Lilli de Jong

by Janet Benton

  I moved the sleepy boy forward. The caretaker patted Henry’s scalp and radiated goodwill toward the baby and me. I basked in his kindness.

  “That’s enough,” snapped Clementina. “We’ll be needing to begin the work Miss Baker hasn’t done.”

  I flinched, but Mr. Pemberton didn’t. He let her attitude roll off him like water from a duck’s feathers. He turned toward Margaret and I, giving a wink that recognized us as his compatriots in service to this challenging woman. Then he used his cane to propel himself out the door.

  Albert sighed. “Well, it can’t be helped.” He removed his straw hat and hung it on the elaborate wood and cast-iron hat stand. Leaning toward its oblong mirror, he gave his hair a few strokes with a comb.

  His wife snatched the ivory comb and banged it down on the stand. “Yes it can be helped. You get our drivers busy unloading. You’ll have to join in, Albert.”

  Albert pulled his head back on his neck and stared, about to speak. Then he looked to Margaret and me, sighed once more, and stepped out toward the wagons.

  Clementina turned to us, her slender form vibrating with irritation. “Already we had nowhere near the help my parents had to keep this place in order. Now this! You’ll have to set up the kitchen and prepare our meal, girls. Next you’ll make this house habitable, which will take no slight effort, I tell you.” She ran a finger along the mahogany banister that curves up the stairs to the second story, examined the depth of dust on her fingertip, and shuddered.

  For several days, we did little but vanquish dust and unpleasant odors while Clementina lay on a divan in the parlor, complaining of a toothache. To any who came near, she bemoaned the absence of the kitchen helper, butler, and two more chambermaids that her parents had employed when she’d been a child in this very house, not to mention the inconvenience of Miss Baker’s absence. She fretted over the inadequacy of our work as we shook out and aired feather beds and pillows, curtains, rugs, and mats; scrubbed floors and polished them; wiped and dusted every surface; kept the kitchen stove fueled; cooked and washed up after meals; brought water in and waste out; unloaded deliveries from the grocer’s buggy; hauled ice from the ice wagon; and on and on and on—with me stepping away to care for Henry.

  Eventually Clementina moved to a stuffed chair in her bedroom and pored over every theater and musical review in every paper she’d had delivered, opining on the shortcomings of this reviewer and that. Then she turned to the Ladies’ Home Journal and Practical Housekeeper, a new publication she’d subscribed to under pressure from a visitor. She addressed herself as ferociously to those pages as she did to us. Later she critiqued the publication to Albert in the dining room, telling him she didn’t care what substances worked better at removing grease stains from the collars of men’s shirts or vomit from a child’s bedclothes. (Luckily, Margaret and I mostly needn’t concern ourselves with stain removal either, for the laundry is sent out.)

  “You need something else to occupy you,” Albert observed in reply. “Why not see a performance and write up a review?”

  She exhaled loudly. “I’ve told you. My column has been discontinued for the summer. I can’t keep current at this distance.”

  “Then you’re consigned to a summer of rest and sociable activities. Sounds enviable to me.”

  She scoffed. “Overseeing our servants is hardly leisure. You’re the one with true leisure when at home, since you do none of the management.”

  It is odd that Albert takes no responsibilities within the property. And neither of them pays much heed to Henry, except on a whim. But it’s Clementina who makes our work bitter. She seems convinced that her distance from necessary labor makes her more important than we are.

  Yet keeping still only feeds her irritability and unhappiness! I suppose that’s justice.

  Through all this, Margaret retains an admirable cheer. Her cough—a remnant of the cotton mill—has been activated by the dust. But she moves with purpose and gleams with vitality.

  “Aren’t thy muscles sore?” I asked as we beat yet another rug outside. Mine were aching.

  “Nah. I’ve always worked this hard.” She released the rug to the ground, pushed her sleeve to her shoulder, and flexed her substantial muscles, then laughed, surrendering her whole body to the sensation. “I love coming here.” She breathed in the vital air and gestured toward the gardens that began at the edge of the work yard. “You’ll love it, too, once we’re done with the spring cleaning.”

  “Indeed,” I told her. Because I do love Germantown.

