Lilli de Jong

by Janet Benton

  Sixth Month 7

  Before sunrise this morning, Margaret knocked at the door of the stable closet. I was assembling my belongings for departure, having slept little and done it propped against the wall so mice wouldn’t crawl through my hair. She handed me bread and a boiled egg, which I ate rapidly, standing up. Then she gave me an entire pound cake from Miss Baker.

  “She said she hopes you’ll get Charlotte back and have that sewing machine soon,” she told me.

  I gave heartfelt thanks, tucked the cake into my valise, and buckled the straps.

  “I wish you could stay longer—I’d bring meals out.” Margaret’s blue eyes went wet.

  Moved, I said I couldn’t let her risk dismissal for me, and besides, I had an urgent task ahead. I wiped hay and dust from my skirt and hugged her. We fit nicely, with her head at the height of my shoulder. I pushed my face into her thick waves of hair and smelled the freshness of her youth.

  “I’ll write to let thee know my address when I’m settled,” I promised. “Rosa can read the letter and help with thy reply.”

  “I plan to get a primer, so I may be reading your letter and writing back myself!” she said. As we regarded one another, an earnest look came to her freckled face. She reached into the pocket of her apron and drew out a small carving.

  “I want you to take this.” She handed me a wooden horse with touches of brown paint on its eyes, mane, and tail. “My father made it before I left. To carry me safely on my journey.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “Thee is too kind!” I tried to hand it back.

  “No,” she said, arms clamped at her sides. “It’ll protect you and your baby.”

  “I’ll give thee something, then.” I opened my valise and laid the horse inside, then found a tortoise-shell comb from Mother. I held it out, but Margaret refused.

  “I had no friend in the house before you came. And you taught me—” She heaved a sob. Again we embraced.

  “We can’t leave the stable together,” I said, pulling back.

  She didn’t move.

  “I’ll go first.” I picked up my valise, covered my head with the yellow shawl from Clementina, and ran past the horses shifting in their stalls to the garden, then the road—leaving behind the kindest, most sincere girl I’ve ever known.

  The chant in my mind was Charlotte, Charlotte, set to a rhythm called by my feet. As I covered mile upon mile, the sun moved above the horizon, heating the air, and my valise grew more difficult to carry. I stopped in an orchard and ate a sour apple from the ground. By then all the coolness that rises from the earth each night had burned away. A passing farmer offered me a seat in his wagon among sacks of radishes, and I accepted gladly. Soon we reached downtown and halted near a market where he would sell his goods. I asked if he knew of a pawnbroker. He recollected a shop not far from there.

  I stepped into a shaded alley that smelled of urine and opened my valise to examine its contents. I had to keep, of course, the plain dress and the collar and sleeves that I was wearing; I decided also to retain the other set like it, the Mother Hubbard dress and sash I’d sewed at the Haven, the brown wool skirt and bodice, my pencils and notebooks, of course, and my toilet items and underthings. I would pawn the most valuable items—the lace-trimmed shirtwaists, the green satin dress with velvet trimming, the boots with French heels, the sheepskin slippers from Margaret, and the leather-bound book by Mill. Adding that last precious item to the pile, I held it close a moment and thanked its author for his understanding, even if the world isn’t yet ready to give up damaging those outside its tiny spheres of propriety. I prayed that the unwed mother might someday gain her liberty.

  The pawnbroker was a tired, pale man. His eyes twitched as he reviewed my offerings and explained our arrangement. He would determine the value of my items and loan me that amount; if I wished to reclaim my possessions within four months, I could repay the loan, along with monthly interest and a storage fee. In his ledger he listed each piece with a price beside it.

  On telling me the total—three dollars twenty cents—he avoided my gaze, which made me suspect unfairness. But he rejected my appeal for more. Most likely I’d never reclaim the items, he said, and many of them wouldn’t sell, and some needed laundering, “and if you had any idea how much more I give than I should…”

  So I assented. He gave me the cash and a written duplicate of his accounting. Lifting my lightened case, I exited the shop, the string of bells on the door tinkling behind me.

