Emily's House

by Amy Belding Brown

  Emily had a habit of coming into a room without making a sound. Many times I chanced to look up and she’d be standing a few feet away, just watching me, and myself having no idea how long she’d been looking. The first time it happened, she was mixing dough at one end of the big worktable while I was chopping meat at the other. I felt a prickle on my cheek, and when I turned, she was staring at me with those great eyes of hers.

  “Are you needing me to be doing something for you now, miss?” I asked. But she shook her head and went back to her measuring and mixing.

  Gave me the shivers, it did, but I got used to it after a while. Didn’t startle every time, knowing it was just Emily’s way. I began talking to her, for it eased the silence of the kitchen. When she didn’t answer, I’d just rattle on. It wasn’t like talking to the air, and it wasn’t like a chat either, but I was glad she didn’t seem to mind, because the truth of it was I liked the company.

  One day I told her about the time I chased a rascally pig across Da’s potato field. She stopped her mixing and laughed. “You’re a wild one, Maggie,” she said. Her laughter was a pleasure to my ears. But I didn’t care for her calling me Maggie.

  “My name’s Margaret, miss,” I said.

  She smiled. “But I’ve decided Maggie is what I shall call you. It’s a fine name—one of my favorites, in fact. I’ve sometimes wished it were my own. Don’t you like it?”

  It was the most she’d said to me at one time and it didn’t seem friendly, in spite of her smiling. I couldn’t think why she’d favor a country name like Maggie. Margaret wasn’t a hard name for Americans to be saying, like some. “Sure, I’d like it well enough if it was my own,” I told her. “But I was born Margaret and have always been called Margaret.”

  She turned out the dough on the board and rolled up her sleeves. “We’ve had other Margarets,” she said. She could have been talking to herself for all the notice she took of me. “But none of them were at all like you. So you must be Maggie.”

  And from that day on at the Homestead I was always Maggie.

  It was Maggie, can you help move this table? Or Maggie, come and see this bird! Or a hundred other requests, but never Margaret, not even from the mouths of the Squire or Mrs. Dickinson. I got used to it, but I can’t say I ever liked it. From the time I was a child, I knew names had meanings—Mam once told me the name Margaret means pearl. She said a pearl’s the only jewel that needs no cutting or polishing. Comes perfect from the hand of God Himself. And I ought to be treasuring myself like one.

  But the name Maggie meant nothing at all.

  Chapter Five

  The first time I came face-to-face with Sue Dickinson, I’d been chopping salt pork and stale bread to make a stuffing. I heard a thump and knew right off it was the door at the back end of the front hall—the one Vinnie was always using when she went out. I knew it wasn’t herself, though, for she and her mother had already gone off to Northampton in the carriage.

  I put down my knife, wiped my hands on my apron, and went to see who it was came in without knocking. Readying myself to be chasing them out. Hurried through the pantry and near bumped into a woman coming down the hall from the parlors. Wearing a cape with a fur collar, she was, and even in the gloom I could see she was handsome.

  “Where’s Emily?” she said. It was more order than question.

  In truth, I wasn’t sure. Likely in her room or the conservatory, since I hadn’t heard her go outside. My brain was jumping— trying to figure who the woman was and what to do with her. Took me a minute to unstick my tongue.

  “If you’ll wait in the parlor, ma’am,” I said, “I’ll find out if Miss Emily is receiving visitors today.”

  She tipped her head back and raised her chin so she was looking down her nose at me. “Don’t be absurd.” She had a sharp, clear voice. “I’ll find her myself. You can go back to wherever you came from.”

  She said it like she was sending me all the way back to Ireland. It was clear she had no use for me—just wanted me out of her way. I squared my shoulders and stepped to block her. I’d see to it she didn’t disturb Emily, whoever she was.

