Indigo Christmas (14 page)

“People like Sean,” said Hilda. “The little people. The people who work hard and do not borrow money they cannot pay back, the people who earn their wages. It is always the little people who are hurt!” She stood up and began to stride up and down the room, her sense of peace gone. “You say Mr. Black is a good man. He is not a good man if he is so foolish in business that he lets his workers starve.”

“Nobody's right all the time, love. You own a business, you've got to make decisions. Sometimes you've got to take risks. If you guess right, you get rich, and your workers along with you. If you guess wrong, everybody gets hurt.”

“Hah! This Mr. Black, he will not get hurt, I bet you. He will sit—what do you say, when someone leaves a wreck without harm?”

“‘High and dry,' I guess. Or ‘sitting pretty.'”

 “Yes. He will be sitting pretty.”

“That's where you're wrong. I happen to know his house is mortgaged, because I overheard some men talking about it. He'll lose everything, right along with his men. Come here, darlin'.” He stretched out his arms, and Hilda came and sat next to him on the settee. She leaned back into the curve of his arm, but she was still stiff with indignation.

“It is not right!” she muttered stubbornly.

“No, darlin'. It's not. Lots o' things in this life aren't right. We're all born to trouble, like the Good Book says. But the good Lord made us tough, us Irish, and the Swedes, too. We can stand up to trouble.” He stroked her cheek. “You and me, we'll help Sean and Norah if they need it. They'll do well enough.”

Hilda was silent. Patrick looked down at her. Her eyes were very bright.

“You—you are a good man, Patrick Cavanaugh,” she said in a very low voice.

Upstairs a faint cry sounded. Hilda sat up, sniffed, and touched her handkerchief to her eyes. “Fiona is awake. I will go up and see her. And then let us go to bed. Tomorrow there will be much to do.”

Patrick turned off the gas brackets, checked to make sure the doors were locked, and then followed her up the stairs.

Sunday's bright, cold weather was only a memory come Monday morning. Hilda awoke to find Patrick gone and his side of the bed cold, and wondered where he was, since it was still dark outside. The room was warm, though. Why would Eileen have lit the fire in the middle of the night?

When Hilda went to the window she saw. Snow was falling, heavy, thick snow that obscured the light from the sun. She shook her head at the variability of Indiana winter weather. In Sweden, they had known what to expect in winter—snow and more snow. She lit the gas and looked at the bedside clock. Eightthirty.

She clicked her tongue. A comfortable life was already making her lazy. Never, from her childhood on the farm in Sweden through her years under the butler's authority at Tippecanoe Place, had she risen later than five-thirty except in cases of dire illness. now she could often sleep as late as she pleased, and as a result, she realized with a grimace, she had a headache. Or perhaps it was that glass of wine last night. She hadn't so much as raised one eyelid when Patrick had risen early for his usual Monday morning meeting with Uncle Dan and the other senior employees at the store.

She rang for Eileen, who brought coffee without being asked and helped Hilda dress. “How is Norah?” was Hilda's first question as soon as the coffee had brought full wakefulness and eased her headache a bit.

“Not so good, ma'am. She's like—like a doll or somethin'. All limp an' floppy.”

“A puppet?” suggested Hilda.

Eileen looked doubtful. “Like Punch and Judy? But she's not funny, ma'am, just sad-like. Does as she's told, but don't take no interest in nothin'.”

“Does not take interest in anything,” Hilda corrected automatically.

“Yes, ma'am. Will you wear the pink velvet dress this mornin', ma'am?”

“No, I am not going out until this afternoon. Just something comfortable. The old black skirt will do, with a plain waist. Is Norah eating well, and taking her tonic?”

“She does what that nurse tells her.” Eileen made a face behind Hilda's back, but Hilda was looking in the mirror.

“You do not like Miss Pickerell? She seems good at her job.” “She's bossy.”

“A good nurse must be bossy with a patient like Norah,” said Hilda firmly. “We must be bossy, too, I think. Norah must begin to—to have some starch, like the nurse's skirts.”

“And the nurse's nose,” said Eileen, but so quietly that Hilda thought she could ignore it.

“Has Mr. Cavanaugh left for the store?”

“No, ma'am. It's been snowin' that hard, he doesn't think the horses could get through. Hardly anythin's gettin' through, by the look of the streets. Mr. Cavanaugh, he called Mr. Malloy up on the telephone, and Mr. Malloy said he's not openin' the store till the snow stops. He went round himself, Mr. Malloy did, walkin' in all that storm early this mornin', puttin' a sign on the door and stoppin' at houses and boardin' houses to tell the clerks—most of 'em ain't got no telephone.”

“Do not have a telephone. That was kind of Mr. Malloy, but very foolish. He is not a young man, and might have fallen in the snow. He should have sent Mr. Cavanaugh.”

“That's what Mr. Cavanaugh told him, ma'am. Right sharp with him on the telephone, he was.”

Hilda wasn't sure who was sharp with whom, but both, she imagined. Uncle Dan and Patrick were as close as father and son, but like father and son they often shouted at one another.

“There, that's your hair done,” said Eileen, pushing the last pin carefully into the coronet braids with a little sigh. “I wish you'd let me do it up in a Gibson Girl. You'd look beautiful with little curls down just here, and here, and the rest piled on top of your head so.” She gestured with one hand, building an imaginary mound of hair above Hilda's eyes. “I mean, you look beautiful now, ma'am, but don't you want to be fashionable, now you're rich and all?”

Hilda laughed. “I will wear fashionable clothes when I must, even though it means I must also wear a corset, but I like my hair the way I have always worn it. It suits me, I think. It is the Swedish way, and it means I do not look like everyone else. This afternoon I must wear something ‘fashionable,' though. I must go to a meeting at Tippecanoe Place.”

“Ooh, ma'am, how excitin'! Goin' back to where you used to be a maid, and goin' as a fine lady!” Then her face clouded. “If you can go. The way it's snowin', ye might not get out.”

Eileen, too, was unable to imagine the strain of such a visit, thought Hilda. Perhaps she was making too much of it. Perhaps it would be all right. Or perhaps, if she prayed hard to the old Norse gods (more likely, Hilda thought, to know about winter weather than the temperate Christian God), the snow would continue and she wouldn't have to go.

But capricious Indiana weather paid little heed, apparently, to Thor or Odin or whoever might hurl snow down upon the hapless earth. By midmorning the snow had tapered to a light flurry, by noon it had stopped, and when lunch was over the sun was shining brightly, blindingly, on a world blanketed in white. Mr. O'Rourke was out helping other neighborhood servants clear their drives and the street, and soon carriages and sleighs were moving briskly along Colfax.

“A sleigh. That's the next thing, when we can afford one,” said Patrick as he kissed Hilda good-bye. “Quicker and safer than wheels in snow.”

“Do not let Mr. O'Rourke drive too fast, Patrick.”

“Don't worry. He loves those horses like they were his own. He'll not let them slip. And don't you go fast to your meetin', neither. I might be a bit behind my time for supper, if Uncle Dan keeps the store open late.”

He kissed her again and went out the door. Hilda watched as Mr. O'Rourke slapped the reins and urged the horses into a slow, careful walk.

Oh, no, she wouldn't go to her meeting at any faster pace than that. Slower, if possible.

She turned away from the door in time to hear Eileen picking up the telephone in the hall. “Yes, ma'am. She's just here, ma'am. I'll call her.

“It's Mrs. Elbel, ma'am,” said Eileen in a stage whisper.

GANG OF BOY BANDITS
…police believe they have struck the
trail of a gang of boy bandits that
has been operating along the
Lake Shore railroad…

—South Bend
Tribune
   
December 5, 1904

 

 

15

T
HANK YOU.” HILDA had to swallow twice before she could take the receiver Eileen handed to her. “Mrs. Elbel!” she said in as cordial a tone as she could muster. “How nice of you to phone.”

“Hello, Hil—Mrs. Cavanaugh. I just wanted to remind you about the meeting this afternoon. To organize the Boys' Club. You remember?”

“Thank you, I remember. Three o'clock, Tippecanoe Place, yes?”

“Yes. I—um—I wonder if there is anything I can do to help you—that is, if your afternoon gowns are being cleaned or—I would be happy to lend you—”

Hilda's trepidation changed abruptly to fury. “Thank you, Mrs. Elbel,” she said in a voice chillier than the December air, “but happily my afternoon gowns are in perfect order. It is so kind of you to make the offer. I will see you at three, then?”

“Er—yes. If you—yes. Good-bye until then.”

“She t'inks I do not know how to dress, Eileen! She t'inks I am a servant still! She is such a grand lady and I am a little immigrant without gowns fit to be seen! I will show her I have gowns. I will—”

“Madam, I
must
ask you to be more quiet!” Miss Pickerell's starched skirts crackled down the stairs. “Mrs. O'Neill has been very fretful today, very fretful indeed, and in consequence so has the baby. I've only just got them both to sleep, and they must not be disturbed.”

“Yes, of course.” Hilda could not imagine how Norah, or anyone else, could stand up to this woman. “I am sorry. Is Mrs. Murphy with them?”

“She is not.” The nurse's tone made it quite clear what she thought of Mrs. Murphy. “I think it best to keep them apart as much as possible. Mrs. Murphy's manner of dealing with her daughter is not—she is not a help, not just now.”

The nurse's voice had lowered almost to a whisper, but it wasn't low enough. Hilda looked up the stairs and saw Mrs. Murphy descending, her bag in her hand and a black expression on her face.

“And I'm leavin'!” she said furiously to Hilda. “As ye've seen fit to bring
her
into the house to look after me own daughter, as I reared and cared for her whole life, and know what's best for her, and then bein' ordered out of her room, like I wasn't workin' me fingers to the bone for her and the babe, as is me own granddaughter, and the first one, but no, I'm not good enough to take care of her, neither, me what's raised eleven of me own and know all there is to know about babies—”

Mrs. Murphy, having run out of breath and lost the thread of her diatribe, paused and glared at Hilda, ignoring Miss Pickerell completely.

Hilda tried to defuse the situation. “I am sorry,” she said calmly. “You know you are welcome—”

“Welcome, am I! Welcome, when you think you need a fancy nurse and a doctor and all, as poor folks like us can't pay for, but you, you're a fine lady, you know best, you can throw away your money! Well, you can throw it in another direction next time, for the Murphys don't need you
or
your money, and I'm bringing' Norah and the baby home as soon as I can get a place ready for her!”

With that she stumped out the door and down the steps.

“Wait, Mrs. Murphy! The carriage will be back—”

“
That
for your carriage!” And Mrs. Murphy made the rudest gesture Hilda had ever seen from a woman, and trudged off down the street.

“Oh, dear,” said Hilda, closing the door. “Oh,
dear!
” she repeated, for from upstairs came the loud wail of a baby and the fretful whine of a woman.

Miss Pickerell muttered something under her breath and went back upstairs. Hilda could have sworn the words were “Good riddance.”

Eileen, who had taken in the whole scene, said it aloud. “She's an ungrateful woman, ma'am,” she added, “and no mistake. All you've done for Norah and the baby, and her to treat you like that! It's a downright shame, that's what it is.”

Hilda sighed. “It is natural, Eileen. She is not exactly
un
grateful. She does not want to have to be grateful. If I was still poor, and Norah was rich, I would not want to take favors from her. I understand.”

“Well, I don't, then!” said Eileen, stoutly partisan. “You're a good person, and for all I don't care for that nurse meself, Mrs. Murphy's got no right to talk to you that way.”

“Yes, well. I think, Eileen, I will have a bath. That will maybe take my mind off all the bad things that have happened. And then you will help me dress, please, in the finest afternoon gown I own. And I will give you your wish. You may put up my hair.”