A Sense of Entitlement (5 page)

We continued in this way for several hours, the pile on the desk slowly diminishing as the stacks on the floor grew. When we were finally done, or truly when Mrs. Mayhew tired of the activity, the desk was nearly empty. I was able to quickly organize what remained.

“Ma’am?” I said as Mrs. Mayhew was drifting off to sleep. I placed the stacks from the floor onto the desk.

“We’re done for today, aren’t we?” she said without opening her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am, but I found a letter addressed to your husband at the bottom of the pile.”

Mrs. Mayhew sat up quickly, jostling her cat awake. He mewed in protest as I handed the letter to her. The letter had been delivered days ago by post and was still unopened.

“Oh, dear. How could this have happened?” She looked up at me and frowned. “Thank goodness I have you now,” she said. “This won’t happen again.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, ma’am.”

“Gideon won’t be pleased.” She looked around as if inspiration for the solution to the problem would be found somewhere in the room. Then she turned to me again and handed back the letter. “You must deliver this to him immediately.”

“Of course, ma’am.” I kept my anxiety out of my voice. The prospect of interacting with Mr. Mayhew again wasn’t appealing. Whether the incident with the trunk proved to be sinister or not, Mr. Mayhew didn’t strike me as a pleasant man. “If you could tell me how to get back to his office, ma’am, I’ll take it to him right now.”

“Oh, no, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said, glancing at the pink and gold gilded porcelain clock on the mantel. “Gideon is done with breakfast and his morning exercise. He’s probably at the Reading Room by now. You’ll have to give it to him there.” Another room I had no idea how to find.

“I apologize for my ignorance, Mrs. Mayhew, but would you be kind enough to direct me to that room? I assure you I will learn my way around as soon as possible as not to trouble you again.” To my surprise, Mrs. Mayhew laughed.

“Ha, ha, how deliciously naïve! I do like you, Miss Davish. What a funny idea, the Reading Room in this house! And to think I wouldn’t be allowed to enter it. Ha, ha!” I tried not to blush as the woman laughed at my expense. “Seriously though, Miss Davish, you must acquaint yourself with the important places and people in Newport if you’re to work in this house.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I knew how I’d spend this night—reading the books in my sitting room.

“I need to be able to rely on you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well. The Reading Room, Miss Davish, is an exclusive club in town. Have Davies arrange for Elmer to take you there. Now, take those”—she motioned toward the stacks on the desk—“except the magazines, I want to read those later, and make sure the replies are in this afternoon’s post or hand-delivered when appropriate.”

“When would you like to sign them, ma’am?” I said, trying to calculate how I was going to personally deliver a letter to Mr. Mayhew somewhere in town while still getting several dozens of letters into this afternoon’s post.

“Oh, no, I don’t sign replies. You answer them for me. I rely completely on you for these things.” She lay back on the chaise longue, the cat purring and content once again. “I have other things to do.”

I looked about for a case or even a box I could carry everything in but saw nothing of the kind. So I gathered up the stacks of letters and papers, the checkbook, and the letter to Mr. Mayhew and held them tightly against my chest.

“Would it be possible—?” I began, hoping to make an arrangement with the coachman, but she raised her hand for silence.

“You’re excused, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said, closing her eyes again.

With the stacks of papers in my hands, I retraced the way the chambermaid had led me through the house back to my own suite, only to struggle to open the door. I clutched at the knob, with no success, as three people, all nearly the same age, about twenty, ascended the grand staircase down the hall. The two women, a blonde and a brunette, each carried a tennis racquet and a simple straw hat with wide satin ribbon. They wore sporty tennis dresses, one in blue-and-white-striped denim, the other in pink broadcloth with peach-colored piping. The man was tall and lean, with a suntanned, clean-shaven face and ginger hair. He wore a black cap, black belt and white shirt, tie, and trousers, and a racquet was slung over one shoulder. The group was animated, laughing and speaking boisterously, their voices echoing off the marble walls and staircase. I tried in vain to open the sitting-room door before they saw me.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” the man said, approaching too fast. I stood my ground but knew better than to say anything. “I know all the pretty maids in this house, but I don’t know you.”

“She’s no one I know,” the dark-haired girl in pink said. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Hattie Davish, miss,” I said, my palms growing clammy as the man circled around me, making me step back from the door and cutting off my only escape route. “I’m Mrs. Mayhew’s new secretary.”

