House of Rougeaux

by Jenny Jaeckel

  As the weeks went on Eleanor learned to set the incident with Batiste aside; certainly there was so much more to occupy her mind. When not immersed in learning at the Conservatory, Alma and Eleanor, and Sam Higgins, took advantage of their weekends to traverse the city. Sam, who always had his nose in the papers, found countless free events at Madison Square Garden, just blocks away, and in Central Park. They saved carfare by walking everywhere, wearing out their shoes, but learning the city block by block. When they befriended senior students they were invited to parties that often turned into the fiercest of impromptu battles between harps, banjos, guitars, violins, and of course piano. The new students were sometimes dared to show what they could do, and once Eleanor accompanied Alma, whose pure mezzo soprano was already gaining attention, in a new rendition of There is a Balm in Gilead, which earned them whoops and hearty applause.

  She might have forgotten that day with Batiste entirely if not for the fact that in mid-July, her menses weeks late, she began to experience a telltale nausea, and, worse, fatigue. She recalled her mother, early in her pregnancy with Dax, when Eleanor was just a girl, and seeing her run out back from the kitchen when sickness overcame her. Mama had explained that she was alright, soothing Eleanor’s worried brow with her cool hand—it was just the new baby getting comfortable. Now, however much Eleanor still didn’t understand about baby-making, the pieces came together in her mind, leaving her to face the unthinkable.

  Alma again noticed her change in mood.

  “Nora,” she said,“it’s the heat that’s getting to you, is that so?”

  “That must be it,” said Eleanor, trying to smile, “and maybe a bad frankfurter at the Park.”

  “Poor Northern Chickadee,” crooned Alma, wanting to cheer up her friend. “You aren’t used to it, like we are.” By we she meant anyone from the southern states. “And the recital, of course. There’s a whole lot of pressure on us now.”

  * * *

  Excitement and anxiety surrounded the upcoming Summer Recital, the 15th of August, wherein the new students would be vetted and separated into those accepted for further study and those turned away. But Eleanor felt herself slipping away from this hopeful group. If what was happening to her was indeed the thing she dreaded, her future as a serious pianist was about to be snuffed out like a candle. And what would become of the rest of her life? She would be a fallen woman, disgraced and ruined.

  She went to see Batiste. He kept hours at his small office on the top floor after classes on Wednesdays. She waited in the hall, seated on a chair while other students filed in and out, conferring with him on one thing or another, until the last one went and she could hear him gathering his things to leave. She stepped into the office and stood opposite his writing desk.

  “Miss Rougeaux,” he said, looking up, a placid smile drawn on his face.

  “Mr. Batiste,” she began, not knowing how she would reach the end of her sentence, “the day that you and I worked on your composition….”

  “Yes?” he said, seeing her falter.

  “When we, when you and I…” she bit nervously at her lips. “It’s that I am with child now.”

  He stared at her blankly. She felt a wave of nausea and swallowed hard.

  “That’s regrettable,” he said, standing up. He placed a leather briefcase on the desk, pulled a pocket watch from his vest and consulted the hour. “But it’s really no concern of mine.”

  Whatever blood she had left seemed to drain away.

  “No concern,” she wavered.

  “Where you have been, or what you have done with yourself, or what you are going to do, Miss Rougeaux,” his voice was chilling through the smile, “is your business. Do us both the great favor of not bringing it up again.” A touch of menace lingered in his words. Indeed, she had nothing on him. Any complaint she made he could easily deny, and would only bring worse upon herself. He moved past her into the hallway and held the door until she followed. Then he locked the door and strode away.

  She missed classes the next day. It scarcely mattered now. She stayed in her room and Alma worried over her, but she couldn’t speak. The worst had become all too real. Early the next morning, while the other girls still slept, Eleanor found her thoughts pulled to Nocturne in C-sharp minor, by Chopin, the piece she was to play at the recital. Her fingers itched. She badly wanted to play. She rose soundlessly and made her way to the Conservatory. Practice rooms were open before the start of morning classes and she found an empty one. She sat at the bench of her favorite piano, all gleaming black wood and a gorgeous sound. No sheet music sat on the music stand; she didn’t need it. Instead she saw the traces of her reflection in the piano’s lacquer finish, as if she were a ghost contained inside. Maybe that’s just what I am, she thought, a ghost.

