“You still have the manuscript to finish typing,” Sir Arthur said to me in response to his wife’s question. “That will take a week or two.” I nodded. “And I trust you can submit it to my publisher and make any copy edits on my behalf without having to consult me?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You can wire any major changes I may need to consider.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So that gives you about three weeks of work.”
“But that only puts her into August, Arthur,” Lady Phillippa said.
“We’ll call it an even month then. I’ll have your wages arranged to be wired when I get to New York. And of course you can stay at the cottage during that time.”
“What shall I do for the last week or so, sir?” I asked.
“Take that holiday I mentioned.”
“Arthur,” Lady Phillippa said. “Isn’t that being a bit too generous?”
Sir Arthur ignored his wife. “And after that time has expired, I grant you permission to write your own recommendation letter and sign my name.”
“Arthur!” Lady Phillippa objected. “That’s absurd. I know she’s been helpful to you, but you can’t trust—”
“Phillippa,” Sir Arthur said sternly. His wife blushed at the rebuke. I’d only heard Sir Arthur speak to his wife that way once. I was mortified to be the cause of his sharp tone again. “Hattie can be trusted. You’d be wise to remember that while I’m gone.” Lady Phillippa glanced at me, but I couldn’t read her expression.
“Sir?” Logsdon, Sir Arthur’s valet, said as he approached. “Everything’s ready, sir.” Sir Arthur looked at his watch. A whistle blew.
“That’ll be the train. Good-bye, dear,” Sir Arthur said, kissing his wife on her forehead. Drawn by a sudden cacophony of cries, calls, and squawks, I stepped away, in an effort to give the couple a moment of privacy, enthralled by a flock of gulls swooping over refuse dumped from a fishing vessel. One large dark-headed bird, pecking and flapping its wings at any others that came close, was rewarded with a fish head larger than its mouth. As it soared away with its prize, I turned back. Sir Arthur had disappeared into the crowd.
“The luggage is secured and our carriage is waiting, ma’am,” Kyler said.
“Thank you, Kyler,” Lady Phillippa said. Then she turned to me. “If I can trust you, Miss Davish, as my husband says, then I will have you ride with the luggage and ensure its safe arrival.” Before I could respond, she turned on her heel and alighted into the carriage. Miss Kyler sent me a sympathizing glance and then pointed to the wagon where the luggage was loaded.
So much for a vacation, I thought as I watched Lady Phillippa’s Rockaway drive away. I picked up my typewriter and made my way to the wagon. A man, wearing a wide-rimmed, high-crowned, drab-colored soft fur hat, pushing his way forcefully through the crowd, in his determination to get through jabbed his elbow into my shoulder, sending pain through my arm and nearly knocking me down. If my reflexes weren’t to tighten my grip on my typewriter case, I surely would’ve dropped it. Instead, his coat had been open, and as I bent forward to gain my balance one of his brass buttons snagged on the satin trim around my sleeve.
“Oh, pardon me,” he said absentmindedly as he yanked the button free. In that moment I noticed a silver shield-shaped badge on his breast pocket. It read: “Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”
What was a Pinkerton detective doing in Newport? I wondered. Unless he was here for a summer holiday, I couldn’t help remembering the man who had hinted about the telegraph operator strike. Could there be truth to the scruffy-haired man’s rumors? Could the arrival of a Pinkerton detective hours before a rumored strike be mere coincidence? I doubted it. With the deadly conflict at the Homestead steel plant in Pennsylvania between striking workers and Pinkerton detectives a year ago, animosity between the two sides had only increased. The Pinkertons were as anti-strike as ever. Yet at the moment none of that mattered to me. I was already out of sorts after a sleepless, ill-spent night, Sir Arthur’s abrupt departure, and my loss of a stable position, let alone Lady Phillippa’s cool reception to the idea of my remaining in Sir Arthur’s employ and thus in her household for another month. This man’s rude behavior pushed me to my limit. Pinkerton detective or no, his behavior had been inexcusable.
