by Mary Volmer
“I’m not . . .”
“Course you are, deary. Can’t say as I pity her over much, but it’s the truth, God’s own. Miss Rose is the only thing in the world between that girl and the Wayward Home. Now me, now I never did understand people what treat their own misfortunes as license for nastiness, but—”
Lizzette, quietly scowling all this time, pushed her coffee cup away. “Let’s see it, then. Let’s see this charm of yours.”
All four huddled close and I couldn’t very well say no. Lizzette’s lips pursed. She sat back, arms crossed over her broad chest.
“Listen, sweetheart,” she said with no sweetness. “One little necklace don’t make you his girl.”
“Anyone ever give you a necklace, Lizzette?” asked Nettle.
“No need, is there?” said Alby. “Spread your legs for a—”
“I’m saying,” said Lizzette, “that man a gentleman to ladies, maybe, but you wouldn’t be the f irst candle he dipped his wick into, believe you me. Only one reason a grown man gives a girl like you something like that.”
“And I’m saying better keep your own knickers on, deary, or—”
“You go to hell, Alby!”
“Just pissy, you are,” said Alby. “Caught her Tom with another kitten last night. That’s right, idn’t it?”
“Alby!”
Everyone, even Nettle, stood up to f ind Mrs. Hardrow in the doorway, arms crossed like Saint Peter at the gate, her one-word admonishment so strong, Lizzette didn’t even think to gloat. All business, bearing no trace of the night’s trials, Mrs. Hardrow gave the breakfast order and many more besides. The reverend would be leaving at nine, the senator and his wife would stay for lunch with Madame Molineaux. Mr. Clemens would depart for Saint Louis on Sunday with Mr. Stark.
My ears pricked up. I’d thought William left the night before. I didn’t care what Lizzette said about him. What did she know? Anyway, my affection had nothing, or at least much less, to do with his wick than she thought. The love I coveted? Well, it was made of chaste kisses, of secrets and gestures and declarations. Besides, I’d seen Lizzette with Tom; I’d watched what Mama did with backroom men, and it wasn’t love. Not by my account. That was rutting, pure and simple.
Lizzette and Susan bobbed with the precision Hardrow’s tone demanded and hurried away. Alby excused herself to the scullery. Even the big gray cat scuttled off my lap into the hall, leaving me alone under Hardrow’s scrutiny. Miss Rose’s secret, cool as an unspent penny in my pocket, felt heavy now under her wooden stare. I waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, I said, “Mrs. Hardrow,” with as much gravity as I could muster. “Mrs. Hardrow. I just want you to know. I want you to know I can keep a secret.”
I admit I didn’t expect much, but did expect some response to what I felt to be a noble declaration. Instead, Mrs. Hardrow turned and left without a word.
Miss Rose was occupied all morning with her visitors. Mrs. French’s ankle had swelled enough in the night to conf ine her to her quarters. Violet begged ill. So I took my headache to the library, collapsed into Mrs. French’s favorite armchair with a book but merely stared at the pages. Only my legs, propped on a little leather stool, were visible from the door; nonetheless, Susan found me there.
“Oh, here she is, Mr. Stark.” My feet thumped to the floor. Peering around the upholstered back, I found Susan beaming over William’s shoulder.
“Maddy,” said William. He glanced at Susan, who had found the bookshelves in urgent need of a dusting. “Walk with me,” he said.
He looked more himself in rumpled clothes. Stubble darkened his cheeks, and as he stepped from the conservatory’s loamy warmth to the frosted grass, he caught his breath. The cold air felt rough as new linen. Here and there branches littered the ground, but patches of blue sky showing through the clouds looked scoured clean.
“I thought you went back last night,” I said trying to sound light. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know what he wanted to talk about. I just didn’t think we’d talk so soon, and was not at all sure the turn it would take. I hadn’t known he’d given the dead woman the necklace when I took it. Knowing wouldn’t have stopped me, but still, this is what I would tell him. Anyway, what was he doing, giving an Irish girl a necklace in the f irst place? His mother’s necklace.
Unless he cared for her more, maybe much more, than he admitted?
Unless he loved her.
