The House of Closed Doors

by Jane Steen

  I could see straightaway from Bet’s face that she had noticed the bump through the thin cotton of my nightgown. For a second, she froze; then she crossed the room at amazing speed for her size and seized my shoulder. The fingers of her left hand held me immobile as she poked at my abdomen with her right.

  “Mother of God.” Her face had drained of color, and the freckles and blotches on her weathered skin stood out plainly.

  “Mother of God,” she said again. “What have you done?”

  I said nothing, staring at Bet’s bushy, gray-streaked bun of hair as it wobbled on top of her head. Her hands were trembling slightly, and she finally let go and stared at me. Her eyes, the color of dark chocolate, were as round as billiard balls, and she clasped her hands together tightly under her chin so that the flesh of her fingers swelled over her wedding ring and the mourning ring that held a tiny, curled braid of her late husband’s hair.

  I waited for her to speak, torn between fear and something almost akin to relief. The moment had come at last, but I would not betray Jack and ruin both our lives.

  “Who is the father?” Bet’s voice came out in a whisper.

  “Bet,” I found my voice at last. “Please don’t ask me that.”

  “Mother of God.” Bet was becoming repetitive. “You haven’t been with a married man?” Her voice rose to a horrified squeak.

  “No.” I was aware that I had flushed red. “Not a married man. Bet, I do not want to marry the father of this baby. It was a mistake.”

  “A mistake, is it?” Bet recovered her usual bracing bad temper and drew herself up to her full height, pulling me up from the bed as she did so. I was taller than she, but she was wearing shoes and I was barefoot, so our eyes were on a level.

  “Some mistake!” Bet exclaimed. “Miss Nell, you have always had your own way. But when a girl gets herself in the family way, she marries the father of the child. There is no ‘not marrying’ to be heard of.”

  “Not if I refuse to give a name. What are you going to do, put up a poster in my stepfather’s store advertising for the father to come forward?” Fear made me sound more defiant than I intended.

  Bet sniffed loudly. “I should slap your face for your impertinence, you little hussy.” Her breath whistled through her missing tooth, and “hussy” came out as “huthy.” I couldn’t help smiling, out of affection as much as anything, but Bet saw insolence in my reaction. Her work-worn hand closed around my wrist like a vise, and she jerked me toward my wardrobe.

  “Get some clothes on right now, young woman.” I had not heard that tone of voice since I was nine and ate all the strawberries reserved for a particularly nice cake. That was not a voice I disobeyed; I opened the drawers of the chest where I kept my undergarments.

  Ten minutes later, I was dressed and ready to be dragged downstairs to face my mother and stepfather.

  SIX

  The three days after my secret came out passed in an extremely tense atmosphere. My stepfather barely spoke to me; if I looked up from my plate at mealtimes, I often caught a hard, calculating stare from the head of the table and would lower my gaze immediately.

  Martin called at least twice, bringing news of his mother’s worsening condition. I do not know what Mama and Hiram told him, but he went away without seeing so much as a glimpse of me. I watched him from the window as he strolled in the direction of his store, his long legs eating up the distance in easy strides, and bit my lip in frustration. Would he have understood and helped me? Or would he, a moral man if not a pious one, have looked at my disgrace with a sneer on his lips? I feared the loss of his friendship and of his mother’s.

  On the third day, Stepfather informed us that he would be spending two weeks in Prairie Haven and Waukegan. Waukegan, as the county seat, was a center of political influence and therefore a place where Hiram Jackson throve; if it were not for my mother’s attachment to Victory‌—‌and the possibility that Hiram could rise to become mayor of our small community‌—‌I believe we would have taken a house there. Hiram was on the board of the North School in Waukegan, and in Prairie Haven, ten miles inland, he was active on a committee for the relief of the poor. He was also on the Board of Governors of the Prairie Haven Poor Farm, where those most in need of help were housed and given work.

  On being informed of his forthcoming absence, my mother raised her china-blue eyes to her husband’s face with a worried expression. “Hiram… ,” she began, “Eleanor …” Her voice trailed off.

