The House of Closed Doors

by Jane Steen

  I sighed, watching my daughter and my friend. This was going to be a very interesting journey.

  SIXTY

  I could feel two solid lumps at my waist. One was Mama’s bag of coins; the other was a new bag, containing the money Martin had given me for Sarah. Together, they would provide our emergency funds in our new life.

  I took no other money with me except the sum I had raised through Mr. Buchman to fund our trip to Kansas. He had sold for me a bracelet and necklace that Hiram had given to my mother; the rest of her small collection of jewelry was sewn safely into the pocket of my traveling dress. I felt like a walking bank vault.

  It was so early in the morning that the light was gray, but we had been up for hours. Bet had had her “good cry” over our departure well before dawn and was now brisk and cheerful, though red-eyed. Tess was solemn and unusually quiet, which suited my own mood. She was holding on to Sarah who was also rather subdued, alarmed no doubt by the preparations for travel.

  I had the strange, detached feeling that comes when you know that you are about to undertake a new venture. The familiar street, where even the carriage ruts on the road changed little from day to day, suddenly sprang out at me with a mass of details: the burgeoning buds on the young trees that lined it; the large ornate bell on the gate of the house opposite; the slight sag in the fence of the neighbor three doors up. I remembered noticing such things as a small child, but for years I had ignored them, wrapped in my own small, selfish concerns. Now they mattered to me again with a sharp pang of imminent rupture.

  Bet shivered as she looked at the cart, which was laden with our trunks and bags.

  “It’s enough you’re taking with you, Miss.”

  “Madam,” I said faintly, but I didn’t begrudge Bet her refusal to pretend I was a married woman. I wasn’t, after all.

  I looked down at the ring Hiram had given me. From that day forward I would pass as ‘Mrs. Lillington.’ That was how, at my request, Mrs. Lombardi had first introduced me on paper to Mrs. Drummond. It might have been easier to continue with Govender, but I had not wanted to lose my father’s name nor force a fictitious one on Sarah.

  The driver of the cart returned from wherever he had been and, climbing into his seat, looked round at me inquiringly.

  “You’d better go, Miss Nell.” Bet spoke gently, in the tone that she’d used when I was a little girl and needed reminding to wash my hands before meals. I grinned; back then, the gentle tone would quickly be followed up by a sharper one if I did not comply.

  “Yes, Bet. Are you sure you’ll be all right with the house-clearing?”

  “Oh, I have Marie coming, and three of her friends. We’ll have a fine old time.” She looked back at the yellow notice of sale on our door, one corner of which flapped gently in the freshening breeze, and then glanced at the sky. “It won’t rain today, I’m thinking. You have a good day for traveling.”

  I hugged her hard for a couple of seconds, putting a world of feeling into that hug and then took Sarah from Tess. She submitted to Bet’s caresses a little crossly and rubbed her face into my coat. I knew she’d be asleep before we were a mile down the road and was glad of it.

  Tess, not to be outdone, also hugged Bet‌—‌to the latter’s surprise‌—‌and then clambered with difficulty up into the cart. I handed Sarah to her and took my own place on the end of the bench.

  As we swayed onto Victory’s main street to head westward, the first rays of the rising sun shone from behind us, lighting the gray street with streaks of fire. We passed Rutherford’s Drapery, which bore a large sign: New Premises in Chicago Opening Soon. Inquire Within for Closing Prices on All Merchandise.

  I hugged Sarah tighter to me, trying to shield her from the worst jolts of the cart. Tess was pressed up against me. Her legs were much shorter than mine, and she could not place them on the board, so she was much more at the mercy of the cart’s movement than I was. I was glad she was with me.

  “Goodbye, Victory,” said Tess.

  I said nothing, but set my face resolutely away from the familiar sights of home. What ties I had now were the ones I had chosen.

  Author's Note

  The genesis of this novel was a photograph in a local history book my husband gave to me as a Christmas present, one of those slim volumes full of pictures of times past. The photograph that stood out to me was the County Poor Farm, long since replaced by a very large nursing home (although the cemetery remains).

  “What an interesting location for a novel,” I thought. “Especially if there were a murder…” and soon, by the strange alchemy of imagination, a cast of characters walked on to my mental stage and began supplying me with a story that was tremendous fun to write.

  Nell’s home town of Victory and the Prairie Haven Poor Farm are entirely fictitious, although loosely based on a compilation of locations with which I am familiar. I have always been fascinated by enclosed communities, and the relative isolation of Victory (not yet connected to Chicago by railroad) is meant to mirror the more complete isolation of a Poor Farm set among prairie and cultivated fields. Each place has its own rules; they may not reflect with entire accuracy the social structure of any real historic place, but I hope they are plausible.