  And just that minute didn’t I hear Emily’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs? The woman pushed past me as Emily came into the hall and the two of them near threw themselves into each other’s arms. “Oh, Sue—you came!” Emily’s voice was full of feeling, as if they were long-lost sisters who hadn’t seen each other in years. And without giving me a glance, Emily whisked her off to the conservatory. Wasn’t till then my brain woke up and I comprehended the woman was Susan Dickinson, married to Austin, Emily’s elder brother.

  Should have known who she was the minute I laid eyes on her. I’d seen her before from a distance, riding along in her carriage and taking the air on the town common. I’d heard about her grand entertainments and how the gentry of Amherst clamored for her invitations. The queen of Amherst society, folks said.

  Seemed quare she and Emily were so attached—they weren’t a bit alike. Sue was elegant and sociable, while Emily was plain and kept to herself. Took me a few weeks before I saw the sense of it. They had the same way of talking about books. And near breathless, the pair of them, when it came to poems. They liked nothing better than whispering together in the shadowy corridor between the dining room and parlors. They even had a name for it—called it the Northwest Passage. Gave it an air of mystery and adventure.

  Never knew what Emily and Sue said to each other, though. They kept their secrets close, those two.

  * * *

  Just when I settled in, there came a day set me back on my heels. It was the middle of March with a warm thread in the air, smelling of a thaw. Spent the morning ironing and I didn’t begin my errands till after dinner. I was hurrying along North Pleasant Street when I spied Fanny Boltwood walking toward me. She was leaning on her husband’s arm and looking weary and sad. I’d heard news her brother was taken sick and maybe dying, so my heart went out to her. I waved and called, “ ’Tis good to be seeing yourself, Mrs. Boltwood. I hope Mr. Shepard’s better. I’ve been saying prayers for him.”

  But Fanny didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me. Nor Mr. Boltwood either. At first I thought they hadn’t heard me. But then they came closer and walked right past, looking straight ahead. My belly clenched like I’d been punched. It was plain as day they were cutting me.

  My pity for Fanny turned to vinegar. I stood in front of the hat shop watching them walk on down the street. A little wind came up, scraping the skin on my face and rocking the shop sign so it creaked. Humiliation covered me like a cloak—I couldn’t even move at first. Then, slow as an old woman, I headed back to the Homestead, though by the time I turned onto Main Street, I could hardly see, the tears were running from my eyes so.

  For days I was filled with sorrow and shame. I wondered how to find out what was wrong. I tried to think what I’d do if I saw them again. But the Boltwoods were scarce as gold in a beggar’s pocket.

  Then one icy afternoon, Mrs. Dickinson bid me carry a basket of cake and jam to the Boltwood house, with a note for Mr. Shepard. Didn’t want to go, surely, and I fretted every step of the way.

  The Boltwoods lived near the College. I went round to the back and found Ellen, their cook, doing the washing up. She was happy to see me—left the dirty dishes soaking, wet the tea, and set out a plate of biscuits to share while we chatted.

  “ ’Tis a surprise seeing you turn up,” she said. “I thought you were in California, likely married by now to a handsome lad with money in his pockets.” Her eyes were sparking, and no wonder. Didn’t every maid dream of finding money and love at the same time? “But here you are, still in Amherst and working for the Dickinsons.”

  “Not for long.” I helped myself to a biscuit. “First of May I’ll be boarding a ship for San Francisco.”

  “Sure, I’m not believing it!” she whispered.

  �
�What’s the chatter here?” The biscuit was tasty, but dry. Not like the sweet little cakes Emily made.

  “Mr. Shepard’s sinking,” she told me. “The mistress is very low—and no wonder. But it makes her a bear to work for. Can’t do a thing to please her these days.”

  I’d nodded and was about to ask if they’d hired a new housekeeper, when footsteps made her bolt out of her chair and busy herself at the cooker. I turned in my own chair to see Mr. Boltwood walking into the kitchen, big as life.

  I knew he saw me. I watched his eyes slick across the room and stop. For just a flash I thought he was going to speak. But he turned his head away and went straight through to the dining room. Never said a word.

  For a minute I didn’t move—it was a shock to be passed over by a man whose house I’d cleaned for years. I got up quick and carried my cup to the sink. “I’d best be going.” My voice had cracks in it. “We’ll finish our chat another time.”

