Lilli de Jong

by Janet Benton

  Back in our room, I settled Charlotte in my lap, then wrote to the Philadelphia Ladies’ Solace to ask for help obtaining a sewing machine. I want to set that alternative in motion, despite Delphinia’s discouragement. It can’t hurt to have another way to earn a living, however insufficient.

  I left my letter in the box by the door and carried Charlotte into the courtyard, where I walked the slate path around and around. She made happy noises and rubbed her face into my shoulder. A longing for home arose in me as I took in the sharp perfume of the white narcissus that lined the path, the musty smell of dirt, the frilly daffodils. I thought of the hundreds of spring-blooming bulbs Mother and I planted in years past, which by now must be passing their heady fragrances through the windows of our old stone house. Might I walk there with Charlotte someday and point out to her these lasting effects of her grandmother’s and her mother’s hands?

  I walked a few more times around the enclosure, slowly so as not to bring on the bleeding that I now know occurs after giving birth. Then Charlotte and I went inside, sprinkled with sun and softened by the air. Anne met us at the side door and bid me to neaten up and come to the office, for the doctor and the baby’s father were due at any time.

  For Charlotte I chose the white petticoat and gown that Gina had made for us. While pinning on a clean diaper, I pricked my finger accidentally and marked the gown with a spot of blood. I adjusted the pins and combs in my hair, changed the rag over my shoulder for a clean one, and headed down the hall with not a little nervousness.

  Anne stood tapping her foot outside the office and waved me in. Opposite her desk stood two men. One was clean-shaven, with a large brow and keen, attentive eyes; the other, very tall, with a pinched face and a frivolous moustache. The first man proved to be the baby’s father. The dour man who looked me up and down intently was his doctor and gatekeeper.

  “I’m Doctor Snowe,” said the dour one, bowing his thin frame slightly. A nervous odor enveloped him. He gave a smile that revealed several gold-capped teeth.

  “Albert Burnham,” said the other man, tipping his head. The fine lines and dark shading around his eyes suggested weariness and worry.

  I greeted them, and a bit of awkwardness ensued as we sought a modest seating arrangement. Finally they stood with their backs to a wall and allowed me to occupy the wide bench. In my lap, Charlotte began to wiggle.

  “Miss de Jong is the best you’ll find in any place,” said Anne from behind her desk.

  “I’ll decide that,” said the doctor, sniffing. He turned to me, his pencil raised, ready to record my words in his notebook. “When did your family come to this country, and from where?”

  “Of what interest is this to thee?” I had no intention of describing my family.

  “Your nature is quite influenced by your heritage, Miss de Jong. The Irish girls are wont to drink. The Germans are industrious but tough. The Italians make tender mothers and have plenty of milk. The Scots are—”

  I interrupted. “And every one has that of God within her.”

  A flash of amusement crossed Albert Burnham’s face.

  The doctor’s pencil wagged as he wrote. “I take it you’re a Quaker.”

  “I no longer attend Meeting.”

  He nodded. “Judging from the surname, of Dutch extraction. And might you know when your family came to the United States?”

  “In the late seventeenth century.” I suppose I have some pride in this—unwarranted, since it reflects no choice of mine and certainly no virtue.

  Yet the doctor seemed to dislike the information. He turned to his client and whispered, seeming to mean for the other man to doubt my suitability.

  “Continue the interview,” ordered the baby’s father. “My wife was unhappy with the coarseness of the other nurses you sent.”

  The doctor made a noise in his throat. “As you wish.”

  He instructed me to stand, which I did, and to move in a circle so he could examine my every side. I began to quiver as I received praise for my physical attributes, which I’ve never gotten in such abundance nor wanted less. I was called fresh and rosy, suitably plump, possessed of an adequate musculature, well proportioned, and without a single facial defect that might suggest inferior character. Clear eyes, a well-formed and modest-sized nose, white teeth, medium lips rather than large. All was taken to reveal a strong constitution and an even disposition. But Dr. Snowe sought further proof.

  “Are you given to temper, miss? Have you ever had a problem with excessive appetite or excessive passion?”

