Fortunately he pulled his legs to a halt. We stood against a brick building and caught our breath as traffic barreled past. The boy said in a trembling voice that his aunt Gerda had sent him to say the red-haired baby is fine.
I thanked him very much for making the trip, then asked whether conditions were good in the house, if it was clean and airy. He emitted a mildly affirmative but unconvincing sound and wouldn’t meet my eye. The reason may only have been shyness, or fright at Clementina’s treatment. But he was not a good emissary for Gerda’s cause.
Then I asked how many babies she cared for.
“Three or four,” he said. “It changes by the day.”
I stood openmouthed as a streetcar bounced by, jammed with riders. This situation sounded like what Flo and Delphinia had warned me about.
“Please, miss,” the boy said, peering up at me. “I was promised my fare.”
I had to get my purse, so we walked rapidly down the block, into the alley behind the row of attached houses, and through the backyard gate. He stood outside while I ran past Frau V. and up to my room and down again. I gave him two dimes to pay his streetcar fare and to reward his efforts. He smiled, revealing several blackened teeth, then stepped off as I entered the back door to the kitchen.
At that moment Clementina stormed into the kitchen to upbraid me for the low quality of visitor I’d received. “The neighbors will think ill of us if we draw paupers to our door,” she said, “and speak with them in full view of everyone.”
I forced myself not to reply, though inwardly I fumed. Does she expect that I can lodge Charlotte with a queen, who’ll send her courtier in a gilt carriage to report on my baby’s status? Isn’t it enough that my daughter sucks from a woman who feeds many at once, while Henry feasts alone?
After Clementina left, I made an effort to explain what I’d found out to Frau V., for she looked curiously at me, but I could barely speak. She moved toward me and put a fleshy hand to my forehead.
“You’re hot,” she said. “Get to bed. I’ll send up yarrow tea.”
I thanked her. After stopping in the nursery—where Henry was asleep—I ascended to my room.
But I didn’t intend to rest. I had a plan. I resumed sewing some light sacks for Charlotte, since the air has been unseasonably warm, and her wool and flannel clothes must be stifling. I was using the scraps of muslin and cotton that Margaret had given me from the rag basket, saying no one else needed them.
When Clementina returned before supper and stomped up toward her sitting room, I met her there. I begged her forgiveness for coming without being called and asked if I might go tomorrow first thing to see my Charlotte at her wet nurse’s house. “With the warmer weather,” I said, “she needs the items I’m making her.”
“It’s good that you were honest and told me you wanted to go a week early rather than doing so behind my back,” Clementina replied. But she didn’t give permission. She wanted to know why I haven’t given Charlotte up, as the baby causes me such concern and expense. I explained that Charlotte matters more to me than anyone alive. Clementina’s face remained unmoved, and her green eyes scrutinized me, as if to find my true motive.
I began to shed worried tears, which I hated to do in her company. I had to figure out some way to convince her. My mind cast about for something she might understand. Guessing that she loved music, since she’d gone to hear it many nights, I said that I needed to hold my baby, to hear her particular sounds, because otherwise my spirit was tuneless, like an instrument with no player.
Clementina’s face fell. She touched her cheek; a sheen came to her eyes. “I’ve known that sensation,” she replied. “How eerie that you’d mention it.”
I cleared my throat in the quiet that followed. She snapped her attention back to me with a new regard. “Of course you should go in the morning. You’ll take my carriage.”
I expressed my gratitude and took my leave.
I suspect I am feverish. It must be due to fevered emotions. The milk that builds up in the four hours between Henry’s feedings does make my breasts ache, but that wouldn’t cause this heat.
I must wait one night only—several thousand more breaths—and then can see and hold and kiss my plump-cheeked darling, the most accomplished player of that instrument called my heart.
NOTEBOOK FIVE
Fourth Month 26
The household is in a crisis and I’ve become too ill to travel, for my milk is blocked entirely.
Henry screamed in my lap and shook his legs when he tried to nurse last night, and all the others were awakened. The Burnhams watched through the doorway, clad in dressing gowns. Margaret set off to the kitchen and readied her supplies, then set to hand-feeding Henry again. As she tried to get him to take the bottle, he craned his head toward me and cried, his mouth as wide as a baby bird’s. But once I’d left, he sucked cow’s milk and sugar from the rubber nipple.
Margaret said he’s suffering at his return to the bottle, spitting up and contracting his legs into his belly. Hearing his distress from my room above makes my breasts throb, but no milk comes forth. Hot cloths and massage have proved useless. Clementina sent for Dr. Snowe, the man who had evaluated my worthiness, and he replied by post that he’ll call tomorrow.
Perhaps I’ve got influenza, with this fever and the nausea and the dizzy spells. I wouldn’t be surprised, as the windows in this house stay mostly closed to keep out noise and dirt, and the gaslights and stove put out poisonous vapors continually—not to mention the chamber pots and the ever-filling pail of diapers. From now on I’ll keep my window raised.
*
It’s evening. I’ve pulled myself to the end of my bed to look out, seeking solace in the world beyond my own tiny realm. On the street three stories down, the lamplighter is kindling lamps in a line, creating a string of radiant beads. The sidewalks are swelled with people in fine attire. Hansoms led by powerful horses rush by, bringing their passengers to the theater or some other enchanting place. They all pass onward.
Now I see two young boys in matching caps and vests; they face wearily in opposite directions, each with a bag of papers around his neck, offering the news to passersby. They look no more than seven and ought to be asleep by this hour. Is their mother right now looking out a window for a glimpse of them approaching, or listening for their staccato steps on the building’s stairs? Or does she work late, too, pasting flower petals together or cracking nuts or performing other piecework? What would she do if they didn’t come back? Someone could kidnap them, like the poor Ross brothers were kidnapped in Germantown, one of whom was never found. That story frightened Peter and me awfully when we were small.
High up in this slant-ceilinged room, warmed only by a candle and the fetid air rising from below, I’m unable to find a reassuring thought. I send a message into the ether for a passing angel to carry to my baby: Stay well, my darling. Mother will come soon.