  Hiram subjected me to another glare, and then his expression changed as he looked at my mother. “My dear,” his ice-blue eyes had softened, “I will of course be using my contacts to find a solution to the, um, problem. You need not worry about anything. I know many persons of the utmost discretion in the area and will find a place where Nell can be kept hidden until …”

  “Hiram,” my mother’s eyes widened, “do you mean that Nell must leave us?”

  “Naturally she cannot have her child in this house.” My stepfather’s tone was peremptory but became gentler again as my mother’s face creased in anguish. “She need only stay away until the child is born and suitable parents are found to adopt it. After that, Nell should live quietly here,” he glanced in my direction once more and his eyes hardened, “and show herself to be an exemplary citizen. There will be no more gadding about, my girl. You will take an active interest in the church and in charitable works and thereby redeem your character. I fear that news of your indiscretion will eventually come out no matter how careful we are; but there are gentlemen, widowers and such, who may marry a fallen woman if she shows suitable repentance.”

  “Could we not,” my mother’s voice faltered, “send her to my relatives in the East once the child is‌—‌is adopted? To keep her confined here, in Victory, with so little society, until her looks fade …” I felt a surge of alarm at this idea. My relatives in the East were precisely where the problem lay.

  Hiram’s thin mouth stretched into a narrow grin that was positively chilling, and his bushy eyebrows twitched. “My dear Amelia, the bloom is already off the rose, is it not? Be guided by me, my love. It would be unwise to send Nell looking for a husband too soon. A man expects a young bride to be,” he cleared his throat loudly, “unspoiled. He is less particular on that point when he has reason to prefer an older woman.” He smiled at my mother with a sickly-sweetness that made my stomach churn.

  “And your looks have not faded, my darling Amelia. I admired you when you were the young wife of Red Jack Lillington, and I still admired you when you were a widow of several years’ duration. Nell is handsome enough; a few years of purposeful employment will add sense to her natural attributes, and she could yet make a fine wife for the right man.”

  I had been silent throughout this interesting interchange, as befitted a Fallen Woman‌—‌my imagination invested my stepfather’s words with capital letters. I could not help noting that, even with an illegitimate child in the background, my mother and stepfather’s long-term concern was to marry me off. I sighed inwardly at the unfairness of it all. A widow could legitimately work to support herself; a girl born into the humbler classes would also be expected to learn a trade.

  A rich woman, married or unmarried, could play the benefactress and, if thought eccentric, would at least be respected for her wealth. Why, oh why had I been born into that narrow strip of society that countenanced no other fate for a woman than supervising her home, raising her children, and pandering to her husband’s every whim?

  Yet it occurred to me that my stepfather’s plan of engaging me in useful works of charity was quite fair, considering what I had done. It certainly offered more freedom than marriage, and there was the potential of travel if I kept my eyes open for opportunities. My senseless act had effectively taken me off the marriage market and given me breathing space in which to plan a different future.

  I felt the baby flicker in my belly and imagined handing it over to a childless couple who would rear it as their own. Yes, I could do tha
t. After all, what was a baby but a squalling bundle of responsibilities? I had never been fond of babies and children.

  I raised my eyes to look directly at Hiram.

  “I will be guided by you in all things, Stepfather,” I said in a tone of the utmost submissiveness and saw my mother’s grateful glance.

  Of course, at that point I was imagining that I would be sent to stay in a respectable, discreet household. If I had known what my stepfather had in mind, I might not have been quite so compliant.

  SEVEN

  The next two weeks were peaceful without Hiram in the house. I stayed in my bedroom during calling hours, and my mother told visitors I was sick. She was out of the house very frequently because Ruth Rutherford was terribly ill and not expected to live till Christmas. Mama spent many hours sitting by Ruth’s bedside, and I worried about her own frail health; but she assured me they were just chatting peacefully when Ruth was alert, and at other times Mama read to her or simply held her hand. Devout, if rather conventional, believers both, they found comfort in their certainty that they would be together again after a short time.