  “Clearly she has principles,” said Albert Burnham. He looked away and cleared his throat. “Or once had.”

  I found no words for speaking. I bent my head to Charlotte, who waved an arm and banged me in the face, giving out a hungry moan.

  “Must she answer?” said Anne impatiently. “I tell you, she has a modest and an unassuming way.”

  I was surprised but grateful that she’d describe me thusly.

  “A baby drinks in the sentiments along with the nutriments,” said Dr. Snowe. “They form his body and his mind.” He turned his thin torso toward Albert. “Your wife’s esteemed father would expect a thorough evaluation of the temperament.”

  Albert nodded and looked at me. I had to speak.

  “My students,” I began, “found me patient and inspirational.” The two men stared as though I’d grown a second head.

  “You’re a teacher?” Once more, Albert appeared amused, but the doctor didn’t. He leaned to whisper something that made Albert color slightly.

  Worry stabbed my heart. Might I be rejected? I softened my demeanor, so as to seem more pliant. Then Charlotte began to bawl outright.

  “You ought to evaluate the infant while you can,” Anne suggested. So I held out my unhappy baby. Her cries were subdued by interest as the doctor felt her arm, peeked under her gown to gauge her plumpness, examined her skin, looked into her eyes, touched the bottoms of her feet to judge her reactions, looked up her nose, and otherwise investigated her condition.

  “She’s how old?” he asked. She stared at him, neck upright, which Delphinia says is beyond her age.

  “Just under three weeks,” I replied quietly.

  “And you verify that this is your baby?” With his forward-leaning head and bulging eyes, he looked like a frog about to shoot its tongue at an insect.

  “Of course she is,” said Anne. “Why else would Miss de Jong be in my institution?”

  “Well then, you have a sound specimen,” he affirmed. “Early signs of superior intelligence. Clearly your nurturance is more than adequate.”

  I felt pleased, despite the circumstances. But by this time Charlotte was rooting at my chest and kicking, bringing a tingling to my breasts. The milk was on its way, and my front would soon be wet if her crying continued.

  Anne stood and walked to me. “Give her over.”

  As I did, Charlotte turned her round face in my direction and opened her mouth in a cry.

  Anne spoke to the men. “I’ll take the infant to Miss Partridge, our matron. She can distract her till you’re through.” She began to step out, then said over Charlotte’s wails, “Miss de Jong is not above hard work, despite her level of education. We require it here.”

  With that she carried Charlotte away. The doctor shut the door and moved toward the bench where I sat.

  “Just how much education do you have? What subjects did you teach?” He formed his lips into a prune.

  “Twelve years of schooling and two years’ training for my work. I taught rhetoric and composition.”

  He pulled his head backward on his neck and complained into the ear of his client: “Too much learning agitates a woman’s mind and brings unquietness to her milk.” Then, to me: “One doesn’t expect to find your type in such an institution.”

  I nodded, familiar with his fondness for types.

  He peered at me. “Are you willing to work as a household servant and get no special treatment?”

  “Ye
s.” That was obviously the correct answer. It seemed I wouldn’t be receiving the consideration and fine foods Delphinia had predicted.

  “Well, you’re of good stock,” he summarized, looking over his notes. “Possessed of a fine pink complexion and a full head of hair. Evidently you’re amply supplied with milk, as the infant has grown portly in a short time. The deposits of subcutaneous fat are impressive. And your milk is young.” To his employer he said, “Since her baby is a mere week older, Henry will get the rich milk suited to his age. He needs that to increase his weight.”

  The other man grew somber at the mention of his son’s condition.

  “But we need to be certain of her milk’s quality,” the doctor said. “There’s a life at stake. We’ll need to examine her mammary glands and take a milk sample with a pump. I’ll bring it to the hospital for a microscopic inspection.”

  To his credit, the father reddened—as did I. By this time I was holding my arms at a slight distance from my front, for my milk was wetting my underlayers, and I didn’t want to push my bodice against them and make the wetness visible.

  “Is that necessary? The baby gives us proof,” said Albert.

