by Nancy Moser
Frieda smacked the brush against her palm. More than once. Then she said, “I know I’ve always taken on the role of governess, and I don’t mind taking care of Nelly. What I object to is your ignoring her all last evening.”
“I know,” Josephine said. “I was wrong.”
Frieda looked surprised at the confession, but she still had more to say. “Nelly is not a piece of luggage to be unpacked and set aside.”
“I know that too. I have already made amends and promised her we would do something fun today.”
“You did? When?”
“Last night before I went to bed.”
“Oh. Well then.”
Since they were on the subject . . . “Yesterday I was so overwhelmed, dealing with Mother’s rudeness and the tension of being home.”
“What did she say about Nelly? What did you say?” Frieda leaned close. “Did you tell her where she’d been living?”
“We simply said she was an orphan.”
Frieda sighed. “Good.”
“For now, at least.”
Frieda made a turn-around motion, and Josephine returned to her place, facing the mirror. “So where are you two taking her today?”
“We two?”
Frieda pointed the brush at Josephine’s reflection. “Hudson isn’t a piece of luggage either.”
No, indeed, he was not.
“I thought I would show them some of the city.”
“That takes care of today, but what about tomorrow and the next day? What are you going to do with her? And him?”
“Hudson will be wanting to head back. His assignment is complete.”
“This was not just an assignment for him. That’s clear to anyone with eyes and ears.”
There was no use denying it. “Nelly and Hudson. What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Perhaps you should ask them what they would like to do.”
That was an option. And yet, “What if I don’t like their answers?”
Frieda raised her hands and gazed toward heaven. “God? Are You listening to this? Make sure these three very confused people do what’s right, for everyone’s sake. And Yours.”
Amen.
They sat at the breakfast table, waiting. Josephine saw Nelly eyeing the scones. The smell of eggs and bacon coming from the chafing dishes on the buffet was intoxicating.
“Do you think Mother’s coming down?” Josephine asked Aunt Bernice.
Aunt glanced toward the stairs. “You know she rarely misses a meal . . . except if she decides to be indisposed.”
“Decides to be?” Hudson asked.
“She has frequent . . . ailments.”
“Has a doctor been called?”
“They see nothing wrong.” Aunt leaned toward him and whispered, “I think she gets bored.”
“So is she bored this morning?” Josephine asked. “The food is getting cold.”
Aunt nodded, then lifted her arm. “Dowd, please serve. And start with Miss Nelly.”
“What is this?” Nelly asked, holding up the hoop and the stick.
“It is a game my brother and cousin used to play,” Josephine said. She tried to demonstrate on the marble floor in the foyer. “You balance the metal hoop upright, then roll it forward with the stick.” She tried to do it, but the hoop fell to the floor with a rattle.
“Here,” Hudson said. “Let’s go outside, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“So you are an expert?”
He smiled at her. “I believe I am.”
“This, I must see.” She followed them outside, where Hudson soon had the hoop rolling down the walk at a tremendous speed. Nelly ran beside him, her long hair flying, her laughter returning with the breeze.
It was quite a sight seeing the little girl in one of Josephine’s childhood dresses, running alongside the grown man wearing a rawhide vest and Stetson, in upscale Washington. A well-dressed couple was forced to step out of the way. When they approached, Josephine nodded. “Good morning.”
They responded politely, but as soon as they passed, Josephine ran in the direction of the fun. By the time she caught up, Nelly was taking her own try at it—quite successfully. “Stop at the end of the street!” Josephine called after her.
“She’s a quick study,” Hudson said, a bit out of breath.
“You are a good teacher. Did you and your brothers play this often?”
“Not often enough. We didn’t have much free time as we worked in the cotton mill for twelve hours a day, six days a week.” He held up a hand, his fingers splayed. “Believe it or not, these fingers used to be small enough to fit into the small crannies of the weaving machines to fix them. Me and my best friend, Andrew Carnegie, nearly got them cut off a few times, but—”
“You worked in a factory as a child?”
“I started out when I was only seven. Andrew and I were bobbin boys for a dollar a month.”
Josephine thought about the dollars she spent on trinkets without a second thought.
“There was a gentleman in town, Colonel Anderson, who owned hundreds of books. But on Sundays, he let us boys borrow them. We lived for Sundays.”
“And your family still works at the mill?”
“My father worked his way to supervisor. My brother Ezra works there too. And Sarah Ann’s been a spinner for years.”
They shared an awkward silence. Then Hudson looked down the street, toward Nelly. “We’d best catch up with her. I have more I can teach her.”
And me.
After their outing with the hoop and stick and some time spent at a nearby park, Hudson waited in the parlor while Josie helped attend Nelly’s fresh wounds.
While trying to toss pebbles through the moving hoop, the girl had fallen and scraped her knee and palm. He felt bad about it, but Nelly shrugged it off and wanted to play more. Josie was the one who’d insisted they return home.
Hudson strolled around the room, waiting for them to come downstairs. Playing with Nelly brought back good memories of home.
