A Sense of Entitlement (4 page)

“And this is your sitting room,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, “where you would’ve been served your dinner, if you’d been punctual.” Preoccupied with admiring my surroundings and worried I might never find my way again, I ignored the housekeeper’s barb.

My sitting room?
I thought. I’d never had my own sitting room before. Seems I had my own bath as well. As Mrs. Crankshaw explained, the sitting room, with its polished cherry woodwork and pale rose damask wall coverings, was part of a three-room suite consisting of sitting room, bedroom, and bath. A large oak desk covered in green leather and silver writing accessories beckoned. Instead I approached the bookshelf and scanned the titles of a variety of reference books: a current atlas of the city of Newport, the latest Social Registers of Newport, New York, Boston, and several other cities, a Newport city directory, an American and an English
Who’s Who,
an
Almanach de Gotha,
and
Burke’s Peerage
.

“Since Mrs. Pemberton, the former social secretary, is not here to acquaint you with your duties, it falls to me,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. I could feel my stomach clench in anticipation. “As Madam’s secretary, you are expected to maintain her calendar, answer her mail, and pay her personal bills.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Crankshaw hadn’t mentioned anything that I hadn’t done for other employers before. I began to relax as she approached a large white closet that took up one side of the room.

“You are to have the menus approved, which should be my job,” Mrs. Crankshaw grumbled. “And mind I don’t take well to those that waste Chef’s time.” Before I could reassure her on that measure, she continued. “You’re to put together guest lists and seating arrangements while avoiding any social faux pas. You’re to address all invitations by hand and deliver them personally. You’re to deal directly with florists, caterers, and social entertainers.” The list of duties went on and on.

Although I maintained perfect posture and didn’t blink, I squeezed my perspiring hands together. Menus? Guest lists? Social faux pas? This was not going to be my typical assignment after all. I hoped Monsieur Valbois wasn’t the temperamental type.

“Madam will decide if and when preprinted invitations are necessary. If you need anything that is not here, you tell me, not Madam. We have a standing order with George H. Carr, on Thames. Is that clear?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, despite being not sure at all if everything was clear.

“Right, now here’s the stationery,” the housekeeper said, nodding her head and opening the double doors of the closet to reveal more stationery than I’d ever seen outside of a stationery shop. Notepaper of all sizes, some inscribed with the Mayhew family crest and some simply with
ROSE MONT
embossed across the top in gold, were stacked tightly next to their accompanying envelopes. Notebooks, pads, pencils, erasers, pens, and bottles of ink were tucked into boxes neatly to one side.

“This does meet with your approval then?” Mrs. Crankshaw said, challenging me to say otherwise.

I knew she meant the duties in their entirety, but I couldn’t keep my awed gaze from the contents of the closet. Organized to perfection and almost glimmering under the electric light, the stationery was just waiting for me to put it to good use.

I am up to this challenge,
I thought as I smiled at Mrs. Crankshaw, who raised an eyebrow at me in response. In fact, I couldn’t wait to begin.

“Yes, Mrs. Crankshaw, I think it will do me quite nicely.”

But wait I would have to do.

Mrs. Crankshaw had kept me a full hour longer, first detailing her litany of rules and expectations for all female household staff and then explaining what had already been done for the upcoming garden party and ball. The musicians had been engaged, but the menus were still in dispute. I still had the invitations to complete and address, of course, but luckily for me, Mrs. Pemberton, the previous secretary, had already supplied Madam with a guest list for both. My task was to see to the minor adjustments that would need to be made to the guest list as the event approached, such as cancellations due to illness, unexpected travel, or Mrs. Mayhew’s fickle opinion that a guest was “no longer suitable.” I could only imagine what that could mean.

I then spent two more hours arranging for someone to retrieve my trunk and hatboxes. I had numerous exasperating conversations, going back and forth between Elmer, the coachman, and Mr. Davies, the butler. As there had been no word from Mrs. Mayhew, the coachman was unwilling to accommodate me. Only when a call came that Mr. Mayhew was arriving on the early morning steamer was Mr. Davies able to convince the coachman to pick up my things on the way to the wharf. But that meant that I would be without a change of clothes, toiletries, or a proper box for my hat until the next morning. With nothing left to do and, despite my exhaustion, no inclination for sleep, I brought out Sir Arthur’s manuscript and set up my typewriter on the desk in my sitting room. I’d never used a desk that dwarfed my little typewriter. I was thrilled. I found blank paper in the closet and set to typing. Calm and composure settled over me as the steady, familiar clicking and clanking of the keys hitting paper filled my new home. After only two pages, I staggered to my feet, found my way to the bedroom, and for the second time today collapsed onto the bed fully dressed. But this time I had a smile on my face.