  Then we heard quick footsteps, and with a swish of skirts Anne entered. She asked the state of our proceedings with a prim demeanor, and the doctor desisted from his last pursuit. Instead, he cleared his throat. “May I have this young woman’s medical records?”

  Anne unlocked the cabinet with current records and handed him a slim folder. He perused the pages and looked at me.

  “All’s in order,” he said. “Have you nursed any babies besides your own?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “Why do you ask this?” said Anne, her dark eyebrows rising.

  “Anyone engaged in charitable work with infants ought to know that babies can carry syphilis from their mothers.” He raised a hand to twirl a tip of his moustache as he spoke. “With their wet little mouths on their nurse’s nipples, they pass the disease along.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Anne said. “But I know how to examine the infants.”

  “Oh, do you?” Dr. Snowe snorted. “Then you ought to teach the medical profession. We can’t yet claim such certainty.”

  Anne fumed. I thanked Charlotte silently for her nursing rigor, since it had spared me from taking on a foundling.

  “I presume, Doctor,” Anne said, “you have ensured that your charge has no diseases to pass to Miss de Jong.” She pressed her wide lips closed.

  I heard his answer gratefully. “I’ve been his mother’s doctor for many years, and through the pregnancy and delivery. There’s no possibility of contagion.”

  Outside, a church bell rang four times. Drops of milk trickled to my stomach. The doctor’s expression changed to one of sympathy.

  “I have one more question,” he said to me. “What brought you to this reduced condition?”

  Anne coughed once into her hand; I turned to the window. Two jet-black crows pecked among the roots of a tree. Crows can live a hundred years, some in devoted pairs.

  “I was betrayed,” I whispered.

  “What? Speak up!” said Dr. Snowe.

  My shout came fierce and guttural. “I was betrayed!”

  The doctor blanched and pressed no further. Albert Burnham looked at the floor, his face abruptly stiff—as if he might have betrayed a girl or two himself. Then he leaned to the doctor and gave his consent.

  “We’ll hire her, then,” the doctor told Anne. “Twenty-five dollars a month.”

  What a fortune! Anne looked to me. Speedily I consented. The doctor pulled from his jacket an agreement for Albert Burnham and me to sign in duplicate. I had no chance to read it, for Delphinia’s quick footsteps and Charlotte’s wails were coming near, but at my word, Anne signed in my place. Then the matron burst in with Charlotte, and I stayed behind while the men were escorted out.

  To what exactly had I consented? As I nursed, I read the agreement. I was surprised to see that the family would pay the Haven a placement fee of thirty dollars, which might help explain Anne’s and Delphinia’s eagerness to move me toward such work. Also I’m to have cleaning and cooking duties in the Burnham household. And the agreement lists two addresses: one downtown, on Pine Street, and the other in the Tulpehocken section of Germantown, to which we’ll go for summer—less than half a mile from my home. I could be spied by someone I know! Worse yet is this: I can only visit Charlotte once a week—and not at all for the first two weeks.

  Oh—and I’m to begin tomorrow.

  I must be grateful and not afraid! So much is going smoothly. Delphinia even said she’ll bring Charlotte to a wet nurse herself. She hopes it will be a young woman who gave birth here several months ago, who lives in an area of squat row-houses south of Rittenhouse Square, not a dozen blocks from the Burnhams. Her mother allowed her to come back home with her baby, and she’s taking in others.

  “She’s not refined,” Delphinia told me. “But she has a gentle way.”

  When tears escaped my eyes, Delphinia patted my shoulder and echoed Anne’s earlier assurances. “Don’t fret, Lilli. Anyone can care for them at this age. It makes no difference to the babies.”

  * * *

  Charlotte has just gotten her last bath at her mother’s hands. No, not her last—only for six months or so, until I’ve saved enough to lease a sewing machine and a room. She’s nursing at my left side now, warming me with her still-damp flesh, which makes me think of rising dough.

  I wish to remember our weeks here. To remember that a dishpan serves as her tub, a strip of cheesecloth as the washrag. To remember how she wriggles her limbs and looks into my eyes happily as I dip the cloth in warm water and draw it across her, avoiding the stump of her umbilical cord. To remember how washing her naked form brings back the moment when she was placed upon me, the moment when I recognized her as my own.

