“You might learn some diplomacy,” she admonished—correctly, of course, given my dependence on her. And then, “Are you writing to your baby’s father? You’re using time while in my employ, so I must know.”
With her wasp waist from her tight-laced corset and the expanded shoulders and high collar of her yellow gown, she looked more like a puppet than a woman, and her haughty expression only added to her theatricality.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I have no way to reach him.”
Her lips moved into a slight smile. She picked up an Oriental fan and opened it, then fanned herself. “What sort of a man was he?”
“He was kind, and more intelligent than average.”
“Ah.” She seemed disappointed. “Why didn’t you marry him?”
“He went away and didn’t send for me as promised.”
Clementina looked out the window and pushed her lips together. “There are worse fates than never marrying. At any rate, I called you here to find out how often you feed Henry.”
“When he requests it.” I sank onto a gold velvet chair, for I was light-headed again.
She widened her eyes. “Make it every four hours. My father has just written to say that frequent feedings make their stomachs weak.”
“If I can’t feed him when he calls, he’ll disturb thee.”
“You may take him to the cellar if that happens. But don’t light the stove down there, or the roots will rot.” She stroked her cheek and turned toward the door, suggesting that I exit.
“He’s only just getting up his weight,” I dared to say. “He shows no signs of a weak stomach.”
Clementina looked skyward and sighed. “Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what’s best for my baby. I’m following a doctor’s instructions.”
Lord save us from the doctors and their faddish ideas. Reason cannot compete.
Then Henry began to wail from the nursery down the hall. His mother and I examined each other across her broad desk as my breasts began to tingle and fill. She picked up a pen to begin some new task, and a bold question raced through my head and leaped over the barriers I threw up hastily to confine it.
“May I ask why thee doesn’t care for Henry?”
She lifted her head, pausing her pen. “I was raised by a wet nurse. Are you saying this does a child harm?”
“I have no experience with the effects,” I said.
She widened her eyes.
“Forgive me,” I added.
“I won’t forgive you. You’ve no right to ask such a question. But I’ll tell you exactly why. I see no point in being enslaved by his bodily needs when you can fulfill them in my stead.” A glimmer of some feeling passed behind her eyes, like a fish seen through dark waters.
I made no reply but looked at the ornately flowered wallpaper behind her, keeping my face unaffected. I thought I might understand her behavior, just a little. In sealing her heart against her son, she can retain a modicum of liberty.
“I have a column to write,” she said, pointing her pen toward the door. “And by the way, don’t sit in my presence unless invited.”
I hurried off to the nursery to answer her baby’s calls. As he drank, I thought how Mother often said I was too fiery, and I promised myself I’d be more deferent. I’ve always detested apologetic simpering, yet I must learn to do it. I can’t afford not to.
I finished with Henry. There was no one in the kitchen, so I put on my cloak and walked my letter to the collection box on the corner lamppost. This was my first venture outside in nearly a week, since I’d arrived at the Burnhams’! How strange it felt to step down the front stoop into a rush of strangers pursuing their business in all directions, with the urgency of that business tightening their faces. Or perhaps it was the unpleasantness of their surroundings that made them look so peeved. Carriages and wagons barreled past, their iron-rimmed wheels grating on the cobblestones. Coal and wood smoke thickened the air, and all about in heaps lay the dung of livestock driven earlier to market. The garments of many of these people were finer than what some wear in Germantown, but it appeared that their enjoyment of each moment was less. Many in Germantown can open their doors in spring to the scents of grasses and flowers and to air kept fresh by towering trees.
One might presume that I was homesick.
I mailed my second letter to Gerda.
Margaret is stopping today at the stationer’s for a pile of notebooks and some pencils, some for me and some for herself. There are but a few coins remaining in my purse.
Fourth Month 24
Day six away from Charlotte, and no word from her nurse. I did receive a letter from Anne—a record of my lying-in costs, with some of the balance forgiven, and the amount due represented by a line of zeroes, because she’d been so extraordinarily generous as to apply much of the Burnhams’ fee to my debt. So in three or four months I may have enough saved for a month’s rental on a room and a first installment on a sewing machine.
Delphinia and Frau V. have cast doubt on this way of earning our keep—but I have no better. No school would hire a teacher with a bastard. And I might get a grant to buy a machine from that ladies’ aid society; Delphinia promised to send on any correspondence.
Last night I began to put Clementina’s new feeding schedule into action. I commenced my absurd strolling around the bins of beets, cabbages, carrots, and horseradish in the cellar, dodging the braided onions and garlic suspended on nails, while Henry squalled. All was not bleak; the stone walls gave off a pleasant, earthy smell; a blanket draped over us kept the chill at bay. And I did wait for the first four-hour interval to pass, wearing a path into the dirt floor and turning my old slippers dark. But before the next appointed hour, Henry fussed so that my aching breasts sprayed out their milk, and I put him to me. He curled his minuscule hand around my forearm and kneaded my flesh as he gulped.
Earlier in the night, Margaret and I had our first lesson. She’s intelligent and will make quick progress if she practices. The bits she’d learned from her sister will help her make a strong start. In a month or two, she may be ready to write a simple note to her family.
And who knows what other good may come from her pen. Perhaps the Lord has put me here for Margaret, and her for me, with some larger purpose.
*