Once they’d left, I walked through the mansion’s rooms and gazed on its shining floors, its wallpapers of dizzying patterns, its ornate upholstery and furnishings. Though pleased to have had a hand in its beautification, I felt as out of place in the splendor as a robin might feel among peacocks.
I took refuge in the list of chores. I emptied ashes from the kitchen stove, fueled it, filled the woodbox, prepared ingredients for the midday meal, swept and mopped the kitchen floor, and scrubbed the pots from last night’s supper. I avoided seditious behavior—not a crumb of cake did I eat, nor a drop of tea imbibe. I nursed Henry till his belly protruded and he slept. Yet I found no ease, even with him. He seemed a stranger to me, a stranger who lives off my body while my Lotte sucks at another’s.
I rose to my room, a cavernous, slant-roofed attic space with beams above and unpolished planks below. It smells of camphor and dust, but I adore it. In the day, the sun enters in a dappled pattern, its force muted by high trees at the back of the property. In the night, moonlight penetrates its corners and cools my thoughts. But I’m the first to use it as a servant’s room, and it hadn’t yet been cleaned.
I fetched rags and soapy water and began to weave a damp rag among the heaps of forgotten items—the old spinning wheel and loom, the hat racks and clothes dummies, the trunks and crates and barrels. They fairly glowed with hidden meanings, as if they could have spoken of who had used them and what they’d done, if only my rag would find and free their tongues.
My eye was drawn to a stack of papers piled upon the floor. The top item was a musical score inscribed “Clementina Appleton.” Tucked inside were four parchment awards naming Clementina for best violin performance, four years in a row. I opened a school copybook next and saw page after page of the exquisite handwriting that young Clementina had cultivated. The topic she wrote upon obsessively? Music. Playing it, listening to it, studying it—adoring it.
Beside the papers lay a china doll. It had a pale face, painted green eyes, and light brown curls, not unlike Clementina’s, and it held in its arms a tiny violin. Though lifeless, unmoving, fixed in place, it spoke to me of Clementina’s early passion—which struck me as bittersweet. Then it spoke to me of something more. I felt myself a castaway, just like the doll—a relic whose purpose has passed, now hidden out of sight, serving only to remind the accidental viewer of a potential that has vanished.
I took up this notebook.
I’m in close walking distance to the Meeting I attended twice weekly for nearly all my years. And for the first time since leaving, I feel not defiance, or hurt, but a frank and open longing. I miss the buoyant silence of our Meeting for Worship. I want to join my mind with the stream of awareness flowing through the meetinghouse. With eyes closed, I used to hear it in my mind as if it were an actual stream, flowing at the level of our heads, growing fuller and more solace-giving as one mind after another calmed and entered.
What if I did join in on some First Day, while the others in this household were out? What if I walked there during Henry’s long morning nap, which can now be counted on, and took a seat in the women’s section? Perhaps someone who’d disapproved most heartily of Father—probably the flat-faced Edgar Dinkles—would lean to my ear and whisper, “It’s best for thee to go.” I’d rise, stiff as a dressmaker’s dummy. His hand pressing at my back would speed my progress toward the door.
Someone else might follow me out and comfort me—perhaps a friend from school who hadn’t married and moved away. But I could never tell her my predicament.
The Burnhams have come home. I hear them in the foyer. It’s time to ready their food.
Tomorrow afternoon, after too many days without seeing her, I’ll visit my baby.
Fifth Month 28
My steps were rapid as I traveled the mile or so to the eastmost block of Centre Street. Gina welcomed me, holding Lucia to her, and led me to the doorway of their room. My Lotte lay on her back in a cradle, sucking at her fist, until I called the sweet melody of her name. Then she turned her gaze to me; her breath became a pant, and she opened her mouth into a grin.
Oh, my love! I took her in my arms and exulted, as if a lost piece of me was fitted back in place. She had neither forgotten nor forsaken me.
She mouthed at my breast, insisting on being fed, as if to confirm that I still belong to her. As she nursed, she paused to rub her cheek against me, the edges of her mouth turning up. With her inch-long fingers she pulled and patted at my chest.
Then Gina and I sat at the kitchen table, babies in our laps, eating bread and cheese and salty pickles. I even got to enjoy a sugary cup of tea without fearing Clementina’s censure, though Lucia’s round eyes were fierce as they roved about, and I pretended she was discovering my treachery, to amuse myself and Gina.
Lucia can raise her head now. It’s covered in black curls, like her mother’s. But my attention was mainly fixed to Charlotte. Her facial features have gained more shape. At nearly two months old, she shows less fussiness and more lively interest. She reached for my bread and cheese, and banged her fist against my hand in trying to grab my teacup, causing me to spill lukewarm tea on her—which seemed to interest more than to upset her.
As Gina and I talked, I observed her new family through the kitchen windows. Victor, dark-haired and slim, was feeding a pig in a pen and two goats on tethers. Angela, light-haired and plump, pounded and shaped dough on a wooden slab, then fed the loaves into a brick oven that had a fire burning underneath. Their small yard held a grape arbor, fig and apple trees, berry bushes and vines, a kitchen garden, and a small fish pond with painted tiles at its perimeter. Indeed, I was much impressed with their industriousness. But when Angela came up the back stoop into the kitchen, her tone was harsh.
“Every noise wakes your baby.” She faced my way as she washed her hands over a tub. “Lucia sleeps the night. But your baby wakes and screams.” She pointed at Charlotte, who lay contented in my lap. “She wants to nurse always!” Angela opened her wet palms, exasperated. “I rock her so Gina can try and sleep. But your baby, she cries and cries.”
“Has thee tried a bottle—” I attempted.
Angela shook her head, drying her hands on a cloth. “She don’t take it.”
Gina looked at me sideways with a sympathetic expression that seemed to say, It’s all true, but I’m sorry for how harshly it’s coming out.
My reactions tangled in my chest and ached there. I must be grateful to these women, for Charlotte is undoubtedly a challenge. But I would put up with this difficulty willingly, and wouldn’t let her scream through the night, if I could care for her myself. Not to mention that I would never let my own charge, Henry, suffer so. I hoped the nights of crying wouldn’t damage Charlotte’s temperament.
“You should pay more,” Angela said, “two dollars a week, not one fifty.”