  Eleanor warmed her fingers, her wrists, her shoulders, flew through her scales and arpeggios and dove into the Nocturne. If playing this piece at the recital was to be her farewell performance, then she would play it for all she was worth.

  * * *

  August the 15th arrived and Eleanor passed the day as if in a trance. She did not participate in the nervous chatter, in the murmurs of encouragement amongst her peers. When her turn came she stepped up onto the stage and nodded to Mrs. Jeannette Thurber and the Board, stationed at a long table on the side opposite a baby grand.

  Eleanor began to play. Her fingers stretched and ran over the keys. There was no audience, no Board, she was conscious only of the music flowing between herself and the piano. Every note danced in her heart, and she rose and fell together with the melody.

  When she finished there was a silence, deep and eternal. She closed her eyes.

  And then applause, like ocean waves crashing.

  Jeannette Thurber stood clapping, with a white handkerchief clutched in one hand, and then crossed the stage, dabbing at her eyes. She gripped Eleanor by the shoulders.

  “How far you’ve come, my dear, and in such a short time,” she said, in a voice only Eleanor could hear. “Players like you are the reason for all my work. You are my reward. It will be an honor to see where you go from here.” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Eleanor’s cheek.

  The next day the newly selected students received their official letters of invitation to the Conservatory. Alma Cole and Sam Higgins were among them. A celebratory gathering was planned for the evening at a nearby restaurant. Eleanor didn’t go. She tucked her official letter into her valise with her other things, left a note for Alma at the Vance, and made her way to Grand Central Station. She didn’t say goodbye.

  * * *

  Eleanor’s train arrived late in Montreal. It was getting dark, but the street lamps were lit and there were a few last traces of light in the sky. She was tired and had to sit down several times to catch her breath. At last she arrived at her own street. She passed the saddlery shop and stepped up to her front door, where all the windows were dark. Eleanor bit her lip and rapped with the brass knocker, shaking with mortal fear at what might come next. There was nothing at first, then the faint sound of stirrings from upstairs. There was a glow in the foyer, as someone was carrying a candle, then she heard the door unlatch, and Papa’s face appeared.

  “Chère,” he whispered, “my Heavens, it’s you. Come in!” He took up her valise and set it inside. Auntie came down the stairs in her nightdress and embraced her. She took Eleanor’s face in her hands and looked at her intently. There was no hiding anything from Auntie. She’d have to come out with it right then and there.

  “Come sit down,” Auntie said. They all went into the parlor and Auntie lit one of the lamps. There were more footsteps on the stairs. Melody appeared with sleepy eyes that leapt wide awake when she saw Eleanor, and threw her arms around her. Auntie asked Melody to please warm a mug of milk.

  “What have you to say, child?” Auntie said gently.

  Eleanor’s voice shook. “I did a terrible thing,” she managed, “and I’m sorry for it, but it’s too late now.”

  Papa
was alarmed, but kept his voice low. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Is anyone hurt?”

  She couldn’t look at him as she said the awful words, “I believe I’m having a baby.”

  Papa stood up and crossed the room. Eleanor was suddenly terrified he would walk out the door, that he would leave and never speak to her again, but he only went to the window. The women waited in silence. Melody returned with the milk and sat silently beside Eleanor on the sofa. Finally, Papa turned and sat back down in the chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and gripped his hands together. He would not press her for any more details than necessary.

  “Will the father take responsibility?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I wouldn’t want him to anyway,” she said.

  “What about the child? Do you want the child?”

  The truth was she did not. All she had now was the truth.

  “No,” she said.

  Melody put her hands over her face and hunched forward. Eleanor could hear her stifled sobs. They were all quiet a good while, and then Auntie spoke.

  “Ross and Mathilde will keep the baby,” she said, as if she had just come from conferring with Eleanor’s older brother and his wife. “He’ll be an orphan and no one will know from where.” She looked at Eleanor. “Child, you will have to go away.” Now Melody’s sobs were audible.

