by Janet Benton
The driver urged the horse into motion. The carriage bumped over rutted streets. And the feeling that came over me was terror. With each turn of the wheels pulling me farther from my baby, I sat on my hands and panted, my mind like an enormous bell, clanging: What will become of her? What will become of me, without her near? What have I done?
Soon we pulled in front of a narrow three-story brownstone, only a few blocks from elegant Rittenhouse Square. The driver deposited me and my valise before its door, then left to care for the horse. I wiped away my tears and slowed my heart with willful breathing.
I climbed the marble stoop, and before I’d even knocked, a young maid swung open the door and curtsied. She was a picture of formality in her starched black gown, white cap, and lace-trimmed apron. After introducing herself as Margaret and thanking me for accepting their wet-nurse position, she brought me through a hall into the kitchen, which was large and homely. Then we went up one flight of thin, curving servants’ stairs, down a short length of hall, and up another narrow stair to the servants’ story. She pointed my way into a slope-ceilinged garret—a cramped room holding a bed that met three walls, a chest of drawers, a washbasin and pitcher, a chamber pot, and an empty trunk. An oval window at the foot of the bed brought in light and air.
Margaret seemed responsible and thoughtful, though she can’t be more than fourteen. She’d taken pains to clean my room in advance and to set me up with a fat feather bed atop the mattress. The home’s gas lighting doesn’t extend to the servants’ story, so she ran to fetch me paraffin candles from the cellar. I’ll be glad for them. Their light and smell will link me to evenings at home when we sat together around the oak table, Mother and I doing our own work while Father and his helpers kept their books.
In her melodious voice, Margaret told me of the feeding arrangements till now for the infant, Henry. The mistress fired two wet nurses in quick succession, so for several days the cook’s daughter nursed him during the day, as she’d recently weaned her own son. At night, Margaret hand-fed the baby with a bottle of boiled cow’s milk, water, and sugar. The artificial food upset his stomach, so he bent his legs in pain even as he drank, then spit up substantially after. Margaret had to perform her household labor in the day as well.
“We need the help badly. Thank you again,” she told me, leaning on the door frame.
“I need the position badly, and I’m grateful for it,” I replied.
She said she’d return to let me know when the mistress was ready to meet me. She stood a moment longer in a near-trance of fatigue, her blue eyes half closed and staring into space, before clicking back to alertness and running to whatever task I’d interrupted.
During her short absence, questions spun through my head. Was Charlotte being delivered to her nurse at that moment? What sense could she possibly make of my arms and breasts, my familiar smells and sounds, being so suddenly gone?
Soon Margaret summoned me down a flight of stairs to the doorway of a sitting room. She curtsied to the lady inside, who motioned from her desk for me to enter.
The room was lovely, with a gold velvet settee and matching chairs, tapestry-like drapes over its tall windows, and an Oriental carpet that cushioned my steps. The person behind the cherry-wood desk looked lovely, too—with refined features and a pile of light brown curls upon her head. Her clear green eyes spoke of intelligence. Yet instantly she was unpleasant toward me. She appeared no more than a few years past me in age, and she held herself erect, as any woman in a tight corset must.
“My husband says our doctor chose better this time,” she began. “So I needn’t examine you.” She observed me a moment. “You’re well dressed for household help.”
I flushed. “These clothes were donated to the—the place where I was living.”
“And where were you living?” She raised her well-shaped eyebrows.
“A lying-in hospital.”
She ought to have known this from her husband. But she raised her hands in a questioning gesture. “A hospital? Are you ill? Doctor Snowe can’t have overlooked this.”
I decided to be as blunt as she. “It was a charity for unwed mothers.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “So you’re no improvement over the other nurses. In fact, you’re worse. Two of them were widows. Our cook’s daughter is married.” She emitted an odd sound, half laugh, half snort. “Our doctor must have determined that at least your milk is pure.”
I reminded myself that I should expect no better, since I was no longer within Anne’s sheltering walls. “Yes,” I replied, nodding slightly.
