by Janet Benton
“Of course,” said Letitia, a smile starting at one corner of her mouth. “We’ll have a chance to catch up, won’t we, Marie?”
“Very good,” Marie said airily, looking at nothing with studied innocence above the rim of her raised teacup.
Clementina rushed out—nearly colliding with Margaret, who was en route from cellar to kitchen and who backed against the wall with a bucket of coal to each side. The lady raced upstairs, and I followed—assuming that, in her company, I may use those stairs. She entered her bedroom and slammed the door.
I walked into the nursery and peeled off Henry’s clothes. After cleaning and diapering him, I settled in the rocker to nurse. From down the hall I heard Clementina’s angry movements. Soon, in a different gown, she stood at the opened nursery door. The sound of laughter rose from the parlor.
“You humiliated me,” she hissed.
Hardly! I took a long breath in and out, knowing I’d best not speak. No wonder two nurses had already failed to please her. Perhaps they’d even left by choice.
She stormed down to her purported friends. I rose with Henry to shut the nursery door and sat again. Soon he was nodding off, yet I didn’t dare leave, in case he awoke in distress and cried, and she found this humiliating as well, with her friends to witness once more that she would not—could not—comfort him.
* * *
It’s deep in the night. The house and street are silent, save the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer two stories down. I’ve just nursed Henry and returned to my room, and again I’m ridden with guilt. Because even as I find Henry’s intimacy with my body jarring, my heart must incline toward this baby. He responds with eagerness when I enter his room, and the very act of nursing unites us in a deepening calm.
Yet there is a difference between this sympathy and what I feel for Charlotte. When Henry’s in distress, my response is tolerable. I can finish folding a blanket, or slice an apple, or write a few more words. Whereas I used to feel Charlotte’s very breathing in my body, and when she cried, a knife’s tip scored my heart.
Thus, with Henry, I can rest.
So even as I worry over Charlotte, a secret part of me is glad to be more free.
Fourth Month 20
I sent a note by post to the wet nurse Gerda this morning, inquiring in simple language how Charlotte is faring. If she can’t read, I hope she’ll find someone who can. I asked her to answer with a letter or a messenger and promised to repay any costs—though I have but a few dollars remaining, till I’m paid on the first of next month.
Then, with Henry fed and sleeping, I started down the back stairs to get my instructions from Frau Varschen. I stopped on hearing her loud words.
“She’s mixing up the household! Talking alone with Mr. Burnham!”
My skin shrank. The man had entered the nursery before leaving for his office, while I was dressing Henry; he was pleased to see an increase in the baby’s vigor. The visit had taken no more than a minute.
“I don’t mean to be contrary,” tried Margaret, “but Mr. Burnham only wanted—”
“Shush!” said the cook. “There could be trouble, I’m telling you.”
They fell to silence. I waited briefly, then descended the stairs and opened the door into the kitchen. Margaret sat at the table, her head bent over a plate of beans. Frau V. kneaded dough on the lid of her trough, picking up the heavy heap and slamming it down repeatedly. The stove burned hot, and the cook’s face was pink and sweaty.
“Shall I start on the soup?” I asked, the pulse quick at my throat.
Frau V. nodded. “We need beef juice for my bean soup, and the bones are boiling.” She gestured toward a pail. “Take some beans and sort out the dirt and rocks.”
I filled a plate and sat beside Margaret. As we searched for debris, I felt much unrest and sensed the same in Margaret’s quick breaths. The cook broke the quiet.
“How do you like this house?”
“It’s well built,” I said, “with good materials.” I looked up at the exposed beams of the kitchen ceiling, which are incredibly thick, then at the stone hearth, where a rack of lamb roasted over a pan. The aroma made my mouth water.
“But it’s far from the finest house on the block. Are you used to finer?” The cook gave a laugh, then applied the back of her wrist to wipe sweat from her temples.
“Oh, no. I’m used to a small stone house with nothing fine about it, except my family.”