“Mrs. Madrigal locks the boardinghouse at ten,” said William. “I slept, tried to sleep, in the parlor.”
“Guess you heard Old Man, then. He’s not like that all the time. Mrs. Nettle says it’s no wonder he had a fright last night with all the spirits loosed in the house. She says with one leg in the grave, he’s more likely to see spirits gone before him.”
“Mrs. Nettle?”
“The cook.”
William nodded. I wished he’d come out with it, but he seemed nervous, not the cracked but the cautious kind, and didn’t say anything more until we’d wound through the topiary and were sitting close, thrillingly close, shoulder to shoulder on a stone bench among the roses.
“You gave it to her, didn’t you?” I said f inally. “To Aileen.”
“And you stole it.”
“I didn’t.” My hand found the charm beneath my blouse. “I mean, I did. But I—”
“I gave it to her,” said William; a jealous flutter lit my gut.
“But. But William, it wasn’t like you said last night. She wasn’t all alone. Her family, her daddy at least, lived in the Patch. I’ve seen where he . . .”
“Family or no, Maddy, she was alone. I’ve said too much. I can’t say more except that I did what I could for her. Tried to do what I could, but she . . . God!” he said, wrenching himself upright, blocking the sun. I couldn’t breathe. Those were tears in his voice; he raked his hands through his hair. “God, what a fool I was!”
He had loved her! I knew he loved her. And all at once I knew the answer to the question he’d asked me on his crazy day last week in the photo shop. Thursday wasn’t the answer. Not the answer he’d been looking for. Last Thursday had been a year to the day since we’d found Aileen dead in the river. Oh, William!
He was pacing, upsetting birds flitting through the undergrowth, and then just stood there, looking at me, thinking what, I didn’t know, for now he bent to his knees beside me, taking my hands into his own.
“Maddy. Listen.” He blew warm air into my palms, closed them as you would a book. “I can’t say more,” he said softly. “I would if I could. I can’t. And Maddy?”
He raised my chin, his pleading eyes so hard and dark. His thumb caressed the back of my stained hand, then moved from my hand to my cheek, his lips inches from my own, and I felt a heavy warmth, not altogether pleasant, deep in my belly.
“I need to know I can trust you to be silent about this. You said I gave you the charm. Fine, okay. I gave it to you. That’s the end of it. Yes?” he said. “Maddy?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Oh, Maddy. Maddy, that’s my girl. My dear apparition.”
Then he bent, kissed me flat on the forehead, and walked away.
He kissed me, I thought doggedly, watching him go. He loves me. If he loved Aileen, who was Irish and Catholic—which might even be worse than ugly—if he loved her, then why couldn’t William love me? Maybe already loves me, I thought, clutching that necklace tight as a noose around my neck.
So distracted was I by these ruminations, I had all but forgotten Miss Rose’s bald head until Susan fetched me to her off ice later that afternoon. Susan left and closed the door; the curtains gaped, then settled and the room, even with those mirrors reflecting each small movement, felt so uncommonly still, I hardly dared to breathe. My eyes locked on Miss Rose, who remained consumed with some object, a book of some sort, open on her desk.
Gone was the
old bald woman, helpless in the shadows of the sickroom. In her place stood Miss Rose in a royal blue frock, white bustle, white lace dressing the seams. Luxurious brown curls, pulled into a loose chignon, framed her high cheekbones and stately nose.
Of course, I knew my mark to be an order of ugly beyond a bald head, but the revelation of her appearance or, more to the point, of her daily transformation, struck me giddy with curiosity—and hope. Even from where I stood across the room, I could see what I had not seen before, that the color of her cheeks had been painted on, the half-moon shadows beneath her eyes, powdered over. How many wigs did she have? Would she show them to me?
Entranced as I was, I did not consider what so enthralled her until she looked up, and my eyes fell to the desktop. Yes, it was a book.
No. A scrapbook. My scrapbook. A high voiceless sound squeezed from my throat.
“Oh, Madelyn,” said Miss Rose, a vision of nonchalance.
How did she? Violet. But when? Last night sometime? This morning. This morning while Lipman was with Old Man. Pleaded illness and snuck upstairs and picked through my things and stole my . . . !