  I had but eight dollars and change. Another day had passed, so I’d need ten to get Charlotte out. Where to go? I took Albert’s card from my pocket. His office was at Eighth and Chestnut Streets; I was only a few blocks away. By then the hour was ten—the many clocks and church bells downtown keep one well apprised—and he’d said to come earlier or later, but that couldn’t be helped.

  In a corner park across the street from the pawn shop, I took my hair down, combed it, pinned it up, and rinsed my face in a fountain intended to water horses, having no choice but to ignore the passing vehicles and people. It appeared that many others had used this water source for similar purposes, as fragments of soap and discarded rags were strewn about. I dried my face with the edge of my sleeve, lifted my valise, and moved my weary legs toward Albert’s address.

  A guard in a military-style jacket stood at the doors of the building—a tall, marble edifice that bore brass signs for many businesses. “What brings you here, lass?” he inquired.

  I showed Albert’s card and said he was expecting me. The guard bowed and let me pass into a commodious, high-ceilinged foyer with mahogany walls. The stone floor brought a welcome coolness to my feet. When I presented myself to a woman standing at a high desk, she picked up a flexible speaking tube and shouted into it, asking the assistant at the other end whether Mr. Burnham would accept a visitor. An affirming shout came, so she pointed to a set of wide stairs and said, “No need for the elevator. It’s one flight up.”

  An elevator! I was relieved not to have to step inside one of those unsafe boxes and be looked up and down by its operator.

  Albert stood in the doorway of his office, his manner pleasant and welcoming. He ushered me in. Then he slid the bolt lock on the door, which seemed unnecessary.

  “Please take a seat,” he said, pointing to a stuffed chair in front of the unlit hearth. He sat beside me in another chair rather than behind the huge desk. The room’s many shelves showed an array of foreign objects, from ivory carvings and embroidered shawls to swords of antique workmanship. It smelled like a spice stall at an indoor market. Interior shutters covered the lower portions of its many tall windows, so that the light was dimmed and soothing.

  “I’m pleased you came.” He grinned. “This is my uncle’s business, if you didn’t know, and he’s arranging contracts in England. So I’m quite at ease today.” His eyes skimmed my form. “Are you hoping I’ll buy you a new dress, since clearly you’re in need of one?”

  Why did he seek to knock me off balance by referring to my looks? “I’ve come about a life-and-death matter,” I told him.

  “You’ve angered my wife, that’s certain.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Drugging Henry was not among your duties. But I don’t believe she’ll kill you.”

  “No,” I said.

  “What are your employment prospects?”

  “I haven’t begun to look,” I said. “My urgent need right now is—”

  He stood, put on his reading glasses, and chose a sheet of paper from the desk. Handing it to me, he said, “Read this.”

  I began deciphering the scrawl. “Without further assurances of your intention to pay, Burnham Imports, Incorporated, must cease to—”

  “Excellent.” He took the page back. “That’s as crooked as my penmanship ever gets. I’m guessing yours is neat and accurate?” He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a monogrammed handkerchief from his vest pocket.

  “It had to be. Penmanship was a special consideration at my sc
hool.”

  “Then you can work here. I don’t like typewriters, and I think handwriting presents a better impression overseas. I’ll give you an advance on your pay so you can buy suitable clothing for our offices.” He leveled his eyes with mine. “I’m pleased. We’ll spend more time together.”

  “But—” I blurted.

  He waved a hand to quiet me, then dropped into a chair, pushing his hands outward on his thighs to smooth his linen trousers.

  “No need to object,” he said. “The typewriter is a miserable invention. Until it can produce more than a sentence without the keys jamming, we’ll need someone who can make my notes into presentable correspondence. Your skills will be better than the others here, I imagine, since you were a teacher.”

  “I appreciate thy offer,” I finally said. “I’ll be very pleased to accept it soon. But my baby’s in danger.”

  Before he could respond, a knock came at the door, and a man’s voice informed him of a telegram.

  “I’m occupied,” Albert yelled out. “Come back in half an hour.” To me he said, “What’s happened to the baby?”

