.
Watching Meg reach into the casket and touch their dead mother’s handmade Belle shudder. Desperately, she wanted to leave the room, but she knew it would be disrespectful. There was a tremendous sense of relief when their father finally sent them away. Belle despised the parlor after that and would do almost anything to avoid going there.
She must get a grip on herself. She had to find a way to put these sorrowful thoughts out of her head. “A good rousing song is better than a pill,” she could hear her mother say. Belle settled on her cot and sang song after song into the darkness--letting her feelings out.
“If a body meets a body coming through the Rye
If a body kiss a body, should a body cry?
Every lassie has a laddie, nae kin say have I,
But all the boys they smile at me,
Coming through the Rye.”
If she concentrated hard enough, if she could remember the magic words that Granny Ferguson learned from the fairy folk of Creag Scriadlain, could she erase the days and spirit herself and Tommy back to Scotland and never ever think of America again. “Close your eyes and think, Isabelle, think. Picture Aberfeldy in your mind, Isabelle, every little detail. Father, whom you fear and love, so tall, so straight, his piercing eyes, his solemnity, spinning tales of Scotland, his children scattered at his feet. But where is his face? How can it be erased from my memory when I need it so desperately? Oh, Father, why did I leave? Are you gone from me forever? Father, come back into my mind.”
As if by command, Angus Mackay’s face took on features. “What a relief. I was frightened he was gone. It does work, it does. Now, picture the house, Isabelle, every detail. The jagged crack that's always been across the bedroom ceiling you trace over and over with your eyes as you think about your dead mother, as the light of day succumbs to darkness, as you listen to the doves roosting on the chimney, as your little sisters whisper their secrets muffeled in bed clothes, as the quiet of the rain drums, ever so softly, against the dormer window. You are there, Isabelle, you are there. “
Belle cautiously opened her eyes. The mattress beneath her body was not the one so familiar to her, that empty one in Aberfeldy on Dunkeld Street. She was trapped in the miserable cabin aboard The Caledonian. If she could only remember Granny’s fairy words, but they wouldn’t come. Again, she tried and again. The hillocks laden with heather, the sound of the church bells, the green meadows, the harsh stone walls. “Let me be there. Let me be there.” Belle squeezed her eyelids tighter. "Aberfeldy, dear Aberfeldy.” But there was no spiriting herself back to Scotland, there was no bringing Tommy back to the living. If she was to survive she must come to grips with that. Her strong young spirit wrestled with the pain and anguish as she succumbed to her ugly reality. She must survive.
Mme. Du Cartier was at her door again. “What a shame you couldn’t take your dear brother’s body back to Scotland for a decent burial. You poor child. Why did your father allow such a young girl to leave home? And your darling brother scarcely older.” Mme. Du Carrier puffed her bosom. “A girl like you should not be traveling alone.”
“I wasn’t,” Belle said defensively.
Mme. Du Cartier blithered endlessly but Belle’s thoughts were with Tommy--she and Tommy had a little fun at this French lady’s expense. What a clown Tommy was.
It was kind of Mme. Du Cartier to call, yet Belle felt worse with her condolences and was relieved when she went away.
Alone in her cabin, Belle wrote a letter to her family trying to explain what had happened. How could she possibly tell her father that Tommy was dead? There was no way to break the news gently, to make it sound all right. Angus Mackay was a strong man but how much sorrow could he take? She could envision him opening the letter, his face emotionless. Better if he would cry, she thought.
And what about her sisters? Tommy was the favorite. “Oh Tommy, Tommy, I’ve not just lost me brother but me best friend as well. What am I to do? I haven’t the heart to go on alone. I could lay me down and die.”
There were many false starts in Belle’s effort to compose a letter before she finally sealed the envelope. Writing it down seemed to lessen her grieving. Somewhere, somehow, she must find a strength big enough to carry her through the days to come, and there was no place to find it but within herself.
There was yet another problem. In all her misery, Belle hadn’t thought about the money pouch tied around Tommy’s neck. Now, it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it was at the bottom of the sea or worse yet, had fallen into the hands of those who had prepared his body for the watery grave. Whatever happened, it was gone and Belle didn’t have a penny to her name.
It wasn’t long before Mme. Du Cartier knocked at Belle’s door again. After some small talk, she asked, “Were you a good student, Mademoiselle?”