  Yet how strange to know that while Clementina was growing up amid this splendor, I lived close by in a far simpler house and found especial satisfaction in Friend John Woolman’s writings on the importance of living modestly. Doing so has many benefits, especially these two: it spares us all from needless work, and it gives us time to advance the human lot more meaningfully.

  I do find meaning in my work here, though—especially in Henry’s gabled nursery. It’s cheery, with striped paper on the walls and large windows that offer views of leafy trees. When I lift him from his crib, feel his feather-soft skin and solid weight upon me, and relax into the steady squeezing of his suck, he brings me to a place beyond worry, beyond the passage of time. Then I place him on his back and wave my fingers above, smiling as he tries to reach. He grunts, churning his thighs and feet in the air. I lower a finger; he grabs hold and pinches tight and crows over his great accomplishment.

  Where does it come from, this urge to master the skills of one’s species?

  Some force moves all living things to excel. Surely this proves we are endowed with bits of our Creator.

  On the floors, while cleaning, I found a total of twelve pennies and tucked them in my apron pocket. This is all the money I have till the First of Sixth Month, over a week away, when at last I will be paid.

  Fifth Month 25

  I’m pleased to report that even Margaret’s patience has its limit.

  The Burnhams still have no cook. After I fixed Clementina’s tea this afternoon and Margaret served it, Clementina walked into the kitchen and stood watching us at our cleaning. Her hands were on her hips; her face was dour.

  “You must work faster,” she said. “The kitchen is not fully outfitted. Our spare bedrooms haven’t been touched. My parents are on a boat from the Continent, and the entire house must bear no sign of neglect by the time they arrive. Margaret, remember to change to a clean uniform before our mealtimes. It’s bad enough we have to be served by a maid. Lilli, I’ll expect your clothing to be free of milk or infant”—here she waved her hands, seeking the word—“spit-up. Everything must be perfect during their entire fortnight’s visit, or your pay will be docked.” She exhaled audibly. “Do you understand me, girls?”

  Margaret bowed in reply. I nodded. Clementina stormed out, and Margaret pressed her lips into a prune and narrowed her eyes. “Do you understand me, girls?” she whispered. “Your pay will be docked, docked, docked, if you don’t work faster! Everything must be perfect! Perfect, perfect!”

  She grabbed the hearth-broom and ran back and forth across the wood floor, wielding the broom crazily in the air. Then we began to work at double speed, racing to wipe dishes into a bucket, scrubbing them with haphazard motions that sprayed water about, whispering “Faster! Faster!” to each other, and generally behaving in such a ridiculous manner that our aprons came untied, and soap bits hung from our garments, and we were laughing too hard to continue doing anything but hold our cramping stomachs. Tears trickled down our faces as we gasped for breath. I half wished Clementina would come in and find us in this state, though her rage might have scared the feathers off a chicken.

  Then Margaret and I stepped out back to satisfy our thirst and splash one another at the pump, which spurts water of the most heavenly freshness.

  Our clothes were wrinkled and damp and darkened by dust, our hair flew free of our buns and stuck to our necks and foreheads, and any pretense our boots once had of decency had long been abando
ned to the swish of mop water and the showers of dirt from the rugs. As if we had nothing to lose, we laughed uproariously and doused each other with cold water, renewing our bodies and our spirits.

  Fifth Month 27

  It’s First Day morning. The Burnhams have gone to St. Luke’s Episcopal on Main Street—a cathedral in the European style, lavish with arches and marble and stained glass. At breakfast, Clementina spoke animatedly of the friends she’d see there and the outings they’d plan, while Albert hoped to arrange a game of cricket. They went upstairs to dress, the lady with Margaret’s help, then donned their hats in the foyer. Clementina called to me, so I ran down the back stairs and came forward. Though she had on a most fanciful hat, bestowed with several birds’ worth of feathers, and a pink dress that made her look mild, she addressed me with her usual disdain.

  “Eat nothing you shouldn’t. This is a workday for you, so don’t shirk. There’s a chore list on the kitchen table, and I expect everything done by our return at midday.”