  I’m a storyteller first and foremost, and on no account would I claim the noble title of historian. So please take any of the details contained in this novel with a large pinch of salt, and feel free to notify me of any disastrous mistakes. Naturally I’ve taken huge liberties with the weather, shaping the seasons to conform to my story with the exception of the hot, dry wind that carried the fire so swiftly over Chicago; that’s an unfortunate fact.

  As background material for the Poor Farm I relied heavily on Inventing The Feeble Mind by James W. Trent (1995 edition), from which I learned about the work of Édouard Séguin, who, in the 1860s, was doing some important work in America to improve the lot of the “feeble-minded” by teaching independence and self-reliance via work and education. Although all the explanations of Monsieur Séguin’s work were edited out of the text because they got in the way of the story, Mrs. Lombardi is a dedicated follower of his methods; her rivals are intent on following the later 19th century progression toward a more custodial (and abusive) model of institutional care.

  I trust this explains why the Prairie Haven Poor Farm is such an unexpectedly enlightened and even happy environment. I can only hope such places existed, somewhere.

  Tess, as some readers may realize, is a woman with Down Syndrome. I have the privilege of knowing many children and adults with Down Syndrome and have based her feisty, independent character on their abilities. I could not afford Tess a “label” other than the unpleasant 19th century ones of “idiot” and “feeble-minded” because even the term “Mongoloid” would not have been in widespread use in 1871; Dr. Down described the syndrome in 1866 and the term “Mongoloid” comes from his belief that the genetic variation was a degeneration of the European race, which was trying to revert to an earlier, Asiatic type. A strange theory, but quite consistent with other 19th century scientific misconceptions.

  Other locations and events in this novel are as historically accurate as I could get them. The Chicago Fire, in particular, has been very well described and documented. My personal favorite among easily available books on the Fire is The Great Chicago Fire by Robert Cromie; get hold of the 1994 oversized, illustrated edition if you can.

  I am not nearly as expert a seamstress as Nell, but Dressed for the Photographer by Joan Severa was a goldmine of details about the costumes worn by ordinary Americans in the mid- to late 19th century.

  And of course my thanks go out to all the many, many online sources of knowledge and anecdote. I wish I could have packed all the things I found out into the novel.

  Acknowledgments

  A self-published author may seem like the most independent of writers, with no agent, editor or publisher to answer to; but in truth I doubt many self-published books see the light of day without considerable inp
ut from others. This is certainly the case of The House of Closed Doors; I’m not sure what shape the novel would have taken without the critiques and encouragement of a number of writer friends who scrutinized problem scenes, acted as beta readers at a critical stage of the editing process, and generally cheered me on as I waded my way through the different levels of joy and gloom that accompany the creative journey.

  So many people contributed, in fact, that I am hesitant to single out individual names for fear of forgetting someone. But I can’t not mention my critique partner Katharine Grubb, who returned to me a manuscript so heavily overwritten (in orange pen) that it almost glowed in the dark. I challenged her to be as picky as possible, and she rose to the occasion magnificently by putting every thought down on paper‌—‌it must have taken a very long time. For the rest of you‌—‌some know who you are, others may not even remember the advice they gave‌—‌just know that every suggestion, comment or incredulous reaction was carefully considered and the majority of them resulted in changes for the better.

  As I neared publication I was incredibly fortunate to have the generous help of three expert professionals. Thank you Jill Battaglia for making my dream of a cover photo come to life; thank you Wayne Kijanowski for putting up with my vague design suggestions and building them into something more beautiful than I’d imagined; and thank you Joseph O’Day for making my text clean and consistent.

  Thanks to the David Adler Music and Arts Center for letting me pretend they were the Poor Farm for the duration of a photo shoot, and to Kate and Philip Haslar for being Nell and Sarah for a few hours.

  And, of course, thanks to my family for putting up with my many absences from family life and the blank stares that they received if they happened to come near me when I was writing, and above all for acting as if writing novels is a perfectly normal occupation.

  About the Author

  Jane Steen was born in England and, despite having spent more years out of the British Isles than in, still has a British accent according to just about every American she meets. Her long and undistinguished career has included a three-year stint as the English version of a Belgian aerospace magazine, an interesting interlude as an editor in a very large law firm, and several hectic years in real estate marketing at the height of the property boom. This tendency to switch directions every few years did nothing for her resume but gave her ample opportunity to sharpen her writing skills and develop an entrepreneurial spirit. Around the edges of her professional occupations and raising children, she stuck her nose in a book at every available opportunity and at one time seemed on course to become the proverbial eternal student. Common sense prevailed, though, and eventually she had the bright idea of putting her passion for books together with her love of business and writing to become a self-published author. She has lived in three countries and is currently to be found in the Chicago suburbs with her long-suffering husband and two adult daughters.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author