“I got good marks. I liked school,” Belle answered.
“My sons, Jacque and Henri, need a bit of tutoring in reading. They attend grammar school so your days would be free until midafternoon,” Mme. Du Cartier said. “It would be easy work--your assignment would be to improve their reading skills and, of course, watch over their leisure wh
en they are at home, and perhaps help Bitsy with the cleaning on occasion.”
Belle did not respond; she needed time to think. The future had become meaningless.
“Then it’s all settled,” she heard Mme. Du Cartier say. “We have a beautiful home on Lake Michigan, no doubt better than you are used to. You’ll like it there, I know you will. You’ll have private quarters. Jacque is ten and Henri eleven. They are handsome and precocious. Monsieur Du Cartier will expect results--he is very particular where the boys are concerned. If you apply yourself, we will all get along fine. There’ll be time enough to discuss your wages when we see how well you do.” She waddled out of the room.
Mme. Du Cartier hadn’t asked Belle if tutoring her sons was something she would consider doing; this woman had decided and that was the way it was going to be. Belle was grateful for some place to go, but she had misgivings about Mme. Du Cartier, yet she wasn’t sure why. It was clear that the woman had seen an opportunity to find some cheap help. That didn’t bother Belle as much as the ominous feelings that grew within her about accompanying this peculiar woman into she knew not what. Yet, she had no better offer. She could do anything for a little while. As soon as she’d earned enough money she’d be on her way west.
Passengers in cabin class did not have to go to Ellis Island. Only those in steerage were taken there. Stories circulated the ship about endless physical inspections, and how they marked immigrants’ clothes with chalk letters to show their findings. Hundreds were turned away and sent back to their country of origin while others were held until someone decided they didn’t have some loathsome disease. The authorities herded the immigrants, twenty at a time, like a flock of sheep. Belle was grateful to be spared that indignity. The administration of Ellis Island was lax and corrupt and inspectors took advantage of the confused and the frightened. Belle was both.
Belle sat on a red velvet cushion beside Mme. Du Cartier as they rode in a shiny, gold-etched carriage, with a footman standing in the rear.
This must be what it feels like to be a queen, she thought. Down the New York City streets on its way to Grand Central Station, the coach moved to the cadence of the horses’ hoofs clicking on the pavement.
“When we arrive at the railway station, we will take the train to Illinois,” Mme. Du Cartier explained. Belle’s face was pressed to the glass as she watched building after building float by.
“It's a pity we haven’t time. There is so much to see here and you’ll only know what you can see out your window. Travel is truly broadening, my dear.”
“It would be easy to get lost here. You’d need a guide just to find your way around,” Belle said.
“Indeed. Unless you’ve visited many times as I have. I know New York almost as well as I do Paris.”
"All those people in fancy clothes,” Belle exclaimed.
“It’s very cosmopolitan. There’s a lot of money in this city. It’s the business Mecca of the western world.”
This isn’t for me, Belle thought. I belong in the country. “Mme. Du Cartier, do you live in the city?”
“Au contraire. But Chicago isn’t far away. I can go into Chicago to the shops, to the opera, and social affairs, and yet, I have the tranquility and pastoral beauty of country life.” Belle was relieved to hear that.
The carriage turned onto Lexington Avenue and then quickly onto 42nd Street where it came to a stop. Belle helped the footman carry the luggage into the depot where Mme. Du Cartier told them to stack it. She left Belle there while she waddled off to the ticket window.
Sunbeams streamed through windows high above illuminating the huge room and warming the marble floor where she stood. A magnificent blue-domed ceiling, a hundred feet above, was dotted with stars and golden figures of the constellations. How could she write home about this? There were no words grand enough.
Mme. Du Cartier came back with a redcap who handled her luggage while Belle carried her own. They followed him down long halls and stairways and finally out to the tracks and onto a train. As they boarded, the redcap opened a door to a sleeping car and put the luggage down. Belle would be allowed to sit there during the day and keep Madame company. But when night came, the room would be made up for sleeping, and Belle would go into another car where she was destined to sleep in a seat.
The fumy odors of the locomotives and the smoke-laden air disappeared as the train rolled out of the station. It took a long time before the last building disappeared and they were out in the country.
“You are very fortunate, Mademoiselle, that I took pity upon you,” Mme. Du Cartier said.
