I wish to remember our weeks here. To remember that a dishpan serves as her tub, a strip of cheesecloth as the washrag. To remember how she wriggles her limbs and looks into my eyes happily as I dip the cloth in warm water and draw it across her, avoiding the stump of her umbilical cord. To remember how washing her naked form brings back the moment when she was placed upon me, the moment when I recognized her as my own.
Yet early tomorrow I’ll leave her with Delphinia, who won’t bring her to the woman near Rittenhouse Square after all. That one had no place for another baby. She’ll bring her instead to a woman named Gerda who resides in a part of the city I’ve never had cause to visit. It must be hard to find a wet nurse who’s willing to take in a bastard; Anne had to canvass among their advisory board to get this recommendation.
The items I’ve gathered from the donations closet for Charlotte—diapers, pins, binders, shirts, and more—are wrapped in a wool blanket at the foot of my cot. For her travels tomorrow, I’ve laid out the gown that Gina made, along with a miniature cloak, a hood (in which is pinned a fortnight’s payment), and a cap I knitted. Her nurse will be more apt to treat her caringly if she arrives well dressed.
Beside Charlotte’s bundle sit my clothes—the plain ones, which are tight but befit the Friend I used to be, and the more worldly things selected by Delphinia for my new position. She brought them this morning in a tall pile. “Don’t think I’m giving you so much for your own sake,” she said. “You’ll need to dress well for the Burnhams.”
First she offered a green satin bodice with velvet at the sleeve ends, a matching skirt, and an overskirt trimmed in velvet. These gorgeous items, she said, I ought to reserve for my arrival at the place and for any social events I might have to attend with the baby. She also gave me two shirtwaists with shell buttons down their fronts, a long brown skirt and brown bodice trimmed with brown ribbon, two white caps, and ankle-high boots with French heels, which I hope won’t lead me to fall in the street. Mother would have deemed this frivolous clothing a scandal. Ribbons! Velvet! Green satin! I was exultant.
“Try some on,” urged Delphinia. I selected the green outfit and a cap and ducked behind the dressing screen. The moment I stepped back into view, Delphinia gasped and rushed from the room. She returned with a large hand mirror.
“Look!” She chuckled with glee as she held the mirror at various angles and distances. I gazed giddily into the mirror until she tucked it under the bed, whispering: “Don’t tell Mrs. Pierce!”
Encouraging vanity is not Anne’s way. But already Delphinia and her mirror had given me an insight—that if I had been differently born, I would have made a convincing lady. Even with my hair in disarray, and my complexion shadowed by a dearth of sleep and sunlight, I looked elegant, important.
If Mother could have seen me, and heard my thoughts, she might have said, “Anyone can be outwardly improved by fine fabrics and tailoring. Attend to thy soul, Lilli, and life’s true riches will unfold.”
Of course that’s right. Yet I was thrilled to see myself made outwardly pleasing.
But how can I write of such matters? A warm being has nursed to satisfaction and sleeps in surrender at my side, knowing nothing of our imminent separation. I stare at her tender face, her slackened lips, her nostrils that flare as she exhales. Tendrils of damp hair cling at her temples. Her puffed-up abdomen rises and falls beneath her gown. Her knees poke upward, and her tiny hands are curled at her chest. I watch her, and to my mind comes a verse of the Song of Songs: Behold, thou art beautiful, my love; behold, thou art beautiful.
She opens her indigo eyes to stare into mine, then nurses more. What pleasure, to feel the tug of her lips, to hear her gulp and see lines of white slide down her chin.
The house and street are silent around us. It seems only she and I are awake, though some young woman upstairs may be troubled by discomfort and wondering if her labor has begun.
I must put this pencil down so I can cradle my Lotte in both arms and kiss her silken forehead and croon to her.
I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.
Come morning, to secure our future good, I’ll leave my beloved behind.
NOTEBOOK FOUR
Fourth Month 18
This morning I dressed my darling and myself in traveling clothes. I nursed that bundle of softness once more. And as she fell into slumber, head and body going limp against me, I slipped my nipple from her mouth and gave her to Delphinia.
Her limbs jerked; she began to wail. I lifted my valise. As though stepping off a cliff, I stepped out the front door and down the steps and into the Burnhams’ shiny carriage.
The driver urged the horse into motion. The carriage bumped over rutted streets. And the feeling that came over me was terror. With each turn of the wheels pulling me farther from my baby, I sat on my hands and panted, my mind like an enormous bell, clanging: What will become of her? What will become of me, without her near? What have I done?
Soon we pulled in front of a narrow three-story brownstone, only a few blocks from elegant Rittenhouse Square. The driver deposited me and my valise before its door, then left to care for the horse. I wiped away my tears and slowed my heart with willful breathing.
I climbed the marble stoop, and before I’d even knocked, a young maid swung open the door and curtsied. She was a picture of formality in her starched black gown, white cap, and lace-trimmed apron. After introducing herself as Margaret and thanking me for accepting their wet-nurse position, she brought me through a hall into the kitchen, which was large and homely. Then we went up one flight of thin, curving servants’ stairs, down a short length of hall, and up another narrow stair to the servants’ story. She pointed my way into a slope-ceilinged garret—a cramped room holding a bed that met three walls, a chest of drawers, a washbasin and pitcher, a chamber pot, and an empty trunk. An oval window at the foot of the bed brought in light and air.
Margaret seemed responsible and thoughtful, though she can’t be more than fourteen. She’d taken pains to clean my room in advance and to set me up with a fat feather bed atop the mattress. The home’s gas lighting doesn’t extend to the servants’ story, so she ran to fetch me paraffin candles from the cellar. I’ll be glad for them. Their light and smell will link me to evenings at home when we sat together around the oak table, Mother and I doing our own work while Father and his helpers kept their books.
In her melodious voice, Margaret told me of the feeding arrangements till now for the infant, Henry. The mistress fired two wet nurses in quick succession, so for several days the cook’s daughter nursed him during the day, as she’d recently weaned her own son. At night, Margaret hand-fed the baby with a bottle of boiled cow’s milk, water, and sugar. The artificial food upset his stomach, so he bent his legs in pain even as he drank, then spit up substantially after. Margaret had to perform her household labor in the day as well.
“We need the help badly. Thank you again,” she told me, leaning on the door frame.