Back in our room, I settled Charlotte in my lap, then wrote to the Philadelphia Ladies’ Solace to ask for help obtaining a sewing machine. I want to set that alternative in motion, despite Delphinia’s discouragement. It can’t hurt to have another way to earn a living, however insufficient.
I left my letter in the box by the door and carried Charlotte into the courtyard, where I walked the slate path around and around. She made happy noises and rubbed her face into my shoulder. A longing for home arose in me as I took in the sharp perfume of the white narcissus that lined the path, the musty smell of dirt, the frilly daffodils. I thought of the hundreds of spring-blooming bulbs Mother and I planted in years past, which by now must be passing their heady fragrances through the windows of our old stone house. Might I walk there with Charlotte someday and point out to her these lasting effects of her grandmother’s and her mother’s hands?
I walked a few more times around the enclosure, slowly so as not to bring on the bleeding that I now know occurs after giving birth. Then Charlotte and I went inside, sprinkled with sun and softened by the air. Anne met us at the side door and bid me to neaten up and come to the office, for the doctor and the baby’s father were due at any time.
For Charlotte I chose the white petticoat and gown that Gina had made for us. While pinning on a clean diaper, I pricked my finger accidentally and marked the gown with a spot of blood. I adjusted the pins and combs in my hair, changed the rag over my shoulder for a clean one, and headed down the hall with not a little nervousness.
Anne stood tapping her foot outside the office and waved me in. Opposite her desk stood two men. One was clean-shaven, with a large brow and keen, attentive eyes; the other, very tall, with a pinched face and a frivolous moustache. The first man proved to be the baby’s father. The dour man who looked me up and down intently was his doctor and gatekeeper.
“I’m Doctor Snowe,” said the dour one, bowing his thin frame slightly. A nervous odor enveloped him. He gave a smile that revealed several gold-capped teeth.
“Albert Burnham,” said the other man, tipping his head. The fine lines and dark shading around his eyes suggested weariness and worry.
I greeted them, and a bit of awkwardness ensued as we sought a modest seating arrangement. Finally they stood with their backs to a wall and allowed me to occupy the wide bench. In my lap, Charlotte began to wiggle.
“Miss de Jong is the best you’ll find in any place,” said Anne from behind her desk.
“I’ll decide that,” said the doctor, sniffing. He turned to me, his pencil raised, ready to record my words in his notebook. “When did your family come to this country, and from where?”
“Of what interest is this to thee?” I had no intention of describing my family.
“Your nature is quite influenced by your heritage, Miss de Jong. The Irish girls are wont to drink. The Germans are industrious but tough. The Italians make tender mothers and have plenty of milk. The Scots are—”
I interrupted. “And every one has that of God within her.”
A flash of amusement crossed Albert Burnham’s face.
The doctor’s pencil wagged as he wrote. “I take it you’re a Quaker.”
“I no longer attend Meeting.”
He nodded. “Judging from the surname, of Dutch extraction. And might you know when your family came to the United States?”
“In the late seventeenth century.” I suppose I have some pride in this—unwarranted, since it reflects no choice of mine and certainly no virtue.
Yet the doctor seemed to dislike the information. He turned to his client and whispered, seeming to mean for the other man to doubt my suitability.
“Continue the interview,” ordered the baby’s father. “My wife was unhappy with the coarseness of the other nurses you sent.”
The doctor made a noise in his throat. “As you wish.”
He instructed me to stand, which I did, and to move in a circle so he could examine my every side. I began to quiver as I received praise for my physical attributes, which I’ve never gotten in such abundance nor wanted less. I was called fresh and rosy, suitably plump, possessed of an adequate musculature, well proportioned, and without a single facial defect that might suggest inferior character. Clear eyes, a well-formed and modest-sized nose, white teeth, medium lips rather than large. All was taken to reveal a strong constitution and an even disposition. But Dr. Snowe sought further proof.
“Are you given to temper, miss? Have you ever had a problem with excessive appetite or excessive passion?”
“Clearly she has principles,” said Albert Burnham. He looked away and cleared his throat. “Or once had.”
I found no words for speaking. I bent my head to Charlotte, who waved an arm and banged me in the face, giving out a hungry moan.
“Must she answer?” said Anne impatiently. “I tell you, she has a modest and an unassuming way.”
I was surprised but grateful that she’d describe me thusly.
“A baby drinks in the sentiments along with the nutriments,” said Dr. Snowe. “They form his body and his mind.” He turned his thin torso toward Albert. “Your wife’s esteemed father would expect a thorough evaluation of the temperament.”
Albert nodded and looked at me. I had to speak.
“My students,” I began, “found me patient and inspirational.” The two men stared as though I’d grown a second head.
“You’re a teacher?” Once more, Albert appeared amused, but the doctor didn’t. He leaned to whisper something that made Albert color slightly.
Worry stabbed my heart. Might I be rejected? I softened my demeanor, so as to seem more pliant. Then Charlotte began to bawl outright.
“You ought to evaluate the infant while you can,” Anne suggested. So I held out my unhappy baby. Her cries were subdued by interest as the doctor felt her arm, peeked under her gown to gauge her plumpness, examined her skin, looked into her eyes, touched the bottoms of her feet to judge her reactions, looked up her nose, and otherwise investigated her condition.
“She’s how old?” he asked. She stared at him, neck upright, which Delphinia says is beyond her age.
“Just under three weeks,” I replied quietly.
“And you verify that this is your baby?” With his forward-leaning head and bulging eyes, he looked like a frog about to shoot its tongue at an insect.
“Of course she is,” said Anne. “Why else would Miss de Jong be in my institution?”
“Well then, you have a sound specimen,” he affirmed. “Early signs of superior intelligence. Clearly your nurturance is more than adequate.”
I felt pleased, despite the circumstances. But by this time Charlotte was rooting at my chest and kicking, bringing a tingling to my breasts. The milk was on its way, and my front would soon be wet if her crying continued.
Anne stood and walked to me. “Give her over.”