The 15th Star (A Lisa Grace History - Mystery) (2 page)

“
You sewed this?” The younger looking girl said as she shifted the weight of the basket to her other arm. Grace nodded, “Yes Ma’am.”

The older girl piped up,
“Looking like that no lady is going to hire you! You should clean up a bit and put on a proper servant’s dress.”

The younger one who was about Grace
’s age looked at her, “I can’t imagine not having a proper dress. I have heard my lady complaining that Mary Pickersgill is so busy sewing colors for the ships that she cannot promise her new Christmas linens in time for the season. She must need help. I would try Missus Pickersgill first. Since she works with ship captains, she may not be so picky as to how you look.”

The older girl elbowed the younger one and whispered in her ear.

The younger one pulled back and said, “Oh posh! She needs some Christian charity and you can’t tell me what to do!”

The older girl glared at Grace but turned her face away as soon as she started to talk,
“We cannot chat any longer, good day.” She took off heading on her way.

The little one said,
“Mrs. Pickersgill, Mary Pickersgill, I think. I know she must need the help and your work is very fine,” she smiled and hurried after the other girl.

Now all Grace had to do was work up the courage to ask a stranger the way to Missus Pickersgill
’s house.

Grace asked other passing servants,
“Pardon me Miss, do you know the way to Missus Pickersgill’s house?” The first two ignored her and pretended not to hear. The next servant girl who was big and smiley, and was close to Grace’s own coloring, stopped as Grace repeated her question.

“
Calling me a Miss? You done made my day! Girl, you go down three streets,” she pointed to her left. “Go this way,” she pointed to her right, “Keep walkin til yous see a flag or two hanging over a red brick house with a door by the corner. That’s her house. You best know to go ‘round the back. Talkin the way you do, you might have some wrong ideas that get you beat! Callin me a Miss, ain’t that a ho-ho!” She laughed hard with her big belly shaking and seeming to move her whole body down the street.

Grace did as she was told. When she came to the house, she walked around to the back door and stood there. Someone in the kitchen had been cooking. She could smell the last of a hot breakfast blowing away on the breeze. Bacon and eggs. Grace
’s stomach growled. As she got the courage up to knock on the back door, it opened. A heavy white lady with a bucket full of dirty dishes came out to the water pump and eyeballed Grace. “What you want, girl?” she asked.

Grace followed behind her as she walked the few steps to the pump.

“Pardon Missus, I am here to seek employment. I am a fine seamstress and can show a sample of my work. My husband died aboard a ship and I must work now. I was told Missus Pickersgill could use some extra help. Can you please ask her to see me?”

“
To seek employment…some mighty fine words—what happened to your clothes?” she asked as she pumped the water out, not stopping to look at Grace.

Grace thought fast and answered,
“They were stolen?” Then with conviction, “They were stolen. All I had left was my husband’s old coat and hat, and the shift and shoes I only wore on cleaning day. I am in a desperate situation.”

“
Desperate situation? Seek employment? A young widow? You don’t look old enough to even have your monthlies yet.”

Grace felt herself blushing again.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for my dress. I am hurting enough. I do know how to sew. I
need
work to eat. Here is a piece of my work.” Grace held out the handkerchief for the servant to see.

The servant stopped pumping, stood stretching her back, and looked at Grace
’s handiwork. She noted the fine stitches that took skill to render. She looked at Grace with a sad smile the hardness of her words before—gone. “I’m sorry girl. I’m a widow myself. Let me go see if Mrs. Pickersgill is in mind to talk to you. Wait on the back stoop where she can look out to see you.”

She reached out for the handkerchief,
“I think it’s best if I show her your work first.”

Grace held onto it not sure what to do. It was the only proof she had of her skill.

“I’m not going to steal it, girl. I have bolts of cloth and silks stored from the cellar to the rafters. It’s hard to find places to store it all.” She chuckled and shook her head. With that she reached out and plucked it from Grace’s hands and took it in the back door.

Grace waited on the stoop. After a minute she could hear voices talking and floorboards creaking, but she couldn
’t make out the words. The smell of fried eggs and fatback drifted out again, and her mouth began to water. Her insides were so hungry it was hard to stand up straight. The cramps and growls from her innards reminded her she hadn’t eaten in two days. The old man who gave her a ride had shared a little of what he had, but his food ration for himself was so sparse, Grace felt guilty for the bite or two she’d taken.

***

“Girl, what’s your name?” The servant was back. Grace could hardly make out her form in the darkness of the doorway.

“
Grace,” she said without thinking. She should have picked a different first name but she was so hungry she couldn’t think straight.

“
Grace what?”

She had to think fast. Grace put her finger up to her mouth, like it was too sad to remember because it reminded her of her lost husband. Here she was, thinking like she really was a widow! Sally back at the plantation would have laughed. She would have said,
“Grace you are such a wisher! And where’s it gotten you girl?”

And Grace would answer,
“Sewin in the big house, stead of pickin in the fields, that’s where!”

“
Grace! What is your married name?” The servant asked again.

“
Wisher, Ma’am. Grace Wisher,” she dropped a curtsey out of habit and walked in the backdoor as the servant motioned her to follow her in.

“
My name is Mrs. Bethany. You stay here in the kitchen and I’ll be back with Mrs. Pickersgill, “Here’s your sewing girl,” She handed Grace back her handkerchief.

When Mrs. Pickersgill walked in, Grace dropped a curtsey and waited for her to speak. Mrs. Pickersgill just looked her up and down.

“Your work is acceptable. You sew nice straight even stitches.”

“
Thank you Ma’am,” Grace dropped another curtsey and looked at the floor.