  I gave a curtsy, hoping fruitlessly to enter her better graces. She stepped out to their carriage, and her husband turned from the doorway, looking summery and cool in a beige linen suit and straw hat. He gave me a wink and a cheerful nod that lifted my mood, then alighted into the carriage. At the driver’s crop, the horses pulled them away.

  Then Margaret left on foot to attend a Catholic church, Our Lady of Solace, where she favors the priest. As she has the whole day for her own, she’ll be staying through the social afterward.

  Once they’d left, I walked through the mansion’s rooms and gazed on its shining floors, its wallpapers of dizzying patterns, its ornate upholstery and furnishings. Though pleased to have had a hand in its beautification, I felt as out of place in the splendor as a robin might feel among peacocks.

  I took refuge in the list of chores. I emptied ashes from the kitchen stove, fueled it, filled the woodbox, prepared ingredients for the midday meal, swept and mopped the kitchen floor, and scrubbed the pots from last night’s supper. I avoided seditious behavior—not a crumb of cake did I eat, nor a drop of tea imbibe. I nursed Henry till his belly protruded and he slept. Yet I found no ease, even with him. He seemed a stranger to me, a stranger who lives off my body while my Lotte sucks at another’s.

  I rose to my room, a cavernous, slant-roofed attic space with beams above and unpolished planks below. It smells of camphor and dust, but I adore it. In the day, the sun enters in a dappled pattern, its force muted by high trees at the back of the property. In the night, moonlight penetrates its corners and cools my thoughts. But I’m the first to use it as a servant’s room, and it hadn’t yet been cleaned.

  I fetched rags and soapy water and began to weave a damp rag among the heaps of forgotten items—the old spinning wheel and loom, the hat racks and clothes dummies, the trunks and crates and barrels. They fairly glowed with hidden meanings, as if they could have spoken of who had used them and what they’d done, if only my rag would find and free their tongues.

  My eye was drawn to a stack of papers piled upon the floor. The top item was a musical score inscribed “Clementina Appleton.” Tucked inside were four parchment awards naming Clementina for best violin performance, four years in a row. I opened a school copybook next and saw page after page of the exquisite handwriting that young Clementina had cultivated. The topic she wrote upon obsessively? Music. Playing it, listening to it, studying it—adoring it.

  Beside the papers lay a china doll. It had a pale face, painted green eyes, and light brown curls, not unlike Clementina’s, and it held in its arms a tiny violin. Though lifeless, unmoving, fixed in place, it spoke to me of Clementina’s early passion—which struck me as bittersweet. Then it spoke to me of something more. I felt myself a castaway, just like the doll—a relic whose purpose has passed, now hidden out of sight, serving only to remind the accidental viewer of a potential that has vanished.

  I took up this notebook.

  I’m in close walking distance to the Meeting I attended twice weekly for nearly all my years. And for the first time since leaving, I feel not defiance, or hurt, but a frank and open longing. I miss the buoyant silence of our Meeting for Worship. I want to join my mind with the stream of awareness flowing through the meetinghouse. With eyes closed, I used to hear it in my mind as if it were an actual stream, flowing at the level of our heads, growing fuller and more solace-giving as one mind after another calmed and entered.

  What if I did join in on some First Day, while the others in this household were out? What if I walked there during Henry’s long morning nap, which can now be counted on, and took a seat in the women’s section? Perhaps someone who’d disapproved most heartily of Father—probably the flat-faced Edgar Dinkles—would lean to my ear and whisper, “It’s best for thee to go.” I’d rise, stiff as a dressmaker’s dummy. His hand pressing at my back would speed my progress toward the door.

  Someone else might follow me out and comfort me—perhaps a friend from school who hadn’t married and moved away. But I could never tell her my predicament.

  The Burnhams have come home. I hear them in the foyer. It’s time to ready their food.

  Tomorrow afternoon, after too many days without seeing her, I’ll visit my baby.

  Fifth Month 28

  My steps were rapid as I traveled the mile or so to the eastmost block of Centre Street. Gina welcomed me, holding Lucia to her, and led me to the doorway of their room. My Lotte lay on her back in a cradle, sucking at her fist, until I called the sweet melody of her name. Then she turned her gaze to me; her breath became a pant, and she opened her mouth into a grin.

