“Then it’s a deal. Get some sleep, young Ernest. Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day for you—the first of many. I’ll see you at breakfast. The servants—we eat together in the kitchen, away from the rest—”
“Is Maisie May one of the rest?” Ernest interrupted. He surprised himself at how curious he was about her. “What does she do here?”
There was no reply.
“Hello?”
He listened intently but heard only the pinging of pipes somewhere in the basement or the boiler room. And at that moment Ernest could have sworn he felt the warm air from the heating vent turn a few degrees cooler.
Then he finally heard the voice grumble, “Just go to sleep.”
CRUSADERS OF WAPPYVILLE
(1909)
In the morning Ernest found a freshly pressed domestic’s uniform hanging on his doorknob. The simple black suit seemed much more elegant and grown-up than the uniforms he’d had to wear for school. He put it on happily, then took his mother’s pin and attached it to his lapel. After dressing, he followed his nose, and the smell of coffee and baking bread, to a narrow spiral of stairs in the back of the house, all the way down to the tiny servants’ dining room and the attached kitchen. There, a stout woman who appeared to be the house cook was bustling around, red-faced from her labors.
“Ah, you must be Ernest, the new man of the house, so to speak. I’m Mrs. Blackwell. You’re a welcome relief, I tell you what. Them britches fit okay? If not, someone can probably find a set of suspenders around here somewhere—all manner of things get left behind in a place like this, you know.” The woman guffawed as she set out a breakfast of hot rolls, jam, and stiff porridge. She wiped her hands on a flour-spattered apron and urged him to sit as she poured him a cup of coffee. He was apparently the first of the servants to appear for breakfast.
Ernest was grateful not to be wearing corduroy knickerbockers, or the type of puffy Little Lord Fauntleroy shirts that Mrs. Irvine had bought for him. The ruffled tops always made him feel like a girl in a frilly dress, two sizes too big.
“Thank you, ma’am. The clothes fit like a glove,” he said.
As he straightened his waistcoat, three young women walked in wearing long white aprons and short, tight bonnets. They looked at him and smiled.
“This is Iris, she’s the chambermaid,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “That’s Violet, who tends to the parlors and the library; and that’s Rose, our laundress. Yes, they’re all named after flowers. And no, they’re not in any way related. Madam Flora just has a way with colorful names.”
Ernest wondered if they were all adopted as well, and if so, from where.
Mrs. Blackwell seemed to notice his questioning gaze. “They’re castaways, just like you, lad. Iris was in an orphans’ choir all the way from Boston. She caught the scarlet fever and ended up in a hospital, and her church left her behind. Violet worked at a shoe factory, but couldn’t ever make ends meet, and refused the special attention from the floor manager. And Rose…” Mrs. Blackwell sighed. “Oh dear, our thorny Rose came to us from Portland, where she’d been wooed by an older gentleman, a rich Prince Charming who she later found out was already married.”
“How was I to know?” Rose protested, wide-eyed. “He said his wedding band was from his late wife and it just wouldn’t come off.”
Mrs. Blackwell rolled her eyes. “The girls upstairs too, all of them have stories. But look at us now, the party girls and the serving girls, one big happy family.”
The pretty maids stood all in a row, like in the nursery rhyme. They laughed, teased one another, and spoke about what a nice place the Tenderloin was, that it was a lovely residence to work in, and there were so many interesting dinner parties—so many important visitors.
Ernest nodded and greeted them, though he quietly wondered about the other floweret, Maisie—Madam Flora’s Mayflower. And what about the girl who had whispered to him last night?
Mrs. Blackwell spoke up. “You should know, since no men live here—present company excluded—we’ve never had a need for footmen or even a houseman. And the Professor, bless his heart, is the closest we’ll ever have to a butler, but he comes and goes each evening. If we had a stable, I suppose you’d be a stable hand, but we don’t, so for now you’ll shine shoes, polish boots, run errands, empty cuspidors, and attend to the furnace and the fireplaces—is that clear?”
Ernest agreed and then spoke up. “Miss Amber said something about the carriage trade? Am I to polish the buggy or tend to the leathers?”
The maids tittered in unison.
Mrs. Blackwell smiled sweetly, showing off a dead tooth. She put her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t have any carriages, dear boy.”
Ernest looked confused.
“She calls this line of work the carriage trade because the horse-drawn carriages, the screaming steam locomotives, the electric trains, even the jangly motorcars now, come and go, bringing discerning gentlemen who all have business here. They come, they have a glass of cognac or some Baltimore rye or a Cuban cigar, they relax, they’re entertained, they attend to their business—and poof, they’re gone by morning. You do know what kind of house this is, don’t you?”
Ernest nodded again, though he had no clue. He’d rarely left the confines of the boarding school. Then he heard music. Not the tinkling of piano keys in the grand parlor but the distant booming of bass drums that sounded like thunder. He heard crashing cymbals and brass horns screeching out a baleful tune.
“Glory, not again,” Violet groaned. “They’re starting earlier and earlier.”
Mrs. Blackwell guzzled the last of her coffee, wiped her mouth, and hung up her apron. She stretched her back and then clapped her hands. “Well, time to get saved, young man,” she said as she raised her eyebrows. “Come along.”
Ernest followed everyone out the back door to the alley and onto the sidewalk, where he saw a banner with the Salvation Army insignia of Blood and Fire, and a brass band leading a march of smartly dressed women down the middle of Second Avenue. He squeezed to the front to get a better view of the crowd, which ranged three whole blocks, perhaps longer—a field of cotton, a crowd of white-haired matrons and grandmotherly women—perhaps one thousand strong. They carried painted signs that read END THIS VICE, FREEZE THE TOWN, and PUT AN END TO WAPPYVILLE!
Leading the parade was a tall man, a minister by the collar he wore. And at his side was Mrs. Irvine in a black robe and a long, wide suffragist suit. She noticed Ernest and called out to him, urging him to leave, but he stood frozen in place as she joined a group of singers who belted out “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Wretched.”
As Ernest watched in awe, some marchers seemed divided, half of them praying and blessing the onlookers in the neighborhood, while the other half cursed and spat at the women on the sidewalk. Ernest looked up and down the street as shuttered windows opened and scores of women in negligees laughed and wheedled, or yelled back, heckling the protesters. Ernest’s jaw dropped as dozens of bawdy women slipped their knickers off and tossed them out their windows. Sateen bloomers and pantalets of every color cascaded down, occasionally wafting on the breeze, changing direction before delicately landing on the shoulder of a marching matron who’d recoil and cry out as though struck by burning oil or a poisoned arrow. One rotund, balloon-chested woman in particular strutted out onto her third-story balcony and unfastened her ladies’ waist—
“Don’t look, young Ernest.”
Ernest recognized her accent as he felt a pair of hands reach from behind to cover his eyes. Her warm fingers were nice against his cold cheeks.
“You’re the girl from downstairs, aren’t you?” he asked, as he heard the marchers scream in horror, which only prompted more laughter and jeers from above.
“Sorry I missed you at breakfast,” she whispered in his ear. “Mrs. Blackwell sometimes needs me to eat in the kitchen so I can keep an eye on what we’re making for lunch—to see that nothing burns or bubbles over.”