  Ellen nodded but we both knew I wouldn’t be coming back. And when I saw her at the post office three days later, she said Mr. Boltwood told her I wasn’t to step inside the house. “He said you care nothing about his family,” she whispered. Her face was bright red. “Says you’ve betrayed them working for the Dickinsons. Told me I’d best keep my distance from you or they’ll be turning me out.”

  I gave her a hug and told her not to fret. “They’re cross because I have dreams of my own, is all,” I said. “They can’t think past what’s best for themselves—like rich folk everywhere.” But there was a cold stone in the back of my throat.

  * * *

  My troubles with the senior Boltwoods made Clarinda’s letters all the harder to be reading. At the end of March came a flood of them. Letter after letter she wrote, so many Vinnie started noticing and got snippy. Told me I oughtn’t to be getting so much mail—it wasn’t seemly for maids, she said. It struck me maybe she thought they were love notes from a lad. One day, when we were polishing the dining room furniture, I told her there was nothing wicked about the letters—they were from my former mistress in Hartford.

  Vinnie stopped her polishing and looked at me. “You’re planning to leave Amherst,” she said. “You’re going back to Hartford, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not Hartford I’ll be going to,” I said, thinking of Clarinda’s latest note tucked in my pocket. “ ’Tis California. To be joining my brothers.” I wondered if she heard the spark in my voice.

  She stood with her rag hanging in midair. She had the look of a spooked rabbit. “Surely you’re jesting.”

  “I amn’t,” I told her. “Mr. Dickinson already knows.” I saw a smudge on the table and gave it a swipe. “I told him myself when he hired me.”

  Vinnie stood very straight, making herself taller. She looked like her mother, proper as Queen Victoria, with her pretty mouth turned down. “Father never mentioned it,” she said. “And Emily won’t like it.” She dropped her rag and went out of the room, leaving me wondering what Emily had to do with it. The cloth lay where she’d left it, a dirty scrap of gray on the shining table, limp as a dying bird.

  * * *

  In truth, I felt a bit guilty leaving the Dickinsons. I knew good maids were hard to come by. The Squire paid good wages, Mrs. Dickinson was patient with my mistakes, and Emily and Vinnie never carped on my faults. I fretted for a week till I had the clever thought I’d find somebody to replace me. I began asking around. Did anyone know of a hard worker who cooked and cleaned and kept her mouth shut? I finally found a girl in Palmer who’d worked for the Dickinsons before and talked her into taking my place. Felt better after that. All I had to do was tell the Squire.

  Before I got the chance, he sent for me. Vinnie, it was, told me he was waiting in the library.

  “What’s it about, then?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” she said. “Father can be very secretive.”

  A feeling of doom came over me as I hurried down the hall. The door was open and there was himself sitting in his chair behind his grand desk with those lovely books all around.

  “You were wanting to see me, sir?” I stepped into the room.

  He gave me a little smile. A rare thing, that smile, so I thought maybe he’d be telling me some good news

  “Close the door, Maggie, and sit down.” He nodded at the leather chair by the window. Gave me a minute to collect myself before he said, “I’ve been informed that you have plans to relocate to California.”

  “I do, sir.” Made me smile, thinking of it. “You’ll remember I said I’d not be working past April.”

  Even in the dim light I could see his frown coming on. “Unfortunately,” he said, “it seems your plans must be postponed. I received a letter from your brother Thomas today.” He plucked an envelope from his desk and gave it a wave.

  “Tommy?” I couldn’t think why Tommy would be writing to the Squire.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “He asks me to tell you he no longer wants you to join him. The journey is risky and the camps are rife with crime and debauchery. He knows you have a good position here and hopes you will remain with us in Amherst.”

  I tried to follow what he was saying, but the words came to my ears like separate beads on a string, making no sense. I couldn’t believe Tommy wouldn’t be wanting me to go, or that he’d use words like rife or debauchery. I looked at the Squire to see if he was telling the truth. But his face was the same as always—a mask painted over bones.

