“Is he handsome?” Margaret covered her smile with a hand. I pictured Peter pushing his golden-brown hair from his broad forehead, saw his hazel eyes and sturdy shoulders.
“I suppose so. The girls at school found him handsome.” To me, gentleness had been his more salient quality.
“Germantown’s not far off,” observed the cook. “Will you be having visitors?” She divided her dough into four parts and began forming one into a loaf. “Margaret’s family came in from the country once. We ate in the kitchen, and Mrs. Burnham had nothing bad to say about it.”
Margaret smiled without covering her mouth this time, allowing me to see the dimples at its corners. “Frau Varschen loves to lay out tea.”
“I won’t have visitors,” I said. “My mother died more than a year ago—my brother left for work in Pittsburgh. My—my father, he—”
Frau V. stared. “Why are you here? Can’t you find work that lets you live at home? Your father needs you!”
The two looked at me expectantly, but I couldn’t speak. I was basking in an unfamiliar pleasure. They didn’t yet know of my disgraced status, and this gave me a sensation as refreshing as a swim in a stream on a bright, hot day. Perhaps they took me for a mother who’d just weaned her child.
They gave up waiting for my response. Margaret and I dumped our beans again into the pot and scooped up more. Frau V. left her braided loaves to let them rise, then shook down ashes and loaded coal into the stove.
“That was two years ago,” Margaret said, “when my family visited. My sister writes, and Frau Varschen reads the letters to me.”
“Thee hasn’t gone to school?” I asked.
She shook her head. “My oldest sister went three years, but then my father got his leg crushed at the lumber mill. She left school to work at the cotton mill, and when each of us turned five, we joined her there.”
A stunted childhood, and then a life of serving others without cease.
“I’ll teach thee,” I told her. “I am—I used to be—a teacher.”
Frau V. turned from the stove, face glistening. “A schoolmarm! I knew there was something grand about you. If it’s not money makes a person grand, it’s book learning.”
Margaret clapped her hands excitedly and stood up. “I’m going to learn my letters!” She reached her arms about me.
I couldn’t recall the last time someone had clasped me tight, and I relished it. Too quickly she withdrew her arms and sighed. “I have to ask the Burnhams first. I can’t take my time or yours without permission.”
“You ask Mr. B. tonight,” said the cook, nodding.
“I’ll do that.” Margaret’s mouth formed a frown; her blue eyes gathered moisture. She expected disappointment.
“And if he says no,” Frau V. added, “I’ll put too much pepper on his eggs tomorrow and give him a fit of sneezes.” She threw her head back and guffawed, and Margaret gave a smile. Then the cook cried out, “This calls for my spring tonic!”
Margaret brought three earthenware cups, and Frau V. ladled her tea from a pot on the back burner. My mother had made a tonic each spring, too, using roots and greens from the woods. The three of us drank the dark liquid, our faces bright and pleased despite its bitterness. The hot tea traced a path of relaxation through me, until Henry’s cries penetrated the calm.
As I nursed him, I considered the cook’s concern at Albert speaking with me. Why did this arouse her ire? Why wasn’t she upset instead by Clementina’s disinterest in her son? She’s gotten strangers with breasts full of milk to provide his nutriment, but why withhold her love?
Henry may always feel homeless, for he was exiled at birth from his native land.
Just listen to this hypocrite! The baby who gained her form amid the beats of my heart and the sounds of my voice is farther from her native land, and even more an exile.
*
There’s trouble here, more than I knew. Frau Varschen was right.
After supper I fed Henry, then began rocking him to sleep. The Burnhams were in Clementina’s bedroom and had failed to close the door.
“Can’t you stay in?” I heard him say.
Her voice was harsh. “I have a ticket to the orchestra. Letitia’s expecting me.”
“But you went to the orchestra last night.”
A drawer banged shut. “Tonight a new cellist begins.”
“But I left the office early. I hoped to see you for supper.” Footsteps moved across the floor.
“Albert, I need to keep up. My column will suffer if I don’t.”
“Well, I need a wife. I suffer without one.”
“You have a wife!”
“But you shun me. And our son—have you laid eyes on him today?”
“Yes. We visited with friends.”
“Has he gained any weight?”
“I haven’t had a moment to put him on the scale.”
“Doctor Snowe said weighing was essential.”
“I’ll ask the nurse to do it tomorrow. Albert, I don’t like babies. You knew that.”
“I thought you’d change.”
“I don’t intend to be anyone’s cow. You got your son; now let me be.” At that, she strode through the hall—I glimpsed a light blue gown with an enormous bustle—and down the stairs. The front door opened and slammed.
In a moment, Albert stood at the nursery door. He was clad in what must have been a smoking jacket, a frivolous satin affair with ribbon at its lapels. Though his face was ruddy, he spoke with deliberate calm. “My wife has gone out. I need a quiet night after a tiring week.”
“Ah.” I nodded, wondering why he needed to tell me this. Henry lay heavy against my chest; his eyes fluttered as he moved toward slumber.
Albert cleared his throat. “Would you bring Henry to my study? I’d like to see him.”
“Where is thy study?” I asked, uneasy. Margaret was clanging pans in the kitchen, washing up; Frau Varschen had gone and thus could neither condemn me nor protect me.
Albert turned toward the front stairs. With a wave he bid me to follow.
I didn’t see as I had a choice, so I walked behind, carrying my sleepy package. We turned in the foyer and passed the parlor; Albert opened a carved oak door to a room smelling of leather and tobacco. A wood fire crackled on the grate.
He gestured for me to sit on a large stuffed chair, near to the hearth, and he sat on the facing one. He looked handsome, with his prominent cheekbones and the unblemished skin of a man in good health. His lips are large, like Henry’s, but a large forehead offsets them, giving him an intelligent appearance.
Observing all this made me even less at ease. He didn’t look at ease, either. But he gave me a thin smile.
I turned away, intrigued by the hundreds of leather-bound volumes lining one wall. Here was the real wealth of the house. Titillation rose in me; this collection wasn’t censored by Friends’ prohibitions. One day when no one else was about, I might return and explore. I might even try to read a novel or a play. Johan had loved to read the works of poets he called the Romantics, though this had caused friction with his parents and their Meeting. I remembered the name Wordsworth.