But also sad ones. Being in a room like this one with its fancy draperies at the windows, thick patterned carpets, paintings in gilt frames, and breakable bric-a-brac on every surface made him mourn what his mother would never have. She earned money by sewing at home, but the only item in their house that was remotely pretty was a teapot she’d brought over from Ireland. And even that had a chip in the handle.
Not that fancy things were necessary, but they did give him a feeling of stability, safety, and satisfaction.
Yet satisfaction wasn’t the right word. . . . What he felt was hard to pinpoint. He didn’t care if he owned such frivolities, but there was a certain sense of fulfillment in being around them, as if their very presence were an assurance that the bigger concerns of survival were under control and the harsh realities of the world couldn’t touch him here.
He opened an oak humidor and let the aroma of fine tobacco waft over him. He removed a cigar and held it beneath his nose, drawing in the smooth aroma of aged wood, leather, and spice.
To sit in such a room and enjoy a cigar . . . would he ever live in such a house? Did he want to?
Josie expected to live in such a house.
“A-hem.”
He turned to see Mrs. Cain in the doorway.
“My husband is very protective of his cigars. They come all the way from Cuba.”
“Of course.” Hudson returned the cigar to the humidor and closed the lid.
When she entered the room, he felt the need to flee. But to where?
“Please sit down, Mr. Maguire. I must speak with you.”
Dread tightened like a vise. She was a bitty thing, standing barely to his shoulder, but she had a presence that evoked tension and rigidity, like a harsh judge who held the balance of his life in her hands and found great pleasure in her position.
She took a seat in her chair, and Hudson sat in the seat she offered nearby. Aunt Bernice’s chair. He noticed the mourning brooch at her neck and imagined it held a
lock of her son’s hair. She smoothed the skirt of her black dress, then placed her clasped hands in her lap. It was time for business.
“When are you leaving us, Mr. Maguire?”
It wasn’t the question he’d expected. “I suppose as soon as Josie—Miss Josephine—is fully settled with Nelly.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Settled with Nelly?”
He shouldn’t have brought it up. Nelly was Josie’s issue, and as far as he knew, nothing had been decided regarding the girl’s future.
He sidestepped the subject. “As soon as your daughter indicates she no longer needs my services, I’ll return to my work on the railroad.”
“I would like you to leave today. I don’t approve of your influence on her.”
He didn’t understand. “Influence? I’m a friend who made sure she traveled in safety. I don’t—”
“You are not a suitable match for my daughter.”
Her supposition surprised him. “We’re not . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence to prevent stepping into a lie.
“Even in the short time I’ve seen you, I sense your attachment to her.”
It’s that noticeable?
“As I hope you know, Josephine is betrothed to Mr. Simmons. Wedding plans have commenced, and I will not have your presence place those plans in jeopardy.”
There were a hundred things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that Josie had already broken the engagement with Lewis. He wanted to tell her about her own husband’s comments against the man. He wanted to tell her about the instances when he himself had witnessed Lewis’s true character. But he knew she wouldn’t believe him.
“To put it bluntly, Mr. Maguire, you are not my daughter’s equal.”
“I never said I was.”
“What does your family do?”
Here it comes . . . “They work in a cotton mill near Pittsburgh.”
She spread her hands as if that was the end of the issue.
And perhaps it was. Whether or not he had feelings for Josie, there was the crux of it. He came from poor Irish stock who were lucky to have a few extra dollars left over at the end of the month, while Josie—Josephine—was an Irish general’s daughter who had never considered the cost of anything and felt comfortable dining with presidents. The only thing they had in common was their family’s country of origin.
Mrs. Cain rose from her chair, causing him to also rise. “I believe there is a two o’clock train headed north.”
He wanted to argue with her but knew his words would ring hollow. If he couldn’t convince himself, how could he convince her?
And so he nodded, then left the room and hurried upstairs to gather his things.
Once his saddlebag was ready, he paused a moment to let his heart stop its awful pounding. Should he step down the hall, knock on Josie’s door, and tell her good-bye? Tell Nelly good-bye?
He could imagine the scene—a scene that would do no one any good nor change any facts.
He’d leave a note.
He sat at the desk, found paper, pen, and inkwell, and wrote his heart. He placed the note on the bed, his fingers lingering on its words.
Then he slipped down the stairs and out the door.
Her scrapes bandaged, Nelly sat at the dressing table while Josephine and Frieda played with her hair—which was actually quite thick and had a nice natural wave. The girl opened a jar of face cream and rubbed some on her cheeks. “Ooh, Vera and the ladies would love this.”
“I make it myself,” Frieda said. “Cook hates it when I’m in her kitchen stirring up a batch, but I appease her by giving her some.”
Next Nelly removed the lid on a glass powder jar. As she reached for the puff, Josephine said, “Careful now. I don’t want powder all over. Just a little is enough.”
Nelly carefully removed the puff, dabbed it on her face, then held it to her nose. “Smells pretty.”