  Martin, Mama told me, spent his nights by his mother’s bedside and his days at the store. She did not know when he slept. I felt a deep sadness for my friend and wished that I could spare him the additional anxiety of believing I was ill. For I was sure that he was worried about me; when I was a little girl he used to warm flannel scarves by the fire and wrap them tenderly round my neck when I had one of my rare colds.

  I was not idle during this period. Bet purchased several bolts of warm winter wools and a quantity of flannel and cotton suitable for petticoats and underwear but also excellent for making baby clothes. With the help of a few patterns from my grandmama’s huge stock‌—‌I used some copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book to bring them up to date‌—‌and the sewing machine that still stood in her old bedroom, I set to making a large quantity of clothing for myself and my baby.

  The dresses I made for myself were plainer and simpler than the ones I usually wore, and I had to exercise my imagination to account for the growth in my belly over the next few months. The few maternity patterns Grandmama had saved were extremely outdated, but I was skilled enough to adapt them.

  Making the baby clothes reminded me of my earliest experiments in sewing, when Grandmama had shown me how to cut and fit clothes on Emmeline, the only doll I had ever cared for. I regarded my child as a growth that I would be relieved to have removed, but sewing was my greatest joy, and I did not resent the hours I spent making tiny gowns, caps, and diapers.

  Bet, bless her, had begun knitting tiny garments and warm, soft blankets for the baby about three days after she found out about it. Despite her rigid disapproval of my own wretched self, she “could not condemn the mite, innocent little morsel that it is.” She told anyone who asked about her sudden enthusiasm for sewing and knitting that one of her cousins was expecting again. As Bet’s forty-one first cousins, spread the length and breadth of the county, were a byword in Victory, no one even took the time to ask which; since most of the female cousins had names starting with Mary, even the most accomplished gossips in Victory could never quite remember them all.

  I was sitting in my room serenely sewing yard after yard of hemstitch, such tiny, neat stitches that they could not be seen, when Marie came in to lay a fire. I was glad of it; the wind was positively howling outside, and my fingers were stiff with cold. Marie was followed by Bet, who laid a small pile of tiny bootees on the table beside my chair, each fastened with a bow of thin, white satin ribbon. She sniffed to indicate that she had not made them for my benefit, nodded at me to lift up my sewing, and twitched a mohair blanket over my legs.

  “Thank you, Bet. It has become quite chilly in here.”

  “’Tis one of those days when the wind brings the freeze with it, Miss Nell. There were some late roses on the bush by the gate this morning, but they’re all wilted with the cold now.”

  As she said this, her voice softened and our eyes met. We both knew how the temperature could suddenly shift in this area‌—‌how the cold could move so fast that it could overtake the unwary traveler. We knew it because we had learned it the hard way. My insides lurched.

  “Mama should not walk home, Bet. You know the cold makes her heart worse.”

  “I know that, Miss. I have already run to Mr. Drehler’s to ask if he would be kind enough to send his buggy for her and make sure that there were blankets in it.” We kept no carriage of any kind, as Victory was a small town and we could walk most places. Besides, Mama had thought a carriage a ridiculous extravagance for a household of women, and the habit, reinforced by Grandmama’s Yankee thriftiness, held firm after she remarried.

  “We will have to impose on him often, Bet, until Mrs. Rutherford …”

  “I don’t think it will be long now for the poor lady,” Bet said regretfully. She sighed and shook her head, looking out of the window at the scudding gray clouds. “Your mother will be lonely with her gone, and with you to be away soon …”

  Marie had lit the fire and was looking at us with wide eyes. “Is Miss Nell going off to have the baby elsewhere, then?”

  Bet let out a loud “Hmph!” of irritation and turned on her subordinate, who was related to her in some complicated way and bore an identical topknot of bushy brown hair. “What did I tell you? If you value your position here, you’ll keep quiet about this baby, in this house and especially outside.”