“I didn’t know Mother found a new secretary,” the brunette girl said again, stripping her gloves off, one finger at a time. I studied Gideon and Charlotte Mayhew’s only daughter. With long dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, and a dainty chin, Miss Mayhew would be a favorite with Lady Phillippa’s sons. Her companion was not so graced. The blonde had thick eyelashes and a mouth, which was scowling at the moment, too large for her face. “She sure needs one. How appalling of Mrs. Pemberton to leave so suddenly like that. You can go, miss,” Miss Mayhew said, much to my relief.

I turned and tried to reach the doorknob again, but the man stepped in front of me. He brushed my cheek with the tip of his finger. With my hands full I could do nothing to stop him.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” I said, and tried to step toward the door again. He didn’t move.

“You look too pretty to be a secretary.” He took my hand, causing me to tighten my grip on my papers with the other, and ran his thumb across the tips of my fingers and down my palm. “But you do have the calluses to prove it.” His face was close, so close I could count the faded freckles on his nose. “I like calluses on a girl.” His smile was wide, but his bright blue eyes didn’t blink. It took everything I had not to yank my hand away and take another step back.

“Leave the girl alone, Nick,” the blond girl said. “Let her get back to work.”

“What’s it to you, Eugenie?” Nick said, still rubbing my callused fingertips.

“Let’s go, Nick. We have to change for the concert.”

“You can go, Sis. I’m having a spot of fun here.” I glanced at his sister, Eugenie, silently pleading for her not to leave.

“Really, Nick,” Miss Mayhew said. She grabbed Nick by the arm and pulled him away. “Mother wouldn’t appreciate you toying with her new pet. That’s for her to do.”

“I do believe you’re jealous, Cora,” Nick said flirtatiously.

She playfully hit Nick with her glove. “You are incorrigible, Nick Whitwell!” Cora Mayhew said. She grabbed the cap from his head and wagged it in front of his face. He snatched it from her with one hand while pulling her toward him with the other. He snuggled into her neck, kissing her. She shrieked in delight.

“Oh, come on, you two lovebirds,” Eugenie said. “I don’t want to miss the concert at the Casino.”

And with that the three headed down the hallway without another word or backward glance at me. I stood rooted to the spot for a moment, shaking with rage, humiliation, and fear. I’d been threatened, pushed down stairs, and poisoned, but nothing had infuriated me as much as that man’s smile as he gently rubbed my fingers. I was simply another sport to him. All I wanted now was to slip into the sanctuary of my sitting room. I quickly set down the papers and opened the door but jumped as I came face-to-face with Britta, the parlormaid.

“You haven’t eaten your meal, miss,” she said. She held a tray with a teapot, a cup and saucer, and a plate of cold roast beef slices, bread sandwiches tied in a ribbon, stuffed tomatoes, grapes, orange slices, and a small bowl of lemon pudding. “I couldn’t let it sit there all day. Would you like me to leave it, miss?”

“Yes, please, Britta,” I said as I forced a smile on my face. I bent over to retrieve the papers from the floor.

“The tea’s cold. Would you like a fresh pot?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

“Very good, miss.” I watched as the maid returned the tray to the table. In my head I was counting,
Un, deux, trois
. It didn’t help. The moment she closed the door behind her, I let out my pent-up frustration by dumping all of Madam’s papers and invitations into a pile on the desk. My desk now looked like Mrs. Mayhew’s had.

Oh, why did I do that?

More discontented now with myself for having given in to such childish behavior than with Nick Whitwell’s cavalier attitude, I closed my eyes and pictured Walter’s smile, hoping the image would replace that of the rich blaggard rubbing my hand. To my surprise, it didn’t make me feel better. Not wanting to question why, I opened my eyes, took stock of the mess I’d made, and set to reorganizing Madam’s invitations, bills, and letters before Britta came back with the coffee.

A
nd to think I was going to ride in a carriage! Walking down Bellevue Avenue with the sunshine on my face was a balm for my frazzled nerves. The street was dressed in summer splendor, towering trees that draped over the high walls and thick, lush privet hedges that lined the road. Shrubs and flowers, hydrangeas, impatiens, and roses at full bloom, along with English ivy, decorated the wrought-iron gateposts and sidewalks. And the mixture of scents: The flowers, the freshly cut grass, the privet hedge, and sea salt could be bottled as Newport’s own perfume. I took another deep breath of the fresh, fragrant air. I was heading in the opposite direction from the ocean and I had no time to pause, but it was glorious to be outside. I’d originally spoken to Mr. Davies, the butler, about a carriage as Madam suggested, but when I asked he informed me, not unsympathetically, that Mr. Mayhew had already driven himself into town with the trap and Elmer, the coachman, was taking Mrs. Mayhew out calling in the victoria soon. She must’ve forgotten again. Instead he gave me the address to the Reading Room, about two miles straight down Bellevue Avenue, and wished me luck.