Margaret piped in. “Where is this house? How many sisters and brothers?” She dumped her beans into a pot on the stove and got another plateful from the pail.
“The house is in Germantown,” I said. “I have a brother. He’s twenty-one, which is two years younger than me.” In my mind I added, and I don’t know where he is anymore.
“Is he handsome?” Margaret covered her smile with a hand. I pictured Peter pushing his golden-brown hair from his broad forehead, saw his hazel eyes and sturdy shoulders.
“I suppose so. The girls at school found him handsome.” To me, gentleness had been his more salient quality.
“Germantown’s not far off,” observed the cook. “Will you be having visitors?” She divided her dough into four parts and began forming one into a loaf. “Margaret’s family came in from the country once. We ate in the kitchen, and Mrs. Burnham had nothing bad to say about it.”
Margaret smiled without covering her mouth this time, allowing me to see the dimples at its corners. “Frau Varschen loves to lay out tea.”
“I won’t have visitors,” I said. “My mother died more than a year ago—my brother left for work in Pittsburgh. My—my father, he—”
Frau V. stared. “Why are you here? Can’t you find work that lets you live at home? Your father needs you!”
The two looked at me expectantly, but I couldn’t speak. I was basking in an unfamiliar pleasure. They didn’t yet know of my disgraced status, and this gave me a sensation as refreshing as a swim in a stream on a bright, hot day. Perhaps they took me for a mother who’d just weaned her child.
They gave up waiting for my response. Margaret and I dumped our beans again into the pot and scooped up more. Frau V. left her braided loaves to let them rise, then shook down ashes and loaded coal into the stove.
“That was two years ago,” Margaret said, “when my family visited. My sister writes, and Frau Varschen reads the letters to me.”
“Thee hasn’t gone to school?” I asked.
She shook her head. “My oldest sister went three years, but then my father got his leg crushed at the lumber mill. She left school to work at the cotton mill, and when each of us turned five, we joined her there.”
A stunted childhood, and then a life of serving others without cease.
“I’ll teach thee,” I told her. “I am—I used to be—a teacher.”
Frau V. turned from the stove, face glistening. “A schoolmarm! I knew there was something grand about you. If it’s not money makes a person grand, it’s book learning.”
Margaret clapped her hands excitedly and stood up. “I’m going to learn my letters!” She reached her arms about me.
I couldn’t recall the last time someone had clasped me tight, and I relished it. Too quickly she withdrew her arms and sighed. “I have to ask the Burnhams first. I can’t take my time or yours without permission.”
“You ask Mr. B. tonight,” said the cook, nodding.
“I’ll do that.” Margaret’s mouth formed a frown; her blue eyes gathered moisture. She expected disappointment.
“And if he says no,” Frau V. added, “I’ll put too much pepper on his eggs tomorrow and give him a fit of sneezes.” She threw her head back and guffawed, and Margaret gave a smile. Then the cook cried out, “This calls for my spring tonic!”
Margaret brought three earthenware cups, and Frau V. ladled her tea from a pot on the back burner. My mother had made a tonic each spring, too, using roots and greens from the woods. The three of us drank the dark liquid, our faces bright and pleased despite it
s bitterness. The hot tea traced a path of relaxation through me, until Henry’s cries penetrated the calm.
As I nursed him, I considered the cook’s concern at Albert speaking with me. Why did this arouse her ire? Why wasn’t she upset instead by Clementina’s disinterest in her son? She’s gotten strangers with breasts full of milk to provide his nutriment, but why withhold her love?
Henry may always feel homeless, for he was exiled at birth from his native land.
Just listen to this hypocrite! The baby who gained her form amid the beats of my heart and the sounds of my voice is farther from her native land, and even more an exile.
* * *
There’s trouble here, more than I knew. Frau Varschen was right.
After supper I fed Henry, then began rocking him to sleep. The Burnhams were in Clementina’s bedroom and had failed to close the door.
