Albert pulled a cord to call for Margaret. She arrived in seconds, whisking stray bangs from her forehead.
“Brandy, please,” he said. “Bring the one that just arrived, the cognac, for myself and the nurse.”
“Oh, I don’t drink brandy,” I corrected—as if, in any case, I would drink it with him.
“Wine, then?” His face was stripped of expression.
“No alcohol.” I turned to Margaret. “Nothing, please.” She nodded and left, then returned with a decanter and one glass. Her manner was tight and awkward, and she kept her eyes from me. Did she suppose I was intentionally making myself her better by sitting with Albert? She poked at the fire, added a log, and left.
Albert drank, his mouth pursing around each sip of the liquid before he swallowed it. Henry gazed, nearly asleep, in his father’s direction. Albert made an abrupt, laugh-like sound, giving Henry a start.
“So you don’t indulge in alcohol.” He gave another laugh that galled me, then delivered his clever formulation: “A woman of principle, recruited from a charity for whores.”
Mother had warned me that indulgent folk will disparage those who are less so. Nevertheless, his crudeness pained me. And how melancholy he looked, despite his sarcastic attempt at cheer. Unhappiness had slackened the muscles of his face and dulled his eyes.
“Let me have a turn with the boy,” he said, reaching across the space between us. I passed Henry over, and he settled his son in the crook of one arm and watched him. Henry made no protest at the switch. When I commented on Albert’s apparent comfort with holding a baby, he said he’d helped raise a younger brother after his mother died.
So we had a mother’s death and a younger brother in common. Henry closed his eyes and sank against his father. I stared into the fire. After a silence—a state that Friends tolerate more easily than others—Albert spoke.
“How are you finding your time here?”
“I’m grateful for the work.” I smoothed the fabric on my lap and felt a thrill at having no baby on it. If I could have risen and examined the books, that feeling would have grown to elation.
“The food and accommodations are acceptable?”
“Completely.”
“And your little girl, she’s provided for?”
Worry cut into me. “I know almost nothing of her situation.”
“She’s been sent to a nurse, of course.” Albert’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know how she’s faring. I wrote her nurse this morning for news.”
He nodded. “It’s novel for us to have a nurse who can write well enough to send a letter.” Reaching his free arm over Henry’s sleeping body, he grabbed his glass and raised it to his mouth.
“Thee might consider it an obligation to educate thy servants,” I told him. He swallowed abruptly. “Margaret has lived here several years, and she can’t read or write a letter.”
He eyed me, taking my measure. “You’re feisty, Miss de Jong. But I suppose I forgive you. Quakers feel an obligation to educate everyone, don’t they?”
“Everyone has the right to better themselves.”
“So what is the Quaker attitude to fallen women?” he said. “Can you better yourself?” He took another sip, amused at his thought. “Say, do they even allow you in the meetinghouse?”
“I no longer attend.”
“But if you tried to enter, would you be admitted?”
“I don’t know of any religion that welcomes a woman in my position into its place of worship.” I stared, daring him to press further.
“Ah, then what’s the good of this virtue you so heartily aim to maintain?” he asked. “Why bother with your thee and thy? Why not enjoy a glass of brandy?”
I wanted to protest, but my voice shut down. My face grew hot. Indeed! Why not speak as most others do, and enjoy a glass of brandy, if everyone considers me a sinner without a second thought?
Because habits live on. Because plain speech is a salute to the Inner Light in everyone. Because I cling to the ways of Friends. Because alcohol emboldens the passions and closes the eyes of the spirit.
Margaret returned at Albert’s call, a picture of sweet refinement in her black dress, white apron, and cap. She refilled Albert’s glass, put the decanter down, and inquired as to whether she could bring anything else.
Albert cocked his head. “Tell me, Margaret. Would you like to learn to read and write?”
Margaret stopped in place, head and shoulders shrinking toward one another, as if afraid of being mocked or punished.
“I’d be glad to teach thee,” I reiterated.
“Then yes.” Her carriage straightened. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Burnham.”
“I’ve got no grounds to deny it, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. I’ll inform my wife.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” She curtsied, and a grin spread across her freckled face.
He smiled slightly in return. “You’re a good girl, Margaret.”
When she left, he began to chuckle. “What are you doing to this household? Before long, you’ll all be quoting that communist Karl Marx in the kitchen and plotting to take my place.”
I resolved to search Albert’s bookshelves for something by that man. I’d seen the name but didn’t know his philosophy.
Albert took a large gulp of brandy and breathed out its fumes. “Do you suppose your example will do Margaret good?”
“Yes, it’s good for her to know an educated servant.”
“I mean your—situation,” he said. “I shouldn’t think you’d consider yourself a beneficial example.”
His arrow hit its mark and spread its poison. Margaret might be appalled to learn my full circumstances, and even badly influenced.
In the quiet that followed, Henry began to stir in his father’s lap. He opened and closed his lips in a fishlike way, then gave out his early hunger sounds that would lead to crying. I stood.
“May I be excused? Henry needs to nurse.”
Albert put on a crooked smile. “I’d like to watch my son take sustenance from a fallen woman, since he can’t take it from my virtuous wife.” He took a full gulp from his glass.
Panic limited my breathing, as if a body had fallen on my chest. Alcohol certainly deserves its reputation for emboldening the lower appetites.
“But of course that wouldn’t be appropriate.” Albert put down the glass and raised Henry toward me as the boy’s noises grew plangent.
“Of course not.” With relief I stepped forward and took Henry.
“Miss de Jong, you interest me.” His head swayed slightly as he watched me settle his son in my arms. Red spots colored his cheeks. He moved his hand toward the door, suggesting that I make my way out, then gave me a peculiar grin before shifting to a dreamlike state.
I left in haste with Henry and turned the key in the nursery door once I stood inside that room.
It’s been an hour since, judging by the clock’s tolling. I’m in my own room now, in bed, and the door has no lock. If Albert comes up here, I’ll run to Margaret’s room and refuse to be alone with him again.