  “Now, now,” Papa said, “Josie, please. Nothing needs deciding now.”

  But Eleanor had decided already. And what Auntie said was true. This would be the only way for the baby to both stay in the family and avoid the stain of illegitimacy. Ross and Tilly were the most likely choice, if they were indeed willing, as they had only one child, nearly weaning age, while the others in the family either had more or were unmarried. And Eleanor could not go away and then reappear at the same time as the baby.

  Eleanor looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said again. What inadequate words for what she had done, for what would be required to go forward. The child would have to be provided for. If Eleanor went away to live somewhere else that would also cost. And then there were the untruths her whole family would have to support. That in itself was inexcusable.

  Papa and Auntie looked at each other, and Papa ran his hands over his head. He always did so when he wished to clear his mind. “Every family has its secrets,” he said.

  “And that’s our business only,” said Auntie. She stood and beckoned the rest to do the same, declaring with the gesture that their meeting was finished. “You are tired,” she said to Eleanor. “You need your rest.” And then she added, “The Holy One doesn’t make mistakes.”

  Eleanor and her sister and brothers had heard this refrain from Auntie countless times, but now it struck her ears with some thunder. Even this? Auntie read her face. “Yes, chère,” she said, “even this.”

  * * *

  Ross and Tilly came to the house the next evening, and sat drinking coffee with Papa in the kitchen. Auntie thought it best to let them discuss it alone, and kept the girls busy upstairs sorting scrap cloth to make baby clothes. Dax she sent out to do some chores in the stables. They heard Papa at the foot of the stairs.

  “Josie, bring Eleanor down, would you?”

  Eleanor rose and Melody squeezed her hand.

  Down in the kitchen Ross and Tilly’s little girl Sarai toddled over to her and Auntie, clutching at their skirts. Eleanor reached down to hold her tiny hands. She couldn’t look at her brother or sister-in-law.

  “We’ll take the baby in, El,” Ross said. She glanced up at Tilly, but her sister-in-law had turned her face away. She and Mathilde had never been close.

  “Thank you Ross,” she managed, “thank you Tilly.”

  Mathilde looked at her with a face composed but edged in anger. She was not pleased at all.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Eleanor promised desperately.

  Ross looked from his wife to his sister.

  “Take Sarai,” he said to his wife. When she had left with the child he turned to Eleanor. “She’ll come around,” he said. “Sarai had a bad croup when you were away, it was hard on Tilly.” He looked at their father. “Deliveries in the morning, I’ll be there early.” He meant the shop next door, and that he would take everything in stride, two things that made Papa proud.

  * * *

  Eleanor had inherited something of her father’s broad frame, and her mother’s curves, features that readily hid some extra weight. As October deepened into November, heavy coats concealed her growing belly that now strained at the buttons of her dresses. Auntie Josephine, with Eleanor and Melody’s help, widened her coats, saying they could be taken in again later. Eleanor wrote to the Conservatory to say that she would gratefully accept their invitation, but that she must wait until after the winter holidays. When the letter came from the Conservatory to say they would expect her at classes March 1st, Eleanor sensed that she had been granted a reprieve straight from Heaven. She had the equal sense that she must never take it lightly or make such a grave error again. Any sign of frivolity on her part would send down a judgment both swift and harsh. A second chance was in her hands, a third chance would never come.

  Papa engaged in a discreet search for a place where Eleanor could go, a place with someone who was known well enough but who could also provide her an anonymous existence. Mr. Hathaway, Papa’s English friend whom the children had come to regard as an uncle, knew such a person. Mrs. Isabelle Delaney had been his housekeeper years ago in Toronto. He sent a letter to her and she wrote back to say she could receive Eleanor, and that she knew a midwife in the area who could assist when the time came. And so it was arranged. At such times as anyone inquired, Eleanor had returned to the Conservatory to continue her studies. There had been an opening and to secure it she’d had to leave without saying goodbye to anyone but the immediate family.