The lady shrugged. “You’ll be gone before my son can even speak. I’m sure you’ll have little influence.”
I was stunned. She was dismissing the effects of my work before I’d even begun it. But I kept nodding. “Yes, madam.”
“Call me Clementina,” she said. “When someone calls me madam, I think they mean my mother.”
It was easy to perceive that vanity, not egalitarianism, motivated this request. Yet her preference served me well, since I was raised to call people by their names, not by titles.
“What’s your name?” she finally asked.
“Lillian de Jong. Usually I’m called Lilli.”
She gestured with her head toward the door. “The nursery is down the hall to the left, Lilli. Once you’ve fed the baby, go to the kitchen and ask our cook to assign your other duties.” She turned her head down to the papers spread before her, then raised it once more. “Do you wish to keep this position, Lilli?”
“Yes, Clementina,” I replied.
“Then never let my son’s cries rise to a level that disturbs me. I have a newspaper column to write nearly every day. And do as our cook tells you; don’t seek me out. If I need you, I’ll send Margaret.” Down went her head. I was dismissed.
It must pain Clementina to squeeze into a corset little more than a week after delivery, not to mention that she must be binding her breasts to stop her milk. These things might help explain her dourness. I made such excuses readily while walking down the hall—until I saw her son.
A baby’s whole body being visible at once, one can form an instant sense of its condition. And already this boy gave off an air of anxiousness and privation. He lay on his back in a finely wrought metal crib with dulled eyes and a pinched expression. The elegant petticoat and slip of white nainsook covering him couldn’t disguise his misery and lack of vigor. I leaned over the rails, and he emitted a whimper that made me lift him immediately.
I sat in the rocker and opened my clothing. A shudder passed through me as I guided his lips and mouth to my nipple. After a few seconds of fumbling, he latched on and fed.
I was as put off by the neediness of his suck as by the large size of his head, with its dark eyebrows and its nose that was far broader than Charlotte’s. He nursed more quickly than my darling and sank into oblivion. When I placed him in the crib, he didn’t startle or awaken.
I waited a moment, marveling at this simplicity, and grateful, and hoping my milk would improve his condition. Then I went off to find the cook.
Unfortunately I set her against me by descending the wide front stairs and walking through the foyer and hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. When I entered her domain, she turned an angry face my way. A stout woman of middling height, she had a ruddy complexion and thinning hair held back severely with pins and combs.
“You must,” she reprimanded—stepping back from her cast-iron pots—“use the back stairs into the kitchen. Don’t make the Burnhams see a servant unless they call for one.” She removed her thick-lensed glasses to wipe away the fog brought on by the steaming pots. She told me her name was Frau Varschen—“and that’s the only name you ought to go a’bothering.”
I focused on her stocky black shoes, my eyes stinging with tears, as I apologized for having taken the wrong stairs. “My family didn’t have servants,” I explained, “and most people we knew didn’t either.”
This made her laugh, a harsh sound
that set my skin to prickling. “D’you think I learned to be a cook by having one?”
I was a fool. “What I ought to say,” I corrected with embarrassment, “is that I’m not as knowledgeable as thee about the right ways of behaving. I promise to learn quickly and to do as thee directs.”
Her irritation eased slightly. “Come find me in the kitchen or the garden when Henry sleeps. I’m here six-thirty in the morning to eight at night, every day but the Lord’s. I’ll find you a task.”
“But when can I make up for the sleep I’ll lose at night?” I asked. She wanted me to work around the clock! To mute my forwardness, I looked down at the floor’s pine planks.
“I hear you’ll be the best paid in the house,” she retorted, “and that comes with hard labor.”
She turned back to the polished stove, took up a wooden spoon in each hand, and stirred whatever filled her pots. Then she turned again to examine me, apparently perceiving my depleted condition. Exhaling through her nose and losing some of her fierceness, she pointed with an elbow toward the back stairs.
“You go settle in,” she directed. “I’ll make the soup today.”
So her heart can soften, which is a lucky thing. And I do enjoy getting my hands dirty in the kitchen and the garden, which may help bring her view of me around.