Now I couldn’t imagine riding. When I had nearly run from Lady Phillippa’s at Fairview to be at Rose Mont on time, I had no appreciation for the beauty around me. Now despite my haste, I still had time to take it all in. I caught glimpses of other grand houses including Mrs. Astor’s Beechwood and Mrs. Vanderbilt’s new Marble House. And I experienced what Miss Kyler called coaching, dozens of carriages of every shape and size, victorias, buggies, traps, dogcarts, and phaetons, parading slowly up and down the avenue carrying men and women in their finery. The idea, Miss Kyler said, was to “see and be seen.” In my walk to the Reading Room, I “saw” the same barouche pulled by two white horses with a unicorn on the crest; it passed me four times.

I’d walked well over a mile when the simultaneous sounds of a loud sputtering motor, a blaring horn, and the frightened neigh of a horse made me turn around. Advancing toward me, horn honking every few seconds and careening through the coaching traffic, was a motorcar. I’d only seen them in magazines—victorias without a horse. I watched transfixed as it swerved wildly to one side, trying to avoid a couple of elderly ladies in black lace bonnets, their mouths and eyes wide open in horror, only to nearly collide with a wagon parked on the side of the road. The horse reared, deep tire treads mere inches from her footprints in the street, tossing crates into the air. As the crates smashed into the street, sending cans of peas, string beans, and peaches rolling into the oncoming traffic, the motorcar drove for several yards down the sidewalk, uprooting flowers and nearly missing a tree. Squeals of delight from the two female passengers mixed with the rumbling engine as the motorcar veered back into the street. I couldn’t help but stare, my mouth gaping as it passed me. The women in the motorcar waved. Holding on to their hats and laughing with glee were Cora Mayhew and her friend Eugenie. The driver beside them was none other than Nick Whitwell.

I rapped lightly on the door of the Reading Room, a large, wooden building with a second-story balcony, knowing as a woman I’d never be allowed to enter. The porter opened the door and frowned.

“No women allowed,” he said without trying to hide his disdain for me and my gender. “Go home.” He began to close the door in my face.

“Sir, I’m Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew’s secretary and I have a letter for her husband that I must deliver. Is Mr. Mayhew here?” I’d hoped mentioning such an important man would at least keep the door open. I was right.

“No, Mr. Mayhew left about a half hour ago for the Casino. You may be able to find him there.”

“Casino?” I said. Why hadn’t I read about Newport last night? I’d shown my ignorance the second time in an hour. I vowed to correct this as soon as I could.

“You said you’re Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary and you don’t know about the Casino? You’re about as aware as a rock, aren’t you?”

“I only arrived in town yesterday morning,” I said in my defense. “I’m from the Middle West.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said. “Well, you’ll be acquainted with the Casino soon enough—the Mayhews are regulars.”

“Would you be so kind to direct me?” I said, trying to maintain a civil tone.

“It’s down that way, miss. Now please be so kind to step off the porch! I don’t want to lose my job.”

The porter sent me back several blocks the way I’d come down Bellevue Avenue. I had passed the Newport Casino on my way without realizing it. It was more a sprawling complex of redbrick and wooden-shingled buildings than a single building. I had skirted it, braving the passing traffic and the multitude of pungent piles of horse dung, to cross the street, because a man, the same shaggy-haired man who had told Sir Arthur and Lady Phillippa about the telegraph operators’ strike, stood on a wooden crate, chanting, “Eight hours labor, eight hours recreation, eight hours rest,” over and over. I’d avoided him, not because I didn’t sympathize with his cause—some people work in deplorable conditions and need a champion—but because his aggressive tactics were off-putting. There must be a better way than shouting at random passersby?

The labor man was still there when I approached but was in deep conversation with another man as I passed under the shadow of the brick archway entrance. The music of a military band playing John Philip Sousa filled the air, drowning out their voices and everything else. Cora Mayhew and the young Whitwells had been destined for a concert. Was this it? I hadn’t seen the motorcar anywhere. I hoped I didn’t have to face Mr. Whitwell again.