“Can’t you stay in?” I heard him say.
Her voice was harsh. “I have a ticket to the orchestra. Letitia’s expecting me.”
“But you went to the orchestra last night.”
A drawer banged shut. “Tonight a new cellist begins.”
“But I left the office early. I hoped to see you for supper.” Footsteps moved across the floor.
“Albert, I need to keep up. My column will suffer if I don’t.”
“Well, I need a wife. I suffer without one.”
“You have a wife!”
“But you shun me. And our son—have you laid eyes on him today?”
“Yes. We visited with friends.”
“Has he gained any weight?”
“I haven’t had a moment to put him on the scale.”
“Doctor Snowe said weighing was essential.”
“I’ll ask the nurse to do it tomorrow. Albert, I don’t like babies. You knew that.”
“I thought you’d change.”
“I don’t intend to be anyone’s cow. You got your son; now let me be.” At that, she strode through the hall—I glimpsed a light blue gown with an enormous bustle—and down the stairs. The front door opened and slammed.
In a moment, Albert stood at the nursery door. He was clad in what must have been a smoking jacket, a frivolous satin affair with ribbon at its lapels. Though his face was ruddy, he spoke with deliberate calm. “My wife has gone out. I need a quiet night after a tiring week.”
“Ah.” I nodded, wondering why he needed to tell me this. Henry lay heavy against my chest; his eyes fluttered as he moved toward slumber.
Albert cleared his throat. “Would you bring Henry to my study? I’d like to see him.”
“Where is thy study?” I asked, uneasy. Margaret was clanging pans in the kitchen, washing up; Frau Varschen had gone and thus could neither condemn me nor protect me.
Albert turned toward the front stairs. With a wave he bid me to follow.
I didn’t see as I had a choice, so I walked behind, carrying my sleepy package. We turned in the foyer and passed the parlor; Albert opened a carved oak door to a room smelling of leather and tobacco. A wood fire crackled on the grate.
He gestured for me to sit on a large stuffed chair, near to the hearth, and he sat on the facing one. He looked handsome, with his prominent cheekbones and the unblemished skin of a man in good health. His lips are large, like Henry’s, but a large forehead offsets them, giving him an intelligent appearance.
Observing all this made me even less at ease. He didn’t look at ease, either. But he gave me a thin smile.
I turned away, intrigued by the hundreds of leather-bound volumes lining one wall. Here was the real wealth of the house. Titillation rose in me; this collection wasn’t censored by Friends’ prohibitions. One day when no one else was about, I might return and explore. I might even try to read a novel or a play. Johan had loved to read the works of poets he called the Romantics, though this had caused friction with his parents and their Meeting. I remembered the name Wordsworth.
Albert pulled a cord to call for Margaret. She arrived in seconds, whisking stray bangs from her forehead.
“Brandy, please,” he said. “Bring the one that just arrived, the cognac, for myself and the nurse.”
“Oh, I don’t drink brandy,” I corrected—as if, in any case, I would drink it with him.
“Wine, then?” His face was stripped of expression.
“No alcohol.” I turned to Margaret. “Nothing, please.” She nodded and left, then returned with a decanter and one glass. Her manner was tight and awkward, and she kept her eyes from me. Did she suppose I was intentionally making myself her better by sitting with Albert? She poked at the fire, added a log, and left.
Albert drank, his mouth pursing around each sip of the liquid before he swallowed it. Henry gazed, nearly asleep, in his father’s direction. Albert made an abrupt, laugh-like sound, giving Henry a start.
“So you don’t indulge in alcohol.” He gave another laugh that galled me, then delivered his clever formulation: “A woman of principle, recruited from a charity for whores.”
Mother had warned me that indulgent folk will disparage those who are less so. Nevertheless, his crudeness pained me. And how melancholy he looked, despite his sarcastic attempt at cheer. Unhappiness had slackened the muscles of his face and dulled his eyes.