I
awoke to the sound of my door clicking shut. I bolted upright in bed. My trunk! It sat at the foot of my bed. I had slept so soundly I hadn’t even heard them deliver it.

I really was tired!
I thought. I jumped out of bed, changed my clothes, and splashed water on my face and neck, eager to start my day. I bounded down the back stairs to the kitchen only to find the scullery maid just stoking the oven fire. I was up before the chef and breakfast was an hour away. Even Mrs. Crankshaw was still warm in her bed. Now what did I do? Mrs. Mayhew wouldn’t need me until well after breakfast.

I’ll go for a hike,
I thought enthusiastically. A bit of fresh air would do me wonders. But then I hesitated. Did I dare leave the grounds before requesting permission from Mrs. Mayhew? No, I couldn’t jeopardize my position for a hike, no matter how eager I was to see more of Newport.
So I won’t leave the grounds,
I thought. With the massive estate stretching from Bellevue Avenue to the ocean cliffs, I’d have more than enough to explore in an hour. I wasn’t used to reporting my comings and goings, but this household was different, or so Mrs. Crankshaw informed me, so I found the kitchen maid Sena, who was busy boiling water for tea and coffee. She was the most senior staff member about. When I told her I would be back well before breakfast and would only be taking a stroll about the grounds, she looked at me with a furrowed brow but nodded her head slowly. She probably wasn’t used to having anyone tell her their comings and goings either.

Without changing my shoes, I slipped out the servants’ entrance door and immediately found myself facing an immense expanse of perfectly manicured green lawn under the sky, a jumble of puffy clouds ablaze with the pink, purple, and red of dawn. And then I was struck by the alternating rhythmic swish and boom sound of crashing water. How had I not noticed it before? I walked slowly, as if in a dream, drawn to the soothing sound of the waves. I passed through numerous rose gardens and gave them barely a second glance. I only stopped when I could go no farther. Resting my hands on the top of the stone wall separating Rose Mont from a well-worn gravel path that snaked along the top of the cliffs, I held my breath. Before me, stretching out to the distant horizon, was the vast shimmering blue ocean. Not the boat ride through Block Island Sound at night or my glimpse of Newport Harbor had prepared me for this. This was the ocean I’d dreamt of, the endless, ceaseless, unforgiving, mesmerizing sea. I couldn’t take my gaze away. Seagulls glided on wind currents just above me and waves crashed against the black rocks far below while I stood there, enthralled by the beauty for I don’t know how long. But when I heard someone walking toward me on the path I realized I’d been standing there too long. I regretfully pulled myself away from the scene and returned to the house.

“Where have you been?” Mrs. Crankshaw said as I entered the Servants’ Hall. “Mrs. Mayhew has been ringing for you. I had to go in your place and explain your mysterious absence. She is eager for you to get started. You’re lucky she’s a forgiving mistress. But I can tell you, one word of this to the master and you won’t last an hour longer in this house. Now get up there. She’s in her sitting room. I’ll send up your breakfast.”

I was flustered and embarrassed to have been negligent in my duties. I should’ve been here. I should’ve waited to talk to Mrs. Mayhew before I’d gone out. I wanted to apologize to Mrs. Crankshaw; she should not have had to make excuses for me. I wanted to explain to her that it wouldn’t happen again. I wanted to shake off the hypnotic sound of the waves still in my ears. But Mrs. Crankshaw wouldn’t stop talking.

“Stop standing there like you’d never been chastised before. Go,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, shooing me away with a wave of her arms. “She’s expecting you. So go. Go!” I turned around and began climbing the winding back stairs. I’d gone two flights before I realized I had no idea where I was going. I’d been given a brief tour of the house last night, but I’d been tired and the house was so big, I quickly got lost. I considered going back down to ask Mrs. Crankshaw but decided against it. Instead I opened the first door that I came to that looked like the one that led into the house proper. I opened the door a crack and peeked out to make sure no one was about. Luckily I’d found the wide second-floor hallway I’d been led down last night. I headed in the direction of what I remembered might be Mrs. Mayhew’s sitting room, peering into rooms with open doors hoping to find either Mrs. Mayhew or a housemaid who could direct me. I was unlucky to find neither. But what I saw was astounding. Room after room was as elaborately and expensively decorated as those I’d seen last night, glittering chandeliers, gilded mirrors stretching the length of the room, high-backed mahogany chairs, silk draperies. Were there no rooms with simple, comfortable décor?

“Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?” a man demanded. I twisted around to face him.

I was speechless. And not because I’d been caught by the master of the house wandering from room to room or because he had a towel draped around his neck and was dressed in only a quarter-sleeve shirt and tights but because the man storming toward me was the gentleman I’d seen on the boat yesterday morning. He was the same man who had conspired with the Pinkerton detective to push the trunk overboard, Mr. Mayhew, one of the richest men in America!

Why?

I had no more time to wonder, as he was quickly upon me. He was merely a few feet away, with more than indignation written across his face, when I finally found the courage to speak. “Miss Hattie Davish, sir,” I said, far more meekly than I’d like. “I’m Mrs. Mayhew’s new secretary, sir.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he demanded, pulling a monocle from his breast pocket and staring me in the eyes. I was relieved when not a flicker of recognition showed in his gaze.

“I’m lost, sir. This is the biggest house I’ve ever been in. I can’t seem to find Madam’s sitting room.”

“Carry on then,” he said. I stepped out of his way as he strode past me. I let out a sigh of relief as I watched him go down the hall and disappear into one of the rooms that had been closed.

“Un, deux, trois,”
I counted, trying to collecting my composure, but my mind raced. I pulled out the pad and pencil I always carried and started a list. My hands shook as I did.

1. Why would Mr. Mayhew want a trunk thrown overboard?
   
2. Why would he be involved with a Pinkerton detective?
   
3. What was in the trunk?
   
4. Why did everyone think Mr. Mayhew had arrived this morning and not yesterday?
   

I tucked the notebook away, silently chiding myself for wasting time making a list of questions that had nothing to do with me. I was still lost and now late meeting with Mrs. Mayhew. But before I could get reoriented in this enormous house, footsteps and the sound of whistling echoed down the hall behind me. I froze.

Is that “Ode to Joy” again?
Hoping I was wrong and would find a maid carrying a duster or a footman with a tray, I looked back and locked eyes with the Pinkerton detective. I instantly turned my face away and feigned interest in the elaborate swirl pattern pervading the yellow marble wall but watched him out of the corner of my eye. Whether from the distance between us or his preoccupation, he didn’t give me any sign of recognition either. Instead he stopped at the same door Mr. Mayhew had entered and knocked. A moment later the detective opened the door and disappeared, leaving the door slightly ajar. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d headed straight down the hallway, walking slowly past the door the men had entered. Mr. Mayhew was speaking.

“I won’t have this, Doubleday. As you can see, my time in the gymnasium has been interrupted again. The man’s a menace. I assume you’re aware of the telegraph operators’ strike?” Doubleday mumbled a reply. “It wouldn’t have happened if I’d owned the telegraph. No labor unions exist in my companies! Maybe I should speak to Gould when he comes to Charlotte’s party.”
George Jay Gould?
I wondered. I immediately took note to make sure he was on the guest list. “Anyway, what’s the news out of Biddeford?”

“We took care of it,” Doubleday said. “The mills are running with most of the workers back on the job. The union men seem to have disappeared, though.” The man chuckled. “You shouldn’t hear anything more from them.”

“Good. Either way, I want you to double your men and at first sign of any trouble make sure their weapons are visible. I can’t afford a strike or a slowdown in production. And cut wages in half if necessary.” Papers rustled and then were slapped down onto a table. “By God, did you see this headline, Doubleday? More banks have failed! Nine banks in six cities! What the hell is Cleveland doing to this country?”

“It is unfortunate, sir,” Doubleday said obligingly.

“Yes, it is . . . unfortunate,” Mayhew scoffed. “Let’s hope you don’t have savings tied up in a bank.”