“It’s lavender.”
“Vera would like some of this too.”
Josephine had heard quite enough about Vera. “We will have to check out the schools nearby. The Grayson School takes girls, and—”
Nelly swiftly turned around on the bench, causing Frieda to lose hold of the braid she was creating down the back of her head. “I don’t want to go to school. I already know how to read.”
“You do?”
Nelly nodded with emphasis. “Vera and Jenny taught me.” She picked up A Tale of Two Cities that was perched on the edge of the vanity, and opened to the first page. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the e . . . ep . . . ’”
Josephine looked over her shoulder. “Epoch.”
“What’s that?”
Josephine had to think a moment. “Age, era. Time.”
Nelly nodded and continued. “‘It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incred . . .’”
“Incredulity.”
“‘It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.’” She closed the book with a thwack and looked up. “See?”
Frieda clapped. “Very good, child. Quite impressive.”
“I can do my numbers too,” Nelly said. “Miss Mandy taught me. She’s good at numbers and counting money.”
I bet she is.
Josephine turned the discussion back to the matter at hand. “There is more to an education than reading and numbers. You need to learn how to be polite and—”
“I say please and thank you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Vera taught me—”
“Yes, you do,” Josephine repeated. “But at school you will also learn how to paint watercolors and play a piano.”
“Why would I want to learn that?”
Josephine was flummoxed. What had either of those skills done for her?
Frieda laughed. “She’s got you there.” She motioned Nelly to turn around and went back to the braiding.
“I suppose we can think about that later. We’d better go downstairs. Hudson is probably bored silly waiting for us.”
They passed Mother on the stairs. “Have you seen Mr. Maguire?” Josephine asked.
“I believe he is gone.”
“Gone where?”
Mother continued to the landing. “Back west, where he belongs.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “His mission was complete. You have been returned home safely.” She walked down the hallway toward her room.
He can’t leave!
Josephine rushed up the stairs after her. “But what did he say? When did he go?” Why did he go?
Mother cocked her head and looked to the ceiling. “I suppose he said ‘good-bye.’ As far as the time of his leaving, I have no idea.”
“Do you want me to run after him?” Nelly said from the stairs. “I can run really fast.”
Frieda stood behind Nelly and put her hands upon her shoulders. “There will be no running after,” she said.
Why not? I don’t want him to leave.
Mother continued down the hall. “It is for the best, Josephine. Such a man does not fit into our lives.”
That’s when Josephine knew her mother had something to do with Hudson’s departure. “What did you do to him? What did you say?”
“I did what any mother would do. I protected my daughter—a daughter who is betrothed to marry a fine gentleman who does belong in our family.”
Josephine suffered past images of Lewis’s bad behavior and downright cowardice. “Lewis is not the man you think he is. Hudson is a far better—”
“You gave your word. You will marry Lewis Simmons.”
“But I don’t want to marry—”
“If you will excuse me, I am feeling a bit tired.” She opened the door of her room and closed it with a click.
Josephine sto
od at the door and yelled, “I’m tired too! Tired of you trying to rule my life! You don’t know Lewis and you don’t know Hudson. You—”
Frieda motioned Josephine away. “Come now, Liebchen. She’s not going to listen to you.”
“She has no right—”
“She has every right. She’s your mother.”
“But she doesn’t know either one of them.”
Suddenly, Nelly came running out of the guestroom where Hudson had been staying. “He left a note!” She ran to Josephine’s side, the note waving in her breeze.
Josephine read aloud:
My dearest Josie,
Again I say the name suits you. Josie is the name of a modern woman who knows her own mind. And yet you are also Josephine, a lady of society, with ties to a family legacy of wealth and privilege. I don’t begrudge you either, but neither will I make you choose between your roots and another kind of life that may not be to your liking. Or in your best interest.
Since our feelings have not been fully expressed, it is best they remain in our hearts.
Just know that I shall always care deeply for you, dear Josie. And in my absence, I wish you all happiness. May God protect and guide us both.
Yours always,
Hudson
Josephine felt as if she had been struck. “Mother told him to leave! It’s her fault!”
She ran down the hallway toward her mother’s room, but Frieda caught up with her. “Stop. It will do no good.”
Josephine felt her heart beating in her throat. “It will make me feel better.”
“But it will solve nothing.”
“What is there to be solved? He is gone and I am here.”
“Let’s go after him,” Nelly said.
And there it was. “Yes,” Josephine said, running back in her room. “Let’s pack and catch him at the train station.”
But then she heard a bell ringing. And ringing. Frieda looked down the hall to see where the noise was coming from. “It’s your mother. She’s in need of something.”
“That’s for certain,” Josephine said, as she kept packing.
But then Aunt Bernice raced past their door, as did Audrey, Mother’s maid. Josephine heard a lot of commotion. “Go see what’s wrong,” she told Frieda with a sigh. “Though if she is suffering, it probably is the result of her guilt and manipulation.”