“
Do you know anything about broad clothes, flat seams, or sewing colors, standards, or flags?”

Grace shook her head no.
“I’m a fast learner, Ma’am. I will work hard and only ask a wage sos I can feed myself and find lodging. My husband, a free jack tar, may he rest in peace, never gave me a child. Sos it’s just me,” Grace looked Mrs. Pickersgill in the face.

“
No one will believe someone as young as you is married. Where’s your mother?”

“
She’s gone. She’s a freed slave who’s took off.”

“
What was your Mother’s name?”

“
Jenny, Ma’am.”

“
If anyone asks, she agreed to have you in my employ—if I decide to take you on.”

Grace nodded,
“Yes Ma’am, but I was married to a jack tar.”

Mrs. Pickersgill looked back at Grace for a minute.
“I can teach you to cut and sew for colors and flags. I deal with working Captains from the merchant ships and the military. They are not at times—the most couth of company.”

“
My husband bein a jack tar, God rest his soul, that don’t bother me none, Ma’am.” Grace dropped another curtsey for good measure.

Mrs. Pickersgill
’s lips curled up in a slight smile as she nodded as if she found what Grace said, amusing.

“
I can feed you and give you a room. I take it from the way you are—clothed—you need proper dresses. Bethany, give her an old dress or two of Caroline’s we have set aside for charity. You will work off the generosity I supply to you. You will at times be asked to make deliveries to the ships and perhaps help out around the house with the heavier chores. We are a household of women and
everyone
is expected to work. Even my own daughter, Caroline, helps with sewing at times. Occasionally, I do take in a boarder. We have one now, but he travels and is rarely in.”

Grace nodded again. Her innards growled so loud that everyone heard.

“I will draw up the papers and if they are to your satisfaction you can start this afternoon. Mrs. Bethany would you please see if this girl, Grace, would like something to eat while she is waiting?”

“
Yes Ma’am,” Mrs. Bethany nodded as Mrs. Pickersgill left the room.

“
Sit down girl,” Mrs. Bethany said as she turned to the cold cupboard and got Grace some leftover fatback, bread, fresh butter, and a spoonful of apple butter.

“
You got lucky, girl. You can sew and the Missus is busier than ever with the rerouted ships. As long as the British don’t come and burn us out of house and home, or worse, this is a good place to be. When you hear the rioters in the streets, you stay inside till they pass. I need some help fetching the water from the pump in the mornings and putting it on to boil. I don’t expect you to cook, that’s my place and a good thing. It’s where my God-given talent is. I might just get you to plump up.”

“
Yes Ma’am.”

“
There’s an extra room up below the rafters, across from mine. I have my own place, but sometimes I stay over to help. It is small, not much bigger than to hold a bed and a small desk Missus stores up there. Come down the stairs as soon as you have light to see. Take the bucket, fill the tea kettle for the coffee, fill the washbasin here, then fill the big pot over the fire. Heat it and take a pitcher to Mrs. Rebecca, Miss Caroline, and Mrs. Pickersgill so they can wash up. After the waters onto heat, go to the cellar and take a bucket of feed out to the henhouse, then collect twelve eggs for breakfast.” Mrs. Bethany looked at Grace, “Can you count that high?”

“
I learned counting while doing my stitches.” No need to let her know that she learned only because the daughter of the house was being taught and Grace was able to listen in quietly.

Mrs. Pickersgill walked back into the kitchen. Grace stood quickly and curtsied.
“You may sign this paper and then you can start.”

Grace took the paper and looked at it. She couldn
’t read and didn’t know if she should say so.

Mrs. Pickersgill, guessing Grace may not be able to read, spoke,
“It says I will provide you with food, clothing, lodging, and pay you a small wage from what is leftover in exchange for learning the flag and colors seamstress trade. Sundays will be your day off. It also says your mother—Jenny Wisher—agrees to the arrangement. Do you have any questions, Grace?”

A small wage for work, a place to stay, and good food! Grace could not think. It was everything she had wanted. The fact that the Missus didn
’t believe her story hardly mattered.

Grace saw the line at the bottom and signed an X before Mrs. Pickersgill could change her mind.

“Mrs. Bethany will fill you in on the rest of the workings of the household.” Mrs. Pickersgill picked up the paper Grace had marked and continued talking, “Get her some proper clothes to wear. I can’t have her seen in these rags. Come see me in the parlor as soon as you are settled in and presentable. There is much to do.”

Grace curtsied as Mrs. Pickersgill left the room. She finished her meal just as Mrs. Bethany came back in the room with three dresses, a plain underskirt, two undergarments, an apron, bonnet, and one cloak, which she laid on a chair. One dress was a navy, another green, and the prettiest was a light blue. Mrs. Bethany then went back out the kitchen door and a minute later, brought back a well-worn pair of brown boots.

“These two are your everyday dresses and this,” she held up the light blue, “will be for Sundays and holidays. Remove the lace in your free time. You must look your station. These were the plainest I could find on such short notice. You may add some stitching in the same color to hide any holes. You will wear a white apron over the dresses when working. If there is anything else you might need there is a trunk of Miss Caroline’s old things in the cellar. You may go through it before we send it to the church for the charity people.”

Mrs. Bethany placed the clothes over Grace
’s arms. She had never had such fine things to wear. Even when the lace and ribbons were removed, they would still be soft and beautiful.

“
Follow me,”

Mrs. Bethany took her up the stairs, pointing out the rooms everyone slept in.

“Mrs. Rebecca is Mrs. Pickersgill’s mother, she’s in there. Caroline’s and Ma’am’s,” she pointed at each one as they passed, “The boarder, Mