Gilded Needles (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) (23 page)

Chapter
33

On Saturday morning, October
14
, Marian Phair left the house on Gramercy Park in the company of her two children Edwin and Edith and turned northward toward Madison Square. On Saturday mornings as pleasant as this Marian liked to dress the children in clothes even finer than those they wore on Sunday morning and parade them through the neighborhood. Other proud mothers did the same, and chancing to meet such another, Marian always had the ready excuse that Edwin and Edith were being taken “to visit their cousin.” True to her word, Marian stopped at Twenty-fifth Street, fetching out Helen, and proceeded to ambulate Madison Square, nodding to all the gentlewomen who passed, and staring in the shop windows.

However, it was not entirely as a matter of fashion that Marian was taking the children out today. Only the day before, as she was on her way to Gramercy Park, the children’s nurse—who had been with Marian for three years, since Edith was born—had had both legs broken by a newsgirl. This grubby child of about ten years, apparently taken with sudden insanity, had run after and attacked the nurse with a length of iron pipe. The child had immediately fled down Fourth Avenue and was lost to pursuit, but her apprehension would scarcely have solaced Marian for the loss of Edwin and Edith’s nurse.

As soon as she was informed that the unfortunate victim would not be able to work for at least two months (and possibly would always be lame), Marian Phair telegraphed to the
Tribune
to insert an advertisement for a nursemaid, but she could not expect any applicants to appear before Monday. One of cook’s nieces could be got in as a temporary substitute, but Marian was reluctant to leave her children long in the charge of an uneducated Irish girl. Marian was vexed, and today only the fine weather and the splendid appearance of Edwin and Edith had reconciled her to cheerfulness.

Madison Square was bright and bustling at noon on Saturday, for nursemaids were often given that afternoon off and mothers took the opportunity to meet one another in the fashionable air of this part of the city. Helen always wore her best when she accompanied her aunt to the square, for she knew she would be upbraided if she did not.

Staked to propriety with the admonitions that they should neither soil themselves nor speak to other children who were not at least as well dressed as themselves, Edwin and Edith were allowed to roam among the flower beds and shady groves of the cool square. Helen and Marian commandeered a bench on the northern edge of the square, facing away from the sun. Marian raised her blue parasol and Helen folded her hands in her lap in unconscious imitation of her father.

“Helen,” said her aunt, “I think that after Monday we will hold no more regular meetings of the committee.”

Helen glanced away, and touched a gloved finger to her lips. “Oh,” she said, trying to betray a surprise she did not feel, “why not, Marian?”

“I’ve done much thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion that charity ought to be individually performed. A committee such as ours will necessarily appear formidable and cold to the impoverished objects of our charity, who might respond more warmly to succor that was personally applied.”

“I’ve always thought so,” said Helen softly.

“Well, in this instance, I suppose that you were right. I will speak to the ladies on Monday—no program has been announced anyway—and suggest that they continue their charitable endeavors on their own. I shall of course thank them for their work, which has been efficacious in its way of course, but explain that we must now move on to other fields.”

“What if the ladies do not wish to disband?” asked Helen.

“That is their right,” said Marian, offended even at the thought. “Of course they may want to continue, but I must explain to them that my house will no longer be available to them as a place of gathering—and I can hardly see another of the ladies taking on the expenses that are attendant upon such responsibility. And of course I would have to insist that the name of the committee be changed, which was formed under my directorship and my aegis. It could not continue in its present form without me—surely they would understand that, Helen.”

“I don’t believe that they will misunderstand you, Marian. I only hope that the ladies will see fit to continue with their charities, once the committee is disbanded. In any case,” said Helen, “I shall certainly go on.”

Marian turned surprised to her niece. “
You?
What will you do, Helen?”

“I only meant . . . I only meant that I hope that I can continue to be of some small service to the inhabitants of the Blighted Triangle. I’ve come to prefer thinking of it as the ‘Blighted’ rather than the ‘Black’ Triangle, you know.”

“By all means,” said Marian complacently, “only be certain that you don’t go near the place yourself. It is far too near as it is. Your father says that a Roman candle ignited in the Black Triangle would explode over our house. It’s a fearful thought!”

When the bells of the Presbyterian church steeple struck the hour of one o’clock, Helen asked her aunt if she might be excused, that she had promised to pay a visit to one of her father’s parishioners early in the afternoon. Marian, who approved of anything that propelled her niece further into society, graciously assented, and asked upon whom she intended to call.

“Mrs. General Taunton.”

Marian did not know her, and asked for a description, so that she might identify the woman from the church congregation.

Helen was vague, and mentioned neither her mourning garb nor her maimed servants. “She’s plump, I think you might say, of middle age, and possessed of a singularly sweet nature.”

Marian still could not identify Mrs. General Taunton, but let the matter pass. She kissed Helen on the cheek and waved her off with a smile. Then she withdrew an advertising circular from her reticule and began minutely to examine and contrast the new hats of the season. Occasionally she looked up to nod at women of distant acquaintance who passed by. Now and then one would stop beside her and speak for a few moments.

After half an hour more, Marian felt that she had had quite enough of air. Most women had already returned home to dress for their dinners—most fashionably served at three o’clock—and although Marian would not dine until five, thought she might as well give the impression that she was required home at the more genteel hour.

She stood, turned toward the park, and called out sweetly for Edwin and Edith. There was no response to her summons.

She glanced over the crowd of children playing among the shrubbery on both sides of her and before her, but could make out neither among the roaring infants. She was distressed, for she realized that they had been out of her sight for more than an hour, long enough to involve themselves in any amount of mischief or danger. Marian suddenly recalled mourning cards that had been addressed to Edwin and Edith, and Duncan’s earnest entreaty that the children be watched closely at all times.

She moved a little farther into the square and arched her neck inelegantly in trying to descry Edwin and Edith, but her children appeared in none of the swirling groups that she came across. She began to hurry along the shaded paths, taking one or another without thought or system, and lightly touching the trunks of trees with her fine gray kid gloves in continued expectation and disappointment of finding them.

She came out on the southern side of the square, and with mounting disquiet set out—with some real distraction—toward the eastern end, which was clothed in denser greenery and where Edith and Edwin might possibly have hid themselves deliberately from her view. She passed recklessly along, peering into every clump of greenery and behind every thick-trunked tree, pausing without breath only to ask nursemaids if they had seen her children, who could be recognized by their fine blue pinafores.

Marian had reached the eastern edge of the square, and noted with something very close to fear the amount of traffic along Madison Avenue. Children might easily be trampled beneath the horses’ hooves there or, crossing safely, would fall prey to kidnappers or worse. On a bench that faced the street, a few dozen yards from Marian, sat a solitary nursemaid with her charges and Marian hurried toward her to ask if she had seen Edwin and Edith.

Very great was Marian’s relief when, coming closer, she found the nursemaid’s charges were none other than Edwin and Edith themselves, placidly seated on the bench and eating grape ices. The nursemaid very carefully wiped their faces to keep the liquid from splashing their finely starched tunics.

“Oh Edwin! Edith! Where have you been! You’ve made me frantic! Frantic!”

“Mama!” cried Edith, and attempted to struggle down from the bench, which was high for her stubby little legs.

The nursemaid held her back and snatched the ice from her hands. “Oh no!” she cried with acute dismay. “You’ll spoil your nice new outfit! Be careful!” The nursemaid turned to Marian and smiled sadly, “I found them wandering along the sidewalk about to run into the street, so I bought them ices and kept them here till their mother or nurse came along.”

“Oh!” cried Marian, “I’m ever so obliged to you! They could have been killed! Edwin! Edith! Pray give your thanks to this young woman for preserving you from the hooves of the horses!”

“Thank you,” said Edwin politely. “Oh, Mama, she bought us ices too!”

“Thank you,” said Edith, but wistfully, for her own ice had been plucked away.

The young woman looked to be about twenty-five. She was just over five feet in height, with brown hair and a fair, Irish complexion. Her melancholy face was full and round, and her gray eyes were red-lidded, as if she had recently wept, and copiously.

“Are you a nurse?” asked Marian. “I suppose you are here with other children in your charge.”

“No, ma’am,” she replied with a deep sigh, “that is to say, I’m a nurse, but I’ve no position just at present. The family I worked for went to San Francisco this Tuesday past and wanted me to come with them, but my mother is here and I could not find it in my heart to desert her.”

“Very commendable,” said Marian graciously. She and the nursemaid had exchanged places. Marian dabbed a lace handkerchief to her lips and forehead and sought to recover from her excitement. The nursemaid stood respectfully before her.

“I used to come here with little Emma and Jerome every day and grew very fond of the square; and just now, without employment, it seemed very pleasant to return,” the nursemaid said sadly. “I saw your children, ma’am, and thought them the most splendid children I had ever come across, superior even to little Emma and Jerome, though Emma and Jerome were splendid children too.” She sighed again, then picked up more energetically: “But they hadn’t the grace and beauty of yours, if I may say so. . . .”

“Oh, Edwin and Edith
are
very lovely children, are they not?”

“Very,” said the nursemaid, kneeling before Edwin and wiping his mouth dry with her own white handkerchief.

“What is your name?” asked Marian.

“Katie Cooley, ma’am.”

“And you’re looking for a position as a nurse?”

“Oh yes!” cried Katie. “Do you know of any? I’ve been searching the papers every evening for a place, but places are so quickly taken, and not everyone will employ an Irish girl.”

“No,” said Marian thoughtfully, “not if she is like the general run of Irish girls, who are coarse and illiterate and whose red hair will invariably clash with all the furnishings of every room of the house. But,” she said more kindly, “you do not seem the ordinary Irish girl. You seem considerably more refined.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Katie Cooley, and blushed.
“My mother was an upper servant in Lord Coombe’s house in Dublin. She reared me right. I beg your pardon, ma’am, but
do
you perhaps know of a position that wants filling for a nursemaid, in a respectable household?”

“Yes,” said Marian, “I do. Mine.”

“Ma’am!” she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Yes. Would you be willing to take on Edwin and Edith for me—supposing of course, that your references are sufficient? You have references, I suppose?”

Katie opened her bag and drew out three carefully folded letters, which she gave to Marian. “Here they are. I always have them with me.”

Marian smiled and took the letters. “If you would be willing to walk Edwin and Edith about for a bit, I will sit here and read these through. The business may be concluded then in a matter of moments.”

Katie gratefully took the two children by their hands and quietly urged them down the walk. When she returned several minutes later, Marian sat smiling serenely upon the bench.

“These are sufficient for my purposes,” said Marian, returning the letters.

“Oh, ma’am! I’m so glad then!”

“Before you agree to take the position, Katie, we must speak of terms—”

“Anything you wish, ma’am. For two such children as these, I think I should almost work for gratis.”

Marian smiled. “My husband and I can afford a little better wages than that.” She directed the children away from the bench, and when they were out of earshot she said to Katie, “Sixteen dollars a week, half holidays on Sundays, every other Thursday or Saturday off, if you prefer—”

“Oh, at your convenience, ma’am.”

“Saturday is my convenience then. You have a room next to the nursery, where Edwin sleeps. Edith will sleep with you. My husband and I are often out very late and occupied during the day, so the children will for the most part be left to your complete charge. The letters that you showed me indicate that you are not averse to such responsibility, and I shall be happy to leave Edwin and Edith in your care.”

“When shall I begin, ma’am?”

“Immediately, if you wish.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Then you may accompany us back to Gramercy Park. And your things will be sent for this afternoon.”

When she returned home, Marian Phair instructed Peter Wish to inform all applicants who came to the door that the position of nursemaid had already been filled.