“Aye. I’m grateful. I thank ye kindly,” Belle replied.
“What would you have ever done if I hadn’t come to your rescue? Where would you have gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, keep that in mind and don’t disappoint me. You are a servant, remember that. Don’t forget your place. You will do as you are told; your wages will depend on it.” Belle didn’t like Mme. Du Cartier’s tone, and exactly, what did she mean?
Suddenly, Mme. Du Cartier’s mood changed. Her eyes had a faraway look and there was a sadness in them. “Sometimes, a woman has to make concessions. My marriage was arranged. It suited my father’s ambitions.” Her eyes narrowed. “I have a beautiful home and two fine sons, so I really shouldn’t complain.” Why was Mme. Du Cartier telling Belle these personal things? “I had many suitors in France, but none of them stood to enhance my father’s business as this alliance has.” How cold she made her life sound. When Belle married, it would be for love.
As the light began to fade, Belle was dismissed and she walked through the cars to tourist class where she relived Tommy’s death one more time. Visions of his body haunted her. “Tommy, Tommy. Ye should be the one sitting on the train with me, not that strange woman.”
The wheels ground to a stop to take on passengers and Belle settled on the hard coach seat wrapping herself in a blanket the porter had handed her.
The train lurched into motion. Out the window, the trees faded into the black vacuum of night, and the glass reflected her face. Veering, rumbling, rolling down the track, revolution by revolution, farther from Scotland, farther from family, closer to Idaho, closer to Doigs, rolling westward, westward, westward, picking up steam, its whistle blew telling the night Belle was on her way.
Chapter Three
Up a tree-lined road in Illinois, past the iron gate, over a stone bridge, at a point where the gray waters of Lake Michigan lapped fiercely against a sea wall, the carriage horse trotted with his head held high.
The Du Cartier home loomed above the formal landscaping that surrounded it. "As big as a Scottish castle and almost as dreary,” Belle whispered to herself, and then on second thought, it reminded her of Abernathy Manor House in Scotland where her sister Meg was an upstairs maid.
She followed Mme. Du Cartier into the foyer as the servants lined up. She was impressed with the elegant tapestries and baroque furniture although it seemed too formal and ostentatious to be comfortable. Mme. Du Cartier introduced her to the servants as Jacque’s and Henri’s new tutor. After their names, Belle didn’t hear any more. She felt anxious. As her uneasiness grew, she was convinced she had made a mistake coming to this place. Even the servants seemed strange. Mr. Tiddings, the butler, a thin-lipped, gray skinned man, ignored Belle’s smile; his eyes seemed to pierce right through her. Mme. Deauville, the chef de cuisine, was harried and dowdy, and her nose was flattened across her flushed face. Her eyes too small, too close together, made her look like Maggie, in “Bringing Up Father” in the funny paper. Yet her smile came easily in response to Belle’s. Bitsy was surely half-witted. It was almost too kind to say she was homely. Her mouth hung open, revealing missing and decaying teeth. Why had this wealthy woman assembled such a motley crew? Was it because she was hard to work for and couldn’t keep good help or was it that she paid so little that few would consider it?
Belle’s room was on the third floor. It was sparsely furnished
: a single bed, a small table and an upright chair. The elegance of the home stopped at the second floor. Its dirty walls and bare floor didn’t help. Belle pulled dusty draperies back to discover her window opened to a view of a lovely formal garden far below. Hedges bordered lawn and plantings and there was a swing in a willow tree. What a wonderful spot to read a book.
“I don’t know how to teach,” Belle said aloud. “What am I doing here? How I wish I was back in Scotland with my family.” Then she scolded herself. “Isabelle, you’re a Mackay--you can do it if you set your mind to it. You’ve helped your little sisters with their studies; there is really no difference.”
Madame Du Cartier introduced Belle to Jacque and Henri. They were handsome enough but their weak chins and pale complexions gave them an effeminate look. Henri, skinny as a rail, the older and the taller, had just turned eleven; his blond hair was parted in the middle and clung neatly to the contour of his head. Jacque was a year younger and slightly chubby with fat little cheeks. The boys were pallid. They needed some sunshine, she thought. But then she looked at their mother who had the complexion of unbaked bread and wondered if the sun would help. “How arrogant they seem,” Belle thought, “another trait they share with their mother.”
Out of Innocence Page 4