  Oh, my love! I took her in my arms and exulted, as if a lost piece of me was fitted back in place. She had neither forgotten nor forsaken me.

  She mouthed at my breast, insisting on being fed, as if to confirm that I still belong to her. As she nursed, she paused to rub her cheek against me, the edges of her mouth turning up. With her inch-long fingers she pulled and patted at my chest.

  Then Gina and I sat at the kitchen table, babies in our laps, eating bread and cheese and salty pickles. I even got to enjoy a sugary cup of tea without fearing Clementina’s censure, though Lucia’s round eyes were fierce as they roved about, and I pretended she was discovering my treachery, to amuse myself and Gina.

  Lucia can raise her head now. It’s covered in black curls, like her mother’s. But my attention was mainly fixed to Charlotte. Her facial features have gained more shape. At nearly two months old, she shows less fussiness and more lively interest. She reached for my bread and cheese, and banged her fist against my hand in trying to grab my teacup, causing me to spill lukewarm tea on her—which seemed to interest more than to upset her.

  As Gina and I talked, I observed her new family through the kitchen windows. Victor, dark-haired and slim, was feeding a pig in a pen and two goats on tethers. Angela, light-haired and plump, pounded and shaped dough on a wooden slab, then fed the loaves into a brick oven that had a fire burning underneath. Their small yard held a grape arbor, fig and apple trees, berry bushes and vines, a kitchen garden, and a small fish pond with painted tiles at its perimeter. Indeed, I was much impressed with their industriousness. But when Angela came up the back stoop into the kitchen, her tone was harsh.

  “Every noise wakes your baby.” She faced my way as she washed her hands over a tub. “Lucia sleeps the night. But your baby wakes and screams.” She pointed at Charlotte, who lay contented in my lap. “She wants to nurse always!” Angela opened her wet palms, exasperated. “I rock her so Gina can try and sleep. But your baby, she cries and cries.”

  “Has thee tried a bottle—” I attempted.

  Angela shook her head, drying her hands on a cloth. “She don’t take it.”

  Gina looked at me sideways with a sympathetic expression that seemed to say, It’s all true, but I’m sorry for how harshly it’s coming out.

  My reactions tangled in my chest and ached there. I must be grateful to these women, for Charlotte is undoubtedl
y a challenge. But I would put up with this difficulty willingly, and wouldn’t let her scream through the night, if I could care for her myself. Not to mention that I would never let my own charge, Henry, suffer so. I hoped the nights of crying wouldn’t damage Charlotte’s temperament.

  “You should pay more,” Angela said, “two dollars a week, not one fifty.”

  I was dismayed. This would delay my plans to set us up independently. But I understood her reason—and I had no choice. Contritely I said, “I’ll start next week.”

  This calmed Angela. After taking off her apron and changing from dirty boots to clean ones, she patted my head and Charlotte’s with a forceful hand. She told Gina something in Italian. Then she excused herself, explaining that she was due at a neighbor’s to make decorations for an upcoming religious festival.

  I handed Gina three dollars for the previous two weeks, which I’d borrowed from Clementina and Margaret, and reiterated my promise to pay two dollars starting next week—by which time I’ll have been paid for my own work.

  Gina patted my leg and tucked the bills into her skirt pocket. “It is good Charlotte stays here. I need money.” Her body leaned closer, bringing me the scent of lavender soap. “Angela says I don’t. But I have my plan. I take Lucia to Italy, after I save.” She kissed Lucia on the scalp, then looked across the room, her plump face absent with homesickness.

  Victor entered the kitchen from the yard and washed his hands. He was clean-shaven, with glossy hair and well-proportioned features. His son—Gina’s purported husband—must have been handsome. Victor dried his hands on a towel, then reached to shake my hand. His hand was warm and reassuring, but his words were not.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asked. “How long will this baby stay? How do you know our Gina?”

  I stuttered as I tried to frame replies, and Gina jumped in to rescue me. “We met at Fessler’s Market. Her husband works in Pittsburgh.” She turned to me, her look matter-of-fact. “And you go to him soon, Lilli. With Charlotte.”