As they spoke of business and banks I’d been reminded whom I was eavesdropping on. After all, if Mr. Gideon Mayhew wanted a trunk pushed into the ocean who was I to question him? He had his reasons and most likely a simple and innocuous explanation. Perhaps the trunk didn’t even have anything in it, let alone a dead body! Had I let my imagination and previous experiences get the best of me? As I walked past the office door for the second time, I spied a chambermaid entering one of the rooms down the hall with her arms full of bed linens. She’d be able to guide me to Mrs. Mayhew’s sitting room, assuming the lady was still there. I gave up on learning anything more about the trunk or why these two men had been so eager to see it disappear into the ocean and strode quickly toward where the maid had disappeared.

“Miss Davish!” Mrs. Mayhew said when I finally arrived. The chambermaid had been obliging, leading me through a maze of interconnected rooms, a shortcut she called it, and delivered me to the sitting room within minutes. I instantly recognized it from my tour last night, with its white woodwork, sea green damask wall coverings, and plush white furniture. I lamented, however, that I still didn’t know how to get here again. Mrs. Mayhew was lying on an overstuffed chaise longue upholstered in pink silk, stroking the long pure white fur of a Turkish Angora cat. The sun sprayed a medley of colors on the floor beside her as it streamed in through the stained-glass transom. “I rang hours ago,” Mrs. Mayhew exaggerated as the cat leaped from her lap and crossed the room. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I apologize, ma’am,” I said, the cat brushing up against my leg in greeting. I knelt down to pet him and was rewarded with a purr. His fur was silky and soft. “I got lost.” To my relief, Mrs. Mayhew laughed. The cat scampered back to the warm lap of his owner.

“It is the biggest house in Newport, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, ma’am.”

“I helped design it myself. Didn’t I, Bonaparte?” she said, pulling the cat close and snuggling her cheek into the back of his head. “Well, we’ll have to make sure that Mrs. Crankshaw gives you a proper tour so you don’t lose yourself again.” I couldn’t tell her Mrs. Crankshaw had given me a tour but I’d been too tired and nervous to pay attention. “I’m most anxious to get started. The garden party is in a few days and I have a million letters to answer. You can sit there.” She pointed to a chair next to the oak secretary piled with papers, letters, and magazines. “Hand me the first one, will you?” I took the seat but had no idea which letter in all the chaos she was referring to. My hand hovered over the pile. “Just grab one,” she said. I did, an invitation that was postmarked yesterday.

“Ah,” she said, glancing at the contents. “Tell her I’d be delighted.” She handed it back to me. I looked about for something to write with but couldn’t find a single pen or pencil in the vast array of things on the desk. I pulled the pencil from my skirt pocket and scribbled her response on the envelope. With no empty space on the desk, I set the letter on the floor and handed Mrs. Mayhew another.

“She’s persistent,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll give her that. But I wish Miranda would stop inviting me. I do so hate to say no.” I took the letter from her, jotted down
no
and started a new pile on the floor.

The next was a monthly bill for flowers.
Five hundred dollars?
I had to read it twice, the sum was so alarming. I glanced at the bouquet of pink and white hollyhocks on the center table. These fresh blooms, and those like them in every room I’d seen so far, including my own sitting room, cost more in a month than I earned in a year. And yet Mrs. Mayhew barely glanced at the bill before tossing it back at me.

“Fine,” she said. “The checkbook’s in the drawer. Take it with you and write them out as I approve them. I’ll sign them later.” I opened the drawer of the desk with difficulty.

“What’s in here, ma’am?” I asked, pulling on the solid silver drawer handles.

“I don’t know, invitations, bills, and calling cards that arrived after Mrs. Pemberton left?”

After a moment or two of pulling gently, I yanked hard enough it nearly flew out from the desk. Papers of every size, shape, and color had jammed the drawer and some now had dropped on the floor.
What a disaster! I must organize this later,
I thought as I rummaged through until I found the checkbook.

“There’s fifteen thousand deposited in the bank in my account for this month. You’re to keep track, you see.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I’d never been responsible for so much money in my life. “Here’s a request for a donation to the Children’s Friend Society.”

“Oh, you can get rid of that and any others like it.”

“Ma’am?” I said.

“Charity requests, Miss Davish, ignore them. Gideon insists we don’t give any money to the poor. He says such people are less fit anyway so why waste good money on them?”

What kind of man allowed his wife to spend hundreds on flowers but not a penny on a children’s charity? In all my years working for the privileged, I’d never encountered such a callous attitude toward the less fortunate. And yet all I could say to Mrs. Mayhew was, “Yes, ma’am.” I tucked the donation request in my pocket and vowed to send them something myself. It was the least I could do.