“So do you believe yourself ungodly, Miss de Jong?”
It was a large question. Answering such sizable questions always involves me in falsehoods created by the need to simplify. But I tried to speak truly and briefly. “I trusted the word of the man I loved. I put too much at risk in doing so.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “This fellow betrayed you, as you told the doctor and me at that charity. Do you believe, then, that society shouldn’t judge you for your part?”
“Society does judge me a sinner,” I said, “so what I think is irrelevant.”
“But what is a sin, in your view?”
I glanced sideways to see his face, which looked earnest and not prurient, as I’d feared. “I’d say it’s a sin to behave with hate, to be untruthful, to betray the messages that come by the Divine Light. It’s a sin not to remain open to perceiving those revelations.”
“Your language is fascinating. You seem to believe that God troubles to send us individualized instructions. Isn’t there a list of sins already written in the Bible for all to see?”
I sighed. It isn’t easy for some to accept that God may speak to anyone. And I wasn’t prepared to convince him that sin was more than a list of acts. I wanted to return to the kitchen. My hair and clothes were thoroughly wet, and I doubted he’d be going off to work in that sopping jacket. But he was undeterred.
“So in being intimate with your—man,” he asked, “were you following God’s guidance?”
I flushed. Certainly I’ve fallen short of the precepts of my religion. But I didn’t feel I was doing so when giving my body over to Johan. Loving him felt godly. Do the senses trick us? Or do the senses tell us truly, and the world’s restrictions only fail to let us follow them?
“I believed so,” I said. “I certainly believed I was doing right.”
Albert laughed in surprise. “Most people would consider you a worse sinner for that.”
My throat grew thick. I rushed ahead, then took a turn toward the back door of the house.
“Miss de Jong,” he called. “Forgive me.”
He strode closer, and I took a sideways look. His pale face bore signs of true regret—widened eyes, mouth low at the edges. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Seven-forty-five. I’ll need to change this jacket before I go. I beg your leave and thank you for the worthwhile conversation.” He bowed slightly, then raised his head and gave me a crooked smile. “Unrepentant sinners make the best company.” He ran sideways across the grass toward the front door.
In a moment I stood dripping in the hot kitchen, where Margaret was drying the breakfast dishes. She gave me an inquiring look, but I didn’t explain. I picked up a towel and began working beside her, with Albert’s parting comment spreading like a bee sting in my heart.
“May I speak honestly?” Margaret asked.
“Of course,” I said. This was a morning of honesty.
“I doubt any good can come of talking with Mr. Burnham.” Margaret dried her hands, kneeled before the stove, and began refueling it with wood. “It’s lucky Clementina retired for a nap.”
“I’m sure thee is correct.” I sighed. This girl who lacks even the earliest signs of puberty is more sensible than I am—perhaps for that very reason. Just then Henry’s wails reached us, and footsteps clattered on the front stairway.
“Nurse! Where is that damned Lilli.” Clementina rushed in from the hall holding her son, who twisted about in the blanket she’d lifted him with. She strutted to me and pushed him into my arms. “You didn’t come when he woke. Feed him now, and change him. I couldn’t rest with this boy wailing.”
I sat immediately at the table and opened my clothes, then affixed her son to me. Margaret looked on with worried eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I told Clementina. “I stepped out—”
“I’m aware that you were walking with my husband,” she replied coldly. “I expect no better of him. But of you I demand better, despite your blemished history.”
I flushed once more. After she left I promised myself—not for the first time—that I’d keep to my duties and do nothing more against her wishes. For she holds the keys to my independence. Until I can get a sewing machine and a room and reclaim Charlotte, Clementina Appleton Burnham is my guide and judge.
Fifth Month 31
Miss Baker arrived yesterday! Fully recovered, and eager to make up for our days of bland fare and overwork. She’s a tiny woman, perhaps fifty years old, with few wrinkles on her face but some silver in her dark, wavy hair. Her dress is modest and well mended. And, true to her name, she loves—indeed, she lives—to bake. So rather than making soup, I’m helping with sweets and breads during Henry’s long morning nap—and enjoying her company.
Yesterday I made a rum cake while Miss Baker mixed a fruit-bread batter with a giant spoon. She called out my next steps with no recourse to instructions, for she knows the proportions of rising agents to dry and wet, and she improvises the rest. When she had me stir a cup of rum into the batter, I sneezed four times in quick succession. The fumes stung delicate places in my nose and eyes.
“You not used to liquor?” she asked from close beside me. At the edges of her narrow face, the gentle hairs were curled and white.
“I’ve never been so near to rum before,” I told her. Even Father had indulged only in beer.
“I hope you ain’t against all liquor.” She huffed. “There’s a piece I saw in Mrs. Burnham’s Ladies’ Home Journal claiming that folks who drink too much should blame their childhood cooks. Now fancy that. And the writer is begging cooks to stop using alcohol in cakes and gravies so as not to make folks like the taste and damage society. I declare, if taking liquor from the kitchen is the price of temperance, then temperance is overrated.” She guffawed.
I replied that although I do support temperance, I’d never blame a cook for someone’s drunkenness. This pleased her. “But I won’t be allowed to enjoy these sweets anyway,” I said. “Clementina limits my diet, for Henry’s sake.”
“Soon she’ll be wanting to take charge of how often you breathe and how many steps you take,” she said. “Ain’t that so?”
“It certainly is so.” I nodded. “Has she taken charge of thee?”
“Yessum. Tried to cut my budget close for a while, after her mother left for Austria and made Clementina my mistress. But I said, ‘Your mother trusted me to spend what I needed, just as long as the food was to her liking. I suggest you stop all this fussing and leave the kitchen to me.’?” Miss Baker poured batter into a buttered pan. “Don’t worry your head, Miss Lilli. You’ll get your share of sweets.”