“It seems,” said Miss Rose. “That I have some business with Mr. Dryfus this morning.” She tucked my scrapbook into her handbag. “Why don’t you accompany me?”
23
After William’s kiss, I’d felt as tall as an oak, but this turn had shrunk me to a spiny shrub beside Miss Rose in the hansom. It was dark inside, the curtains drawn against the cold, and her scent, lavender and rosewater, no less than her layered skirts, f illed the cabin. With each bump in the road, I thought I might be sick again. Thought maybe I should be sick again.
How much of my scrapbook had she picked through? How much had Violet seen? How much could they know? Each trinket in that collection of odds and ends had a story to tell me, but I wouldn’t have thought they’d mean much to anyone else. Besides some silly poems and those letters to William, I had written down very little. Even so, a quick survey of the pages would reveal two glaring secrets: my infatuation with William, of course, but worse, Mama’s and my true relation to each other.
What was Miss Rose going to do? Expose us? Why? Because I’d seen her without her wig? Mama would blame me. Would Mr. Dryfus cast her out? And what about Little John? And how could Violet—!
Doing poorly was she? Snuck upstairs, is what she did, picked through my things and stole my scrapbook. Vile, vile Vi-oh-let. Satisfying fantasies of violence bolstered me only until the hansom jerked to a halt before the print shop.
“Miss Rose, I won’t. I’m not going to say anything about your . . . about . . .”
“About what?” The muscular authority of her voice shaking the curtain.
Your lumpy bald head! I almost said. Your old, ugly, lumpy, bald head! But said nothing, for she was, with Cyrus’s help, climbing down. I sat there in the hansom, unsure. While it’s true that part of me wanted nothing more than for Mama to stand accountable for our lies, another, larger part was frantically concocting some explanation.
I climbed down after Miss Rose. Inside, no one was minding the counter. The high, pained bleat of Little John’s cries, surging from the kitchen, was our only greeting apart from the scent of coffee and sauerkraut permeating the place. The Washington Press was thump, thump, thumping, which meant Hanley was in the composition room. Maybe, I thought, maybe Mr. Dryfus was out? But Miss Rose, knocking and opening his off ice door in the same motion, proved this hope false.
“I may be some time,” she said, cool as you please, and, stepping into the other room, closed the door on me.
My heart beat a dozen times for every shuddering thump of the press. Then I heard the kitchen door open, Mama’s voice and Little John’s cries soften, and the thin thread holding me back snapped. I burst into the off ice to f ind Miss Rose staring down on Mr. Dryfus, behind his desk.
“Mr. Dryfus,” I blurted, having little notion what I would say until I heard myself saying: “It’s my fault, Mr. Dryfus. My—”
“Madelyn!” said Miss Rose.
“Fault?” said Mr. Dryfus.
“It was Madelyn’s idea,” Miss Rose cut in, which left Dryfus and me both fairly baffled. “To approach you f irst about the printed matter for our Nativity play. Wasn’t it, Madelyn?” Her painted eyebrows arched and flattened. “You were right,” she said. “Mr. Dryfus is not one to be deterred by Mr. Stockwell’s silly petition against my theater, are you, Mr. Dryfus? Not with the prof it he shall make.” She paused. “And the service which we shall render the community, of course. A glorious beginning to a glorious new season in the arts!”
Mr. Dryfus, looking resigned and weary, made no sign of having endured any greater revelation than this.
“Now,” said Miss Rose, turning forcefully my direction. “Go visit your sister, Madelyn. While Mr. Dryfus and I discuss terms.”
As I closed the off ice door, the numb relief I felt passed to confusion and then to a kind of impotent and resentful gratitude, which marks so many of my memories of Miss Rose. Why would she bring me, if not to tell? Why make me think she would tell? I was all tangled up, and Mama coming down the hall with a gnashing, crying Little John didn’t straighten me any. Her eyes found mine. She stopped short, holding Little John so close that my heart became an empty open hand within me. A kind word, Mama. Please. Any tenderness at all would do. I gladly would have rushed over, laid claim, and hugged tight the both of them, but the invitation flickering across her face vanished.