  Yet early tomorrow I’ll leave her with Delphinia, who won’t bring her to the woman near Rittenhouse Square after all. That one had no place for another baby. She’ll bring her instead to a woman named Gerda who resides in a part of the city I’ve never had cause to visit. It must be hard to find a wet nurse who’s willing to take in a bastard; Anne had to canvass among their advisory board to get this recommendation.

  The items I’ve gathered from the donations closet for Charlotte—diapers, pins, binders, shirts, and more—are wrapped in a wool blanket at the foot of my cot. For her travels tomorrow, I’ve laid out the gown that Gina made, along with a miniature cloak, a hood (in which is pinned a fortnight’s payment), and a cap I knitted. Her nurse will be more apt to treat her caringly if she arrives well dressed.

  Beside Charlotte’s bundle sit my clothes—the plain ones, which are tight but befit the Friend I used to be, and the more worldly things selected by Delphinia for my new position. She brought them this morning in a tall pile. “Don’t think I’m giving you so much for your own sake,” she said. “You’ll need to dress well for the Burnhams.”

  First she offered a green satin bodice with velvet at the sleeve ends, a matching skirt, and an overskirt trimmed in velvet. These gorgeous items, she said, I ought to reserve for my arrival at the place and for any social events I might have to attend with the baby. She also gave me two shirtwaists with shell buttons down their fronts, a long brown skirt and brown bodice trimmed with brown ribbon, two white caps, and ankle-high boots with French heels, which I hope won’t lead me to fall in the street. Mother would have deemed this frivolous clothing a scandal. Ribbons! Velvet! Green satin! I was exultant.

  “Try some on,” urged Delphinia. I selected the green outfit and a cap and ducked behind the dressing screen. The moment I stepped back into view, Delphinia gasped and rushed from the room. She returned with a large hand mirror.

  “Look!” She chuckled with glee as she held the mirror at various angles and distances. I gazed giddily into the mirror until she tucked it under the bed, whispering: “Don’t tell Mrs. Pierce!”

  Encouraging
vanity is not Anne’s way. But already Delphinia and her mirror had given me an insight—that if I had been differently born, I would have made a convincing lady. Even with my hair in disarray, and my complexion shadowed by a dearth of sleep and sunlight, I looked elegant, important.

  If Mother could have seen me, and heard my thoughts, she might have said, “Anyone can be outwardly improved by fine fabrics and tailoring. Attend to thy soul, Lilli, and life’s true riches will unfold.”

  Of course that’s right. Yet I was thrilled to see myself made outwardly pleasing.

  But how can I write of such matters? A warm being has nursed to satisfaction and sleeps in surrender at my side, knowing nothing of our imminent separation. I stare at her tender face, her slackened lips, her nostrils that flare as she exhales. Tendrils of damp hair cling at her temples. Her puffed-up abdomen rises and falls beneath her gown. Her knees poke upward, and her tiny hands are curled at her chest. I watch her, and to my mind comes a verse of the Song of Songs: Behold, thou art beautiful, my love; behold, thou art beautiful.

  She opens her indigo eyes to stare into mine, then nurses more. What pleasure, to feel the tug of her lips, to hear her gulp and see lines of white slide down her chin.

  The house and street are silent around us. It seems only she and I are awake, though some young woman upstairs may be troubled by discomfort and wondering if her labor has begun.

  I must put this pencil down so I can cradle my Lotte in both arms and kiss her silken forehead and croon to her.

  I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.

  Come morning, to secure our future good, I’ll leave my beloved behind.

  NOTEBOOK FOUR

  Fourth Month 18

  This morning I dressed my darling and myself in traveling clothes. I nursed that bundle of softness once more. And as she fell into slumber, head and body going limp against me, I slipped my nipple from her mouth and gave her to Delphinia.

  Her limbs jerked; she began to wail. I lifted my valise. As though stepping off a cliff, I stepped out the front door and down the steps and into the Burnhams’ shiny carriage.