  “She was put in the almshouse after a fire destroyed her wet nurse’s home. I need ten dollars to get her out, and I have only eight.”

  “Ah, so you’ve come to me for money.” His face retained its pleasant look but lost some of its luster.

  “I’ll be glad to repay thee with work,” I said. “Once I’ve regained my baby.”

  “But if you had a baby with you, dear Miss de Jong, how could you work in this establishment?” He gestured to the expanse of his elegant office. Leaning closer, he chuckled. “It wouldn’t do.”

  “Of course not.” My shoulders shrank inward. His eyes perused my form from shoes to head.

  “I’m not as clean as I might be.” My face grew hot. “I have nowhere to live.”

  He relaxed his posture in the chair, raised a hand to his chin, and smoothed his lips with his pointer finger. “Well, why not. I may as well offer you another sort of work.”

  In my chest I felt hope unfurling—the hope that some single act would lift me.

  “I’ve been thinking this awhile, Miss de Jong.” He brought his hands together in his lap; the gold of his wedding ring glinted in the aura of the standing lamp beside him. “The best a woman in your circumstances can hope for”—he cleared his throat and continued—“is to be kept by a good man. Don’t you think so?”

  Taken aback, I answered, “I pray that isn’t so.”

  “Oh it is, believe me.” He patted his thighs. “And I could be that man.”

  I noted how Johan’s behavior had cleared the way for another man to consider me an instrument of pleasure.

  Then he told me the terms. Ten dollars now and twenty every month, and I’d live in his small apartment by the Delaware. “It’s a busy neighborhood,” he allowed. “A short walk from here, but less—fussy. All sorts of people.”

  “And what would be my duties?” I asked, hungry for that ten dollars.

  “You’d entertain me when I come by.” He grinned and waved a hand sideways. “Particularly in the summer, when Clementina stays in Germantown.” His manner enlivened as the idea grew. “And why not at the middle of the day, and some evenings the rest of the year, when my wife has plans? I’d give you a small allowance, too, so you could prepare my meals occasionally. Miss de Jong—Lilli, if I may. Your companionship”—and here he lowered his tone—“your close companionship would suit me.”

  I said nothing, but in my face he seemed to read my dismay. He stood and smoothed his cream-colored jacket. “A mere charitable gift would do you no lasting good. A lack of money is not what makes a pauper, but a lack of employment.”

  Apparently he was ignorant of those whose employment pays too little to end their poverty. And his notion of good employment was preposterously self-serving in this case. But I couldn’t dwell on that. “I could keep my baby at this apartment,” I said, confirming.

  “If you must. Would that enable you to accept?”

  “Perhaps. I need to think.” How else could I get money for Blockley and find out if Charlotte lives? I rose from my chair, feeling I had too little air to call upon. My bosoms ached, for I hadn’t released any milk since before dawn, and my hands sought to adjust the corset beneath my bodice. Albert’s eyes followed my efforts.

  “Overfilled?”

  I nodded, embarrassed. “Is there a private room I might use before getting on my way?”

  Rapidly he covered the several steps between us. “I’d like to help you myself.” He lowered his head to stare at my chest and brought his hands to the buttons of my bodice.

  I grabbed his wrists and pulled them back. Evil spoke from within me when I asked, “How much will thee pay?”

  “Two dollars, on the spot.”

  That would give me ten dollars, and my remaining change would pay for the streetcar.

  Without waiting for my answer, he kneeled on the thick Oriental carpet, inclined his head toward my bosom, and gazed upward in a pitifully desirous way.

  Of course I needed to accept. But I was also moved by the lean of his handsome face toward me, his straight-cut hair slanting across his brow, his lips already loose and his tongue showing between them; I was half-enchanted by the complex fragrances the room exuded and the scent rising from his body. All this made me want to touch his head, to feel his warm mouth upon me. I unbuttoned my bodice, unclasped the busk of my corset, and pulled at the bow of my chemise to loosen its neck.

  “All right, but thee must tell no one,” I said. My voice felt thick in my throat.