“No, I will not pardon you, sir,” I said. “You—” I looked the man in the eye, fully prepared to chastise him and take my frustrations out on him, when the man began to whistle. I stopped short, my mouth still open. It was him! The man who had thrown the trunk into the ocean. Suddenly the need to distance myself from him outweighed my desire to put him in his place.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” he said.
“No, you must be mistaken,” I said, looking away and waving to the driver of the wagon. The detective shrugged, began whistling “Ode to Joy” again, and continued on down the dock. I straightened my bonnet, brushed my dress, and let out a sigh of relief, but a moment too soon. The Pinkerton man turned around and looked back at me with a puzzled expression on his face. Before he could place me as his witness on the boat, I grabbed my typewriter, stepped quickly to the wagon, and climbed in next to the driver.
“Let’s go,” I said, watching for the man in the crowd. “Lady Phillippa wouldn’t appreciate her luggage being late.”
CHAPTER 3
As the sun began to rise over the gray roofs, green trees, and white church steeples of the town, I looked about me for the first time. Our wagon plodded along, finding its way slowly down Long Wharf past the boatbuilders’ shops, tenement houses, run-down saloons, and sailboat moorings while navigating the heaps of discarded crates, lumber, broken oars, coils of weathered rope, and chunks of metal lying here and there on the wharf. The strong scent of decaying fish and salt water filled the air. As we joined the multitude of wagons, carriages, and carts driving back and forth to accommodate the nearly one thousand passengers who had arrived on our ship, fishermen, sailors, dockworkers, and boatbuilders walked the streets, filled the shops, and plied their trades, calling to one another over the din of seagulls cawing, carriages rattling, and boat whistles blaring. I was overwhelmed and had lost sight of Lady Phillippa’s Rockaway long ago.
We then left the wharf and turned down a main thoroughfare, Thames Street. On one side, the harbor opened up revealing a shining calm blue sea punctuated by docks, wharfs, and slips. And there were boats everywhere. Steamboats, ferryboats, and fishing boats glided back and forth while rowboats and catboats wove their way through the watery alleys between colorful lobster buoys and dozens of anchored yachts with tall white sails reflecting the morning sun. It looked nothing like the choppy dark water I had crossed to get here. Across the street stretched a diversity of buildings of wood shingle, brick, and stone. Butcher shops, hardware and dry goods stores, banks, jewelers, milliners, and fish markets shared the street with homes, some a century old. Here the shades in the shop windows were still drawn, the awnings not yet unfurled. We passed market squares and parks, including one built next to a stately brick building pre-dating the founding of our country.
Eventually we left the shops and clusters of old homes and turned into a neighborhood of wide, well-manicured tree-lined streets and unseen dwellings hidden behind high, thick stone walls. It was quiet—the only sounds I heard were birds chirping, the clomping of horses, and the warm breeze rustling through the leaves. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of the fresh, salty air, and relished the quiet, slow ride. This was more what I had anticipated thinking about visiting the “Queen of Resorts.” I couldn’t rid myself of the anxiety that the sudden shift in my situation created, but here, away from the bustle of town, I could try. With only Sir Arthur’s manuscript to finish and submit, I’d have plenty of time to consider the events of the night and act later.
When we finally turned down Ruggles Avenue, I caught my first glimpse of the cottage Lady Phillippa and Sir Arthur had rented for the Season. Unlike the homes on Bellevue, Narragansett, and the other
residential avenues that were hidden behind walls, the grounds of the Windom-Greenes’ summer cottage were surrounded by a short wrought-iron fence and a well-trimmed hedge that allowed a full view of the house. I gasped at what I saw.
They call this a cottage?
An eclectic mix of stone blocks on the first story and wooden shingles on the second, the “cottage” was a sprawling two-and-a-half-story mansion with multiple chimneys, balconies, verandas, and alcoves under a massive gabled roof punctuated with dormer windows. As we approached the house, we passed Lady Phillippa’s hired Rockaway heading back to the stables. The coachman tipped his hat to the wagon driver, who returned the favor. We passed the main entrance, a recessed porch ornamented by a rainbow of colorful gladiolus, and drove to the back entrance, where we were greeted by a footman, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. He and the driver unloaded the carriage as I stood there uncertain what to do next.
“You Sir Arthur’s secretary?” the footman finally said, without stopping what he was doing.
“Yes,” I said.
“Welcome to Fairview. We’ve been expecting you. Kaarina’s inside. She’ll show you to your room.”
“Thank you . . . ?”
“The name’s Johnny.”
“Johnny? Not John?”
“No, why?”
Should I tell him John might be more appropriate in the presence of Lady Phillippa? That in Virginia Lady Phillippa managed the house in the traditional English way? No “Johnnys” or “Jimmys” allowed. No, I thought. Who was I to say? Maybe Lady Phillippa would be less formal in Newport. I hoped so.
“Never mind,” I said. “Thank you, Johnny.”
The footman shrugged, picking up as many suitcases as he could carry. “Sure.”
“And thank you,” I said to the wagon driver. He tipped his hat and clambered back up onto the wagon and drove away. I picked up my typewriter and as many of my hat boxes as I could carry and went in. A maid, no more than fifteen years old, with a wide smile, despite a chipped front tooth, and wisps of bright red hair escaping from beneath her cap, helped me with my boxes.
“If you’ll follow me, miss,” she said.
She led me up three flights of uncarpeted wooden stairs that were smooth and slippery beneath my shoes. Once I left the brightness of the day outside, my eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the stairwell. With no windows, the only light to guide us came from a lamp positioned on each landing that reflected off the highly polished white tile walls. It’s not as if I’m wearing slippers, I thought as I held tightly to the thin railing. If I was to traverse these stairs for any length of time, I was going to have to get more sensible shoes.
“Has Lady Phillippa sent word for me?” I asked as we arrived on the uppermost floor.
The maid frowned and shook her head. “Only that I was to bring you to your room.”
I nodded and followed her down a long hallway, lit by windows at either end, and into a whitewashed room, set with two wrought-iron beds with simple white linens, a dressing table with a washbasin, and a chair. And nothing else: not a framed picture of a dear parent left behind, not a cutout from a magazine taped to the wall, not a pair of old, comfortable slippers under the bed. The fire had already been banked and the wooden floor was bare. I shivered. I’d never completely dried from my foray on the ship’s deck.
“If you don’t mind, you’ll be sharing with me, miss,” the maid said, blushing. “Washroom’s at the end of the hall to your left.” I simply nodded. I was never one to shy away from a walk, in fact I relished long hikes, but the idea of traversing the entire length of the hall to visit the washroom was simply beyond me right now. I was exhausted. “That’s your bed.” The maid pointed to the one against the far wall. With no place to set up my typewriter, I left it in its case and placed it on the floor next to the bed.
“Thank you for sharing your room, Kaarina. I’m Hattie, by the way,” I said, taking off my shoes.
“Of course, miss. I was so excited when Mrs. Russell told me who the new girl was. I thought it would be a kitchen maid or even a housemaid, but a secretary! I’ve never met a lady typewriter before. You must have lots of learning to be able to work for the master. I want to be a parlormaid myself one day. Maybe—”
“I’m going to try to get a few hours of sleep, Kaarina,” I said, lying down, barely able to keep my eyes open.
“Oh, right. Sleep well, miss.”
Exhausted and cold, I pulled the sheet and cotton blanket over me, not bothering to undress, and fell asleep almost instantly.
“Oh, Hattie,” Lady Phillippa said, putting a letter she’d been reading on the table. “What am I going to do with you?”
I had wondered the same thing since the moment I woke up. I had slept soundly for the few hours afforded me, but I’d been woken up to Kaarina shaking me after I had missed breakfast. She had kindly brought me black coffee, toast with butter, and raspberry jam. As I hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, I ate every bite. After washing up, I spent an hour in our room looking over Sir Arthur’s unfinished manuscript. If I worked diligently and was uninterrupted, I would finish not in the two weeks that Sir Arthur had surmised but in a few days. What then? I would submit the manuscript, which would take a few hours at the most. Sir Arthur had given me a month of wages, but I had less than a week’s worth of work. What would I do? Should I take the holiday that he suggested? It was tempting. Since beginning my career as a lady typewriter and private secretary years ago I could count the number of days I’d taken purely for leisure on my fingers. I had brought my plant press with me and could easily spend weeks hiking the island and collecting new plant specimens for my collection. But then what would Lady Phillippa say? Would she allow me to remain at Fairview while I frittered the days away bathing on the beach and adding to my plant collection? When Kaarina returned to tell me Lady Phillippa wanted to see me, I assumed my questions and musings about taking a holiday had been moot; the lady had already decided my fate.
“Ma’am?” I said, knowing full well what Lady Phillippa was talking about.
“With Sir Arthur gone, you don’t have a purpose in this household now, do you?” Lady Phillippa said.
“I have a few days’ work left on Sir Arthur’s manuscript.”
“Yes, but what then?” Lady Phillippa raised her teacup to her lips and hesitated, looking at me over the rim. I knew a rhetorical question when I heard one and stood silently awaiting her word. “Sir Arthur did mention that you’d be able to write yourself a glowing recommendation letter?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I think it prudent that you do so. I’ll sign it when you’re through.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I wouldn’t be doing you any favors if I allowed time to lag between your assignments.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Questions may be raised as to how you spent that time, don’t you think? Especially if you are under my roof.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good, I’m glad we have come to an understanding.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will arrange to visit an employment agency this morning, if that suits you?”
Lady Phillippa picked up the letter she’d been reading when I arrived. “There’ll be no need to submit to the scrutiny of an agency.”
“Ma’am?” I said, suddenly not understanding her at all. She smiled like a Cheshire cat and waved the letter in her hand. “I think I have a solution that we will both be happy with.” She pointed to the letter. “This came yesterday in anticipation of our arrival. It’s from Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew.” Lady Phillippa said the woman’s name slowly for impact, and for good reason. Sir Arthur and Lady Phillippa may have been British nobility, but Charlotte Mayhew was equivalent to American royalty. Charlotte Mayhew was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in America. Along with Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt, she was purported to be one of Newport society’s grande dames. Her husband was one of the most influential men in the coun
try. Mrs. Mayhew was one of the most influential women in Newport. While working for Sir Arthur and his circle of friends I’d learned that social standing, among other things, was vitally important to this wealthy class. And before we arrived, Miss Kyler and I spent many a mealtime discussing the finer points of Newport society. While other summer resorts attracted multitudes of visitors, some more hospitable, many much closer, none carried the status of Newport. Lady Phillippa, who still had two unmarried sons and hoped to find brides among the title-seeking upper classes of America, would summer nowhere else.
“And,” Lady Phillippa said, hesitating for dramatic effect, “she’s looking to hire you.”
“Me?” I didn’t know what else to say. Why did Charlotte Mayhew want to hire me? How did she even know of my existence? And before yesterday I’d been in Sir Arthur’s employ. I wasn’t even available. Or was she assuming that Sir Arthur would give me up simply because she asked? I had to wonder what he would have done. And I didn’t like the answer that I came up with.
“Well, not you exactly,” Lady Phillippa said. “But a social secretary. The one she had got married and left her without a replacement. Can you imagine? Now she’s in desperate need of help. She always plans a great number of parties, receptions, and the like. She says here that Sir Arthur is known to have employed secretaries of‘the highest quality and reputation’ and would he be willing to hire her out for the Season? She’s talking about you, Hattie. I know, because you’ve spoiled Sir Arthur. He was dissatisfied with every secretary he hired before you, and all of them were men. Now he’ll only work with you.”
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 2