The chant in my mind was Charlotte, Charlotte, set to a rhythm called by my feet. As I covered mile upon mile, the sun moved above the horizon, heating the air, and my valise grew more difficult to carry. I stopped in an orchard and ate a sour apple from the ground. By then all the coolness that rises from the earth each night had burned away. A passing farmer offered me a seat in his wagon among sacks of radishes, and I accepted gladly. Soon we reached downtown and halted near a market where he would sell his goods. I asked if he knew of a pawnbroker. He recollected a shop not far from there.
I stepped into a shaded alley that smelled of urine and opened my valise to examine its contents. I had to keep, of course, the plain dress and the collar and sleeves that I was wearing; I decided also to retain the other set like it, the Mother Hubbard dress and sash I’d sewed at the Haven, the brown wool skirt and bodice, my pencils and notebooks, of course, and my toilet items and underthings. I would pawn the most valuable items—the lace-trimmed shirtwaists, the green satin dress with velvet trimming, the boots with French heels, the sheepskin slippers from Margaret, and the leather-bound book by Mill. Adding that last precious item to the pile, I held it close a moment and thanked its author for his understanding, even if the world isn’t yet ready to give up damaging those outside its tiny spheres of propriety. I prayed that the unwed mother might someday gain her liberty.
The pawnbroker was a tired, pale man. His eyes twitched as he reviewed my offerings and explained our arrangement. He would determine the value of my items and loan me that amount; if I wished to reclaim my possessions within four months, I could repay the loan, along with monthly interest and a storage fee. In his ledger he listed each piece with a price beside it.
On telling me the total—three dollars twenty cents—he avoided my gaze, which made me suspect unfairness. But he rejected my appeal for more. Most likely I’d never reclaim the items, he said, and many of them wouldn’t sell, and some needed laundering, “and if you had any idea how much more I give than I should…”
So I assented. He gave me the cash and a written duplicate of his accounting. Lifting my lightened case, I exited the shop, the string of bells on the door tinkling behind me.
I had but eight dollars and change. Another day had passed, so I’d need ten to get Charlotte out. Where to go? I took Albert’s card from my pocket. His office was at Eighth and Chestnut Streets; I was only a few blocks away. By then the hour was ten—the many clocks and church bells downtown keep one well apprised—and he’d said to come earlier or later, but that couldn’t be helped.
In a corner park across the street from the pawn shop, I took my hair down, combed it, pinned it up, and rinsed my face in a fountain intended to water horses, having no choice but to ignore the passing vehicles and people. It appeared that many others had used this water source for similar purposes, as fragments of soap and discarded rags were strewn about. I dried my face with the edge of my sleeve, lifted my valise, and moved my weary legs toward Albert’s address.
A guard in a military-style jacket stood at the doors of the building—a tall, marble edifice that bore brass signs for many businesses. “What brings you here, lass?” he inquired.
I showed Albert’s card and said he was expecting me. The guard bowed and let me pass into a commodious, high-ceilinged foyer with mahogany walls. The stone floor brought a welcome coolness to my feet. When I presented myself to a woman standing at a high desk, she picked up a flexible speaking tube and shouted into it, asking the assistant at the other end whether Mr. Burnham would accept a visitor. An affirming shout came, so she pointed to a set of wide stairs and said, “No need for the elevator. It’s one flight up.”
An elevator! I was relieved not to have to step inside one of those unsafe boxes and be looked up and down by its operator.
Albert stood in the doorway of his office, his manner pleasant and welcoming. He ushered me in. Then he slid the bolt lock on the door, which seemed unnecessary.
“Please take a seat,” he said, pointing to a stuffed chair in front of the unlit hearth. He sat beside me in another chair rather than behind the huge desk. The room’s many shelves showed an array of foreign objects, from ivory carvings and embroidered shawls to swords of antique workmanship. It smelled like a spice stall at an indoor market. Interior shutters covered the lower portions of its many tall windows, so that the light was dimmed and soothing.
“I’m pleased you came.” He grinned. “This is my uncle’s business, if you didn’t know, and he’s arranging contracts in England. So I’m quite at ease today.” His eyes skimmed my form. “Are you hoping I’ll buy you a new dress, since clearly you’re in need of one?”
Why did he seek to knock me off balance by referring to my looks? “I’ve come about a life-and-death matter,” I told him.
“You’ve angered my wife, that’s certain.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Drugging Henry was not among your duties. But I don’t believe she’ll kill you.”
“No,” I said.
“What are your employment prospects?”
“I haven’t begun to look,” I said. “My urgent need right now is—”
He stood, put on his reading glasses, and chose a sheet of paper from the desk. Handing it to me, he said, “Read this.”
I began deciphering the scrawl. “Without further assurances of your intention to pay, Burnham Imports, Incorporated, must cease to—”
“Excellent.” He took the page back. “That’s as crooked as my penmanship ever gets. I’m guessing yours is neat and accurate?” He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a monogrammed handkerchief from his vest pocket.
“It had to be. Penmanship was a special consideration at my school.”
“Then you can work here. I don’t like typewriters, and I think handwriting presents a better impression overseas. I’ll give you an advance on your pay so you can buy suitable clothing for our offices.” He leveled his eyes with mine. “I’m pleased. We’ll spend more time together.”
“But—” I blurted.
He waved a hand to quiet me, then dropped into a chair, pushing his hands outward on his thighs to smooth his linen trousers.
“No need to object,” he said. “The typewriter is a miserable invention. Until it can produce more than a sentence without the keys jamming, we’ll need someone who can make my notes into presentable correspondence. Your skills will be better than the others here, I imagine, since you were a teacher.”
“I appreciate thy offer,” I finally said. “I’ll be very pleased to accept it soon. But my baby’s in danger.”
Before he could respond, a knock came at the door, and a man’s voice informed him of a telegram.
“I’m occupied,” Albert yelled out. “Come back in half an hour.” To me he said, “What’s happened to the baby?”
“She was put in the almshouse after a fire destroyed her wet nurse’s home. I need ten dollars to get her out, and I have only eight.”
“Ah, so you’ve come to me for money.” His face retained its pleasant look but lost some of its luster.
“I’ll be glad to repay thee with work,” I said. “Once I’ve regained my baby.”