“Well,” she said instead, “if it ain’t the educated lady.” The hurt in her voice as much as the venom stung me.
“What’s wrong with him?” I didn’t know what else to say. In the dim hallway light, Mama looked haggard and disheveled in a way I’d never seen. Her face bony, her eyes weary, her hair unkempt. The shop was a mess, too, I realized, dust and paper everywhere, the coal scuttle empty. Little John whimpered, hushed.
“You care?” Mama scoffed. “Don’t care a lick about us when you’re up there in the manor, do you? Don’t visit. Don’t even think of me and all the work you left behind, do you? No sense pretending you care now.”
She might have said more, but the study door opened to the swish of Miss Rose’s skirts. I stood for a long, harrowing moment, caught between them, until Miss Rose broke the rasping silence.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Dryfus.”
Without a word, Mama turned and walked back into the kitchen, taking with her a part of my heart, not to mention any sacrif icial impulse I suffered on her behalf. Not knowing what else to do, I followed Miss Rose out the door and into the hansom. I turned my back to her, stared hard at the bright fragments of town passing through cracks in the curtain, determined to think nothing, to feel nothing, to rise out of myself and look down until I appeared from above as small as I felt. And I would not cry, I would not.
“Madelyn.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “It wasn’t my idea to come here, or to lie or—”
“It wasn’t her fault, either. Madelyn, listen.”
“No!”
No one said “no” to Miss Rose. She sat upright, straight and still. Be sorry, I thought, but I wasn’t and couldn’t bring myself to say so.
“Why’d you bring me with you if you weren’t going to tell?”
“What options did your mother have, Madelyn? What?” And then she paused as if choosing a word from a shelf. “Assets?”
“Assets?”
“Skills, Madelyn. Skills rendered for a price. What assets beyond her beauty, her sexual labor. Her maternal labor?”
“Don’t talk about Mama like that.”
“Like . . . ?”
“Like that! Like you know. What do you know? You don’t know anything! Rich lady like you with your big house and your dresses and your”—I took a mighty breath—“your wigs! You don’t know!”
And before I knew it,
I was telling her everything: about Landis Wilcox and the big white house, about the day I was born, and the day Mama returned. About Dot, the garden, the goats, and the backroom men. About John and his wife and the ad in the Matrimonial Times. By the time I was done, we’d crested the manor drive and jostled to halt beside the fountain; I was gutted, breathless, horrif ied. The horse, a piebald gelding, whinnied hello to the barn; blackbirds trilled from the hedges. The carriage gave as Cyrus jumped down. He opened the door and Miss Rose, silent for the longest stretch I’d known, pulled it closed again.
“And the baby?” she said. “He looks nothing like his father.”
“Yes he does,” I said, though I’m pretty sure she suspected this.
Briefly, ever so briefly, I felt the weight of my past lift as far as the low cabin ceiling, only to settle again heavier. What was I thinking, telling her all this? Now, in the aftermath of this traitorous lapse, I saw all of us—me, Mama, Little John, even Mr. Dryfus, who loved Little John as his own son—huddled small as mice in the palm of Miss Rose’s hand. And the secret I held in exchange (one old, bald head) seemed awfully wet powder by comparison.
After an agonizing silence, she spoke again, low, almost a whisper.
“And do you think, do you really think, your mother would have chosen that life for herself ? For you? You think she had a choice? Oh, that poor brave girl.”
Through a crack in the curtain, I could see Robert, the butler, standing nervously by the carriage to see what the matter could be.
“Miss Rose. You can’t—”
“Oh, I could, Madelyn.” She stood ablaze in the glare of the open door looking down at me. “We’ve already established how easily I could. But would I? Why would I tell? Think, Madelyn.” She tapped her temple. “What purpose would that serve?”
“Miss?” said the butler. “Mrs. Wiltshire from the Lady’s Auxiliary is waiting. She says . . .”
“Fine, yes.” She waved him away. “It seems to me, Madelyn.” Digging in her satchel, she handed me my scrapbook. “It seems to me we both hold secrets the other would rather keep secret.”