Before I stepped into the sunlight of the expansive courtyard, with its manicured lawn tennis courts, walking paths, and prominent rounded clock tower, another porter blocked my path.

“We ask guests to wait for a break in the music before entering, miss,” he whispered. I looked into the almost empty courtyard. No one was playing tennis. Only a few people strolled about. From the sound of the music, the concert was being held in the attached theater to the right. I wouldn’t be interrupting anything. Obviously this was another club where I wasn’t welcome.

“I’m looking for Mr. Mayhew. I have a letter I must deliver immediately. Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s here. Wait here a moment, if you please.” The man didn’t blink at my demand for urgency. Nor did he walk any faster across the lawn.

He must be used to it,
I thought.

Never a fan of Sousa, I walked back toward the entrance and waited. The shaggy man had resumed his place on the box and was chanting labor slogans again.

“Eight hours labor, eight hours recreation, eight hours sleep. An injury to one is the concern of all. We mean to uphold the dignity of labor.”

Several people passed without even looking at him, but he was not deterred. Then a victoria arrived and a gentleman with two gold-banded cigars sticking out of his pocket and wearing a straw derby alighted. Once a taller man, the gentleman with gray hair and a drooping mustache, was stooped at the shoulders, and was leaning on a gold-handled cane that was otherwise meant for effect. And yet he couldn’t have been more than fifty years old. As he passed, the man on the box shouted at him.

“You may walk by me without acknowledging me, Mr. Whitwell, but you won’t be able to ignore me for long!”

Whitwell?
I wondered.
Could he be related to Nick Whitwell?
I took a step toward the men and listened to the exchange more closely.

“Shut up and go away, Sibley, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing and harassment.”

“I’m within my rights, Mr. Whitwell, as are those whom you employ. We will have what’s rightfully ours whether you like it or not.”

“Your kind isn’t wanted here, Sibley, and won’t be tolerated.”

“You’ll have no choice, Mr. Whitwell. By the way, have you sent any telegrams lately?”

Mr. Whitwell shook his cane at the man he called Sibley. “Stay away from my banks, Sibley, or you’ll regret it!”

“You have something for me?” Mr. Mayhew said, suddenly standing next to me. I jumped. Engrossed in the argument occurring right in front of me, I hadn’t heard his approach. Or was there something about the man that made me nervous?

“Yes sir, Mr. Mayhew.” I handed him the letter. “Mrs. Mayhew found this on her desk this morning and insisted I deliver it to you personally as soon as possible.”

“I don’t think I’m the one that’s going to be doing the regretting, Mr. Whitwell!” Sibley shouted at Mr. Whitwell’s back. The gentleman stormed away, leaning heavily on his cane as he tottered toward us. Sibley resumed his slogan chanting: “We will uphold the dignity of labor. We will uphold the dignity of labor.”

“Scum,” Mr. Mayhew said under his breath before nodding his head at the approaching Mr. Whitwell. Was he speaking of Sibley or Mr. Whitwell? I couldn’t tell.

“First the strike and now we can’t even go to the Casino in peace!” Mr. Whitwell said to Mr. Mayhew. “What is this place coming to? My wife said to me only yesterday—”

“Complete piffle,” Mr. Mayhew said.

“It may be, Gideon, but the man’s a pest.”

“I’ll take care of him, Harland,” Mr. Mayhew said coldly. “He won’t bother you anymore.” The tone in his voice made me want to back away. I heard him speak this way before, to the Pinkerton detective on the ship. An image of the trunk dropping into the water flashed through my mind.

What was in that trunk?
I wouldn’t be at ease around this man until I knew for certain.

“Good, Gideon,” Mr. Whitwell said, “because if I see that man again, I won’t be responsible for my actions! Havana?” He pulled one of his cigars out and offered it to Mr. Mayhew, who shook his head to decline. Mr. Whitwell replaced the cigar in his pocket.

“By the way, Harland, we need to talk about the Aquidneck National.” Mr. Mayhew turned his back to me, without acknowledging or thanking me, and walked with Mr. Whitwell back toward the courtyard. “We can’t afford closure. What can you tell me about . . . ?”

I took my cue, grateful to be away from that hard, cold man, and headed back to Rose Mont and the dozens of invitations waiting to be addressed and delivered.