  The day of her leaving Ross came again, and Albert with his family. Eleanor’s other brother Jonty had work and had said goodbye the night before. Dax was a big chap of eleven years old now, but still he hugged her as he always had, and Melody kept close, helping her with everything, even when she didn’t need it. Mr. Hathaway came too, bearing a rectangular parcel under his arm, wrapped in paper and about the size of one of Papa’s ledgers. He gave the parcel to Eleanor, saying it was an early Christmas present. Papa gave her a fine new valise from the shop and Auntie oversaw all preparations. She asked Papa if he would take her alone to the station. When night began to fall it was time to go.

  It had snowed two days before but the roads were clear enough and the buggy rolled smoothly behind their horse. They were quiet most of the way. The wheels of the buggy crunched softly over bits of snow, and the horse blew out through his lips now and again, resigned or satisfied or hungry, or whatever it was that made horses do that. A horse’s life was simple at least. Eleanor kept a hand on the valise, feeling as if the weight of it lay heavily on her chest. She didn’t deserve presents, she knew that. A question burned in her throat.

  “Papa,” she said, feeling terror steal over her again, “would Mama have been ashamed of me?”

  He thought a long moment.

  “No, chère,” he said at last. “I don’t believe so.” He recalled to her when Jonty once hit his head on the pump, jumping down off the fence. Mama was furious. She heard Jonty, all of eight or nine years old, howling in the yard, and shouted Damn you! She marched him inside to bandage him up, then she sent him to bed. Once the floor and clothing were cleaned up and supper was ready she left everyone downstairs and took a bowl of soup up for him. He could have fed himself, he wasn’t so bad off, but she gave him the soup spoonful by spoonful. Then she made him lie down and lay right beside him, singing his favorite lullabies until he went off to sleep. That was Mama whatever the case. She forgave her children everything.

  * * *

  Papa helped Eleanor find a seat on the train, near to another family should something be needed. He tucked the valise against the wall and gave her the woolen blanket from th
e buggy. Having been on trains and in New York gave Eleanor a piece of confidence in her ability to travel alone, and this, despite everything, laced the sorrow of parting with a thread of adventure. She hugged Papa as she had when she was little.

  “Write as soon as you can,” he said.

  The train sped into the night and she was alone. The woolen buggy blanket, familiar in its blue and green plaid, kept her warm. She thought of Mama, and hummed all the lullabies she would have wanted to hear her sing, until she fell asleep.

  She arrived in Toronto at first light, bleary-eyed from a fitful sleep, and feeling as though she were emerging from a long, dark tunnel. The hours-long stops in Ottawa and Kingston had seemed like cold, silent places underground, threaded through with strange dreams. Stumbling down onto the platform with her valise she searched among the loose crowds of people. Mrs. Delaney’s daughter, called by the strange name of Maxis, was meant to meet her. Some distance away she spotted a tall, black-clad figure who stood alone and carried no luggage. As she approached she saw it was a woman with an impassive, and somewhat mannish looking, middle-aged face. The eyes lit upon Eleanor with recognition.

  “Miss Rougeaux?” she spoke in a throaty voice.

  “Miss Delaney, hello.” Eleanor put out her gloved hand. Maxis Delaney did not return the gesture. The older woman’s eyes lingered over Eleanor.

  “This way,” she said finally, and turned to walk in the direction of the grand entrance.

  Downtown Toronto at a first glance, was not wholly unlike New York. They caught a streetcar and then had several blocks to walk to the Delaney residence. Maxis trudged forward, leading with her shoulders, unconcerned when Eleanor, struggling with the valise and the weight of the pregnancy, lagged behind. At last Maxis stopped at a small, street-level door and brought out a key. They entered an equally narrow hallway and went up a flight of stairs to another door, where Maxis rang a bell by pulling a cord. Eleanor heard movements and shuffling footsteps and then the door opened upon the elderly Mrs. Delaney, who was small with white hair, and dressed in gray woolens that matched her eyes. Her face crinkled in a timid smile, a relief to Eleanor after the initial Maxis encounter. Mrs. Delaney brought them into the kitchen, gave them tea and asked Eleanor about her journey, and how Mr. Hathaway was getting on.