  “May I see it, sir?” I held out my hand and he leaned across the desk and gave it to me. It was Tommy’s writing on the envelope, to be sure. Reading it, I saw right away the Squire had told me true. Tommy wanted me to stay where I was.

  My insides plunged about as I handed back the letter. I felt feverish and frozen at the same time. God’s truth, it seemed my own brother had betrayed me.

  “Your brother’s advice is sound,” the Squire said, looking down as he folded the letter, pressing the creases with his thumbs. “I trust you’ll take it.”

  “I’ll think on it, sir,” I said.

  “We need you, Maggie.” His voice was gentle. “Surely you know how much we value your work. My daughters sing your praises daily. You’re not at all lazy like so many Irish girls.”

  Maybe he expected me to be proud or flattered by what he said. I searched in my mind for the right words to answer him, but all I found was a blister of hard feeling.

  “ ’Tis not your decision, sir,” I said, “my staying or going. I amn’t a slave, surely.” God’s truth, I was cross.

  He didn’t even blink. He stood up and came around the desk toward me. “Maggie, even if you were to leave, I doubt we could replace you. Certainly not by May.”

  “There’s no need, sir.” It made me uncomfortable, him standing and myself still sitting. “I’ve already found a girl to take my place. One you know, for she’s worked here before.” I told him about the girl from Palmer, how she’d come as soon as she was needed.

  He frowned and made a sound like a horse snorting. “She was here only a few months—two or three at most—and her work was unsatisfactory.” He put his hands together behind his back. “No, she was not satisfactory at all. We won’t hire her again. Mrs. Dickinson made that quite clear when she left.”

  My surprise must have been on my face, for he nodded. “It’s to your credit that you looked for a replacement, but you simply must continue with us. Emily says you’re a treasure.”

  “Miss Emily?” This was a surprise. Emily had never given any hint she was so admiring. I looked at my hands where they lay in my lap. They were red and cracked from the lye soap I’d used that morning to rid the kitchen towels of stains.

  “Indeed, she insists we cannot do without you. And I agree.” He smiled again—then his voice changed, so low and frightful the hairs on my arms stood up. “Perhaps you don’t fully understand your situation, Maggie. Leaving us now would be
a serious mistake on your part. I would not be able to bring myself to look kindly on you—or your family—ever again.”

  “My family?” I said.

  “I daresay Tom Kelley values his job with the railroad,” he said in the same terrible voice. It was like he was dropping stones into a well, each word falling down and down with awful speed.

  I blinked. “You’d not get him sacked, would you, sir?” My ears felt hot.

  “I can’t say what I might do—if I were sufficiently angered.” He turned slowly and went back to his desk and sat down. He set his wrists on the edge of the desk and opened his hands like a priest giving the blessing. “Think carefully, Maggie.”

  I wasn’t sure if the Squire was expecting me to speak. But he seemed to be waiting for something, so I nodded. “I will, sir,” I said.

  “You may go now,” he said, waving his hand and turning back to the papers on his desk.

  I was already standing. I smoothed my apron and tried to keep my legs from shaking as I walked across the room and out the door. The stones he’d dropped were knocking together in the pit of my belly, and I thought I was going to be sick.

  That night I gave the pots such a scrubbing they came shining out of the water without a spot on them. I was going over and over in my mind what the Squire had said, and thinking about corruption and wickedness and power. For months I’d dreamed about California every spare minute. My ticket was already paid for and my traveling clothes bought. I imagined telling himself I’d do what I liked. Made me smile, thinking of it—how his bushy eyebrows would crawl up his forehead and his hard little eyes would widen and the skin around his lips go white.

  It wasn’t till the small hours I climbed the back stairs to my room. God’s truth, I was weary. I unbuttoned my calico and changed into a clean shift. I took my rosary from under my pillow and got down on my knees. And didn’t I feel the Blessed Mother looking down on me with all the pity of the world on her dear face?