  Marie’s head drooped, and I flashed a small, sympathetic smile at her. We both knew that Bet’s bark was worse than her bite, but being on the receiving end of her brisk anger was a disheartening experience.

  A jingling outside announced the arrival of the buggy, and Marie, at a jerk of the head from Bet, flew from the room to open the front door. In minutes my mother appeared, slightly breathless from the stairs but with cold-flushed cheeks and a cheerful demeanor. A telegraph message was clutched in her hand.

  “News from your dear stepfather,” she announced. “He says,”‌—‌she peered once more at the paper‌—‌”Returning tomorrow. Solution found.”

  The sky turned leaden by the next afternoon, and a few flakes of snow were whirling among the still falling leaves. My stepfather returned midmorning and ate luncheon alone with my mother, as he wished to discuss the arrangements he had made with Mama before speaking to me. From the armchair in my bedroom where I took my meal on a tray, I could hear their voices: my mother’s soft trill, more insistent and argumentative than usual, and my stepfather’s overbearing rumble. It was clear that there was not perfect agreement between them.

  At two o’clock I was summoned to the parlor. I shivered as I made my way down the stairs, as it was always much colder in the hallway in the wintertime than in the rooms. I pulled my newest shawl‌—‌a soft beige wool that I had trimmed with a darker brown fringe and embellished with embroidery in the same color‌—‌tight around my shoulders and my ever-more prominent bump.

  I entered the room quietly and, I hoped, with an air of assurance. In truth, my heart was thumping. This was the greatest step into the unknown that had occurred in my life since my father’s death, and I was apprehensive; and yet I felt excitement tingle in my bones. How that could be when I was in such trouble, I did not know, but I could not deny the feeling.

  My mother’s face was pale and a little red around the eyes as if she had been crying. Yes, there was a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. What, then, was my doom? My heartbeat doubled.

  “Sit down, Eleanor,” said my stepfather, speaking in calm, level tones. I took my usual seat on the red velvet settee, folded my hands in my lap‌—‌I almost folded them over my belly, but thought better of it‌—‌and looked reassuringly at my mother. Whatever it was, I wanted her to understand, I could survive it.

  Hiram Jackson stroked the side-whiskers that extended down his cheeks and terminated in a luxuriant bush below his slight jowls. His hands were soft and white but bore the scars of his early days in the store
as his father’s assistant. He began to pace the room.

  “I had considered,” he said, “sending you to live with a family until the arrival of your, harrumph …” He did not even want to refer to my child, that much was plain. “But when I came to put that plan into action, the practical difficulties seemed insurmountable. Finding a family with the right degree of discretion in a county where I have many political enemies is fraught with difficulty. Money would inevitably have to change hands, and that would leave me open to charges of bribery, to possible blackmail.”

  He laid a peculiar stress on that last word and fell silent for a moment, still pacing restlessly and looking out of the window at the snow, which was melting as soon as it touched any surface.

  “If,” he resumed, “I were to send you East for your confinement‌—‌which was your mother’s suggestion‌—‌I am concerned that you will not exhibit that degree of repentance and hard work that I wish to instill in you as a consequence of your foolishness. In any case, news travels surprisingly fast between the East and here, and it is quite likely that the tale of an illegitimate baby,” he pronounced the word “illegitimate” with great precision, “would waste no time in communicating itself to our neighbors in Victory.”

  He stopped pacing and stood for a long moment looking at me, rubbing the thumbs of his clasped hands together with a judicial air. My mother dabbed at a tear, but there was resignation on her face. Hiram’s smooth, handsome countenance was serene, almost as if he were amused by some secret thought.

  “I have taken the superintendent of the Prairie Haven Poor Farm into my confidence, as he often sees cases like yours in his line of work and is not shocked by such, such, ahem, contingencies. I asked him where one would send a young woman in your condition. He described various institutions to me: orphanages, homes for unmarried mothers, and the like. But he also assured me that his own establishment could provide everything I wanted: discretion, safety, suitable work, and a framework for providing for the adoption of the child.”