“Let me have a turn with the boy,” he said, reaching across the space between us. I passed Henry over, and he settled his son in the crook of one arm and watched him. Henry made no protest at the switch. When I commented on Albert’s apparent comfort with holding a baby, he said he’d helped raise a younger brother after his mother died.
So we had a mother’s death and a younger brother in common. Henry closed his eyes and sank against his father. I stared into the fire. After a silence—a state that Friends tolerate more easily than others—Albert spoke.
“How are you finding your time here?”
“I’m grateful for the work.” I smoothed the fabric on my lap and felt a thrill at having no baby on it. If I could have risen and examined the books, that feeling would have grown to elation.
“The food and accommodations are acceptable?”
“Completely.”
“And your little girl, she’s provided for?”
Worry cut into me. “I know almost nothing of her situation.”
“She’s been sent to a nurse, of course.” Albert’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know how she’s faring. I wrote her nurse this morning for news.”
He nodded. “It’s novel for us to have a nurse who can write well enough to send a letter.” Reaching his free arm over Henry’s sleeping body, he grabbed his glass and raised it to his mouth.
“Thee might consider it an obligation to educate thy servants,” I told him. He swallowed abruptly. “Margaret has lived here several years, and she can’t read or write a letter.”
He eyed me, taking my measure. “You’re feisty, Miss de Jong. But I suppose I forgive you. Quakers feel an obligation to educate everyone, don’t they?”
“Everyone has the right to better themselves.”
“So what is the Quaker attitude to fallen women?” he said. “Can you better yourself?” He took another sip, amused at his thought. “Say, do they even allow you in the meetinghouse?”
“I no longer attend.”
“But if you tried to enter, would you be admitted?”
“I don’t know of any religion that welcomes a woman in my position into its place of worship.” I stared, daring him to press further.
“Ah, then what’s the good of this virtue you so heartily aim to maintain?” he asked. “Why bother with your thee and thy? Why not enjoy a glass of brandy?”
I wanted to protest, but my voice shut down. My face grew hot. Indeed! Why not speak as most others do, and enjoy a glass of brandy, if everyone considers me a sinner without a second thought?
Because habits live on. Because plain speech is a salute to the Inner Light in everyone. Because I cling to the ways of Friends. Because alcohol embolden
s the passions and closes the eyes of the spirit.
Margaret returned at Albert’s call, a picture of sweet refinement in her black dress, white apron, and cap. She refilled Albert’s glass, put the decanter down, and inquired as to whether she could bring anything else.
Albert cocked his head. “Tell me, Margaret. Would you like to learn to read and write?”
Margaret stopped in place, head and shoulders shrinking toward one another, as if afraid of being mocked or punished.
“I’d be glad to teach thee,” I reiterated.
“Then yes.” Her carriage straightened. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Burnham.”
“I’ve got no grounds to deny it, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. I’ll inform my wife.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” She curtsied, and a grin spread across her freckled face.
He smiled slightly in return. “You’re a good girl, Margaret.”
When she left, he began to chuckle. “What are you doing to this household? Before long, you’ll all be quoting that communist Karl Marx in the kitchen and plotting to take my place.”
I resolved to search Albert’s bookshelves for something by that man. I’d seen the name but didn’t know his philosophy.
Albert took a large gulp of brandy and breathed out its fumes. “Do you suppose your example will do Margaret good?”
“Yes, it’s good for her to know an educated servant.”
“I mean your—situation,” he said. “I shouldn’t think you’d consider yourself a beneficial example.”
His arrow hit its mark and spread its poison. Margaret might be appalled to learn my full circumstances, and even badly influenced.
In the quiet that followed, Henry began to stir in his father’s lap. He opened and closed his lips in a fishlike way, then gave out his early hunger sounds that would lead to crying. I stood.
“May I be excused? Henry needs to nurse.”
Albert put on a crooked smile. “I’d like to watch my son take sustenance from a fallen woman, since he can’t take it from my virtuous wife.” He took a full gulp from his glass.