  “Who would I tell?” His hands pushed mine aside to move the chemise below one swollen breast.

  His big head near my bosom shocked me; I thought of Johan, the only man who’d ever been so close. Something palpable was breaking, as if a stick was snapping in me, or a pact was being torn to pieces and thrown away. Tears sprang to my eyes as I worked to take a breath.

  Then Albert nudged my breast into his mouth. Milk rushed through the ducts and buzzed at my nipples, and both sides began to release their liquid. His lips covered my nipple and the smooth circle around it; his mouth pulled my delicate flesh; the tight muscles all through my body grew easier as he sucked. The milk on the side he wasn’t sucking was wetting my chemise, so I looked about for something to catch it. He didn’t notice, so rapt was he, when I plucked the handkerchief from his vest pocket. The white cloth read ASB in a neatly embroidered script. Clementina had certainly not embroidered those letters; even so, as I used the white muslin to catch my milk, the sound of her angry voice came to mind—“Albert!”

  And there her husband crouched, gulping away at my breast. Though I like nothing about his wife, revulsion swept through me. I pushed his head off, which hurt as his teeth withdrew. He leaned back, licking white from his lips. His eyes stayed closed, his lips half smiling. With clumsy fingers I tied my chemise, fastened my corset, and buttoned my bodice. I ran toward the office door, then remembered my valise.

  As I stepped back to the chairs and reached for it, Albert intercepted my hand gently with his. I felt the damp pillow of his touch. He tucked a dollar between my fingers.

  “For one side,” he said. “Your milk is very fine.” He leaned his head down and forward, aiming to kiss me with his easy lips.

  I wanted to kiss him. Yes, I wanted to abandon my body to his, to feel his fine clothes against me, the press of his suspenders on my ribs, the linen of his suit, the rising of his snake-like part, his capable arms pulling me in and down. I wanted to cleave my mouth to his and dive into those sensations, the very ones that had made me adore Johan. I wanted to let go of my terror over Charlotte, to drink forgetfulness from the river Lethe. As an option for a ruined life, I told myself, being this man’s kept woman would be far from the worst.

  Yet Charlotte was trapped at Blockley, most likely on the brink of death or dead! And I couldn’t accept that consenting to whoredom was the only way to reach her.

&n
bsp; I moved my head to evade his lips. I shoved the dollar into the purse at my neck, grabbed my valise, and slid the bolt open on his office door.

  He didn’t call after me as I tried my best not to run down the stairs. Traveling the high-ceilinged foyer, I kept my eyes to my feet. I rushed by the guard and burst onto the scorching sidewalk.

  Which takes me to this moment. In the shelter of an alley hung with clotheslines, I’m seated on my valise, holding Albert’s handkerchief at my nose. It smells of my milk and his musk.

  Church bells are tolling noon. Mr. Lambert arrives at Blockley at one and leaves at four, and this is the last day of the week when he takes applications. I’m a dollar short, but that won’t stop me. I’ll go find out if Charlotte lives.

  NOTEBOOK EIGHT

  Sixth Month 8

  Swirls of traffic and noise perplex my brain. My eyes droop with exhaustion. Yet I wish to write of how I found my Charlotte—Charlotte!—whose dear diminished weight is propped against me!

  I set off yesterday with determination building in my chest like the heat of a slow coal fire. I crossed the bridge over the Schuylkill River by streetcar, reached and passed through the almshouse gate, and knocked hard at the Children’s Asylum door.

  On entering, I told the young man at the desk that I would tour the foundling department, and if Mary Foundling was my Charlotte, I’d give him nine dollars and change—every cent I had—and take her. He didn’t answer my proposal but merely consulted his ledger.

  “You owe the city ten dollars for Mary’s care and must pay in full.” His flat eyes regarded me. “This isn’t a market where you can bargain, miss.”

  When I retorted that the city would be better off with nine dollars than a failing infant, he gave out a guffaw. I steadied my feet on the floor and yelled. “I’ve spent four days gathering the items you require. Thee will take me to the foundling department. If my baby’s there, she will leave with me today.”