I should have unpacked and rested, but I gain a sense of company when I confide my doings here. Without Charlotte, I have no other true companion—apart from the sun, which is the most faithful friend of every creature and growing thing. Now it sets, filling the window at the foot of my bed, pouring its glow over these words, bringing a measure of ease to a worried mother’s heart.
* * *
Henry woke me, calling out in hunger. My heart thumped wildly and my throat narrowed, for I thought his cry was Charlotte’s, and she’d been stolen from my side. I shot up in bed and banged my head on the sloped ceiling—a rough way to come to one’s senses. Out the window the moon was visible, hot and yellow, staring in like a single eyeball.
Henry’s calls were rising in pitch. Clementina had said never to let them disturb her. I pushed the covers back, turned sideways, and planted my feet on the cold planks. Shivering, I lit a candle and scuttled to the second story. I nursed and changed him, startled at his thinness, then laid him back in his crib. From his big feet and hands, I guessed that one day he’d tower over me. I paused to watch his rib cage rise and fall beneath his clothes, marveling at the ease with which he sank into sleep and pleased by the slight improvement in his pallor.
Yet back in my room, I’m ridden with guilt. I give my care to a stranger while Charlotte has been stripped of the love she needs and rightfully owns. She may even be wailing for me, unheeded, at this moment.
Who is this Gerda? I won’t know for thirteen days.
Dear Lord, please give my baby a kind face that peers down at her, a lilting voice that soothes her cries, rich milk that fills her belly….
In the darkness of this slant-roofed room, miles from the one who needs me most, I’m unable to find a reassuring thought.
I recall the counsel Paul gave to the Corinthians: “Be watchful, stand firm in thy faith, be courageous, be strong.”
“And go to sleep while thee can,” my mother whispers inside me.
Charlotte’s dear countenance comes into my mind, first with its features pressed together by the rigors of birth, then growing smoother and more distinct, then showing the glinting eyes and smile she gave at feeling her first breeze….
Fourth Month 19
I’ll be in need of much humility in this household.
Two of Clementina’s friends were coming to tea. In preparation, she had me dress Henry in his best lace shirt, petticoat, and slip, and told me not to swaddle him. When the ladies rang the bell and were announced by Margaret, he was nursing avidly. But his mother had me detach him and carry him down the back stairs while he burrowed against me, seeking darkness.
I joined the women in the foyer, where Clementina kissed her friends—“Letitia! Marie!”
Exclaiming with gladness, they shed their feather-laden hats and light cloaks into Margaret’s arms.
“Let me see the little fellow!” said Letitia. She was the tall and dark-haired one. Her cheekbones were raised high and her mouth was open with pleased anticipation.
“Do let us look,” echoed the shorter and plumper Marie.
Clementina gestured for me to lift him. I did so. Their smiles fell; they must have been startled by his anxious, big-featured face. Then Henry scowled and emitted some half-digested milk that landed on Marie’s silk-covered shoe.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Marie, observing her shoe in dismay.
“Margaret!” Clementina called. She glared at me as if I’d done the spitting up until Margaret ran in. “Clean this for Mrs. Forman.”
Marie handed the shoe to Margaret, doubtful.
“Let’s have some tea,” called Clementina, aiming to restore the festive atmosphere, and the ladies moved into the parlor, with Marie hobbling unevenly behind. They sat at a small round table to one side of the room. I found a settee nearby, where Henry began to root into my chest, leaving wet spots on my gray bodice. I’ve managed to fit into some of my plain clothes, and I’m combining them with the finer pieces Delphinia selected so as to be less of a spectacle.
Not that anyone would notice my clothing in a parlor such as theirs. The walls contain portraits of relatives who look out with fixed expressions, fierce or stern; the wallpaper behind them is riotous with stripes and flowers. Carved lintels adorn the window frames, and wide, ornate moldings follow the ceiling’s perimeter. A mirror half the height of the room reflects the large parlor dome on a stand before it. Inside the clear glass dome, stuffed tropical birds cavort on branches, trapped in false joy.
The women settled into their seats, arranging skirts and bodices. I sensed a pall caused by Henry’s unwell condition, but perhaps I misperceived, for the visitors made no mention of it.
“What a lovely table!” said Letitia. Before them sat the two fruit tarts and the pile of sweet buns that Frau Varschen and I had prepared.
“Scrumptious,” concurred Marie. To my amusement, she blew a kiss at the confections.
Clementina was unimpressed. “Margaret!”
The girl came in flustered, her freckled cheeks pink against the bounteous brown curls peeking from her cap. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ve treated the stain, but the silk—”
“Never mind.” Clementina waved her hand to the side. “We’ll find another pair tomorrow. Serve our tea.”
Margaret’s face was impassive as she poured and served. She must be used to such roughness. But I’m not, and I feared becoming its next target. For Henry had begun to moan, wanting into my clothing. Then he began to cry outright.
“Have you been to the new Frank Harvey play at the Olympic Theater?” Letitia asked Marie, overriding Henry. “The Wages of Sin. It’s splendid! The costumes! And the story, bien sûr, pure heartbreak.” She put one hand over her chest and lifted her tea with the other to take a delicate sip. “A young woman should have married a good man who loved her, but she distrusted him and sank into vice by marrying a cad.”
“I wish I could go,” Marie said. “With my husband sick, I’ve cut back on outings. But there’s nothing like a good production to bring one’s feelings to the fore.” She bit into a tart and gave its shiny fruits an appreciative look as she chewed.
“Have you been, Clementina?” Letitia said.
Clementina brought her attention to the table briefly. “I’m reviewing it for The Herald. I found it trifling. The same story of a foolish woman who steps outside the bounds allowed her, only to be ruined by a man. I’d prefer it if she’d triumphed.”
Inwardly, I couldn’t help but agree.
“Of course,” said Letitia tightly. “It’s the opposite of what you did in marrying Albert. You wanted to marry a cad but ended up with a good, educated man who loves you.”
Clement
ina stiffened; Marie’s face darkened.
“He wasn’t a cad,” said Clementina, “he was an actor. He loved me.”
Marie brightened with kind intention. “When will your review appear? I love your clever words.”
Henry gave out a loud squall.
“Ah!” groaned Clementina, gesturing at me. “This nurse can’t quiet him!”
Letitia raised her head—piled with elaborate curls like Clementina’s—and swallowed her bite of tart. “He must prefer his mother,” she said sweetly. “I know my Lizzy does.”
Marie concurred. “I don’t take on the menial parts—the feeding and the changing. But when my boy needs comfort…” She made it plainer. “Well, no one’s as good as Mother.”
Clementina blanched, but Letitia pressed further. “We won’t mind if you hold him, will we, Marie?” She looked at her friend.
“Oh, no.” Marie shook her petite head side to side.
Clementina stood and thrust her arms toward me. I passed Henry over and laid the rag that catches his spit-up across the beaded shoulder of her bodice. She sat with Henry and fixed a sympathetic look on her face, but she kept his body at a distance, as though he were a muddy boot. He wailed louder and twisted his head toward me as Clementina struggled to contain him. She pushed his bottom down onto her lap. Her guests watched closely, raising forks to mouths.
“What’s gotten into him?” said Clementina. “Nurse, fetch what you need to swaddle him. I don’t know why you insist on keeping him free.”
I flinched at her dishonesty as Letitia whispered loudly, “These nurses never do as we ask. You’d think, for as much as we pay…”
I was rising from the settee to do as Clementina had commanded when she screeched. On her lap, beneath Henry, a stain spread across her lavender skirt.
Placing Henry on the floor, she grabbed the rag from her shoulder and dabbed at the urine. Her friends looked on with widened eyes, then applied themselves to their tea, faces tight in disciplined composure. Henry raised the pitch of his wail and thrashed his legs. Clementina lifted him and thrust him into my arms, where he mouthed me frantically. Turning to her guests, Clementina brightened her demeanor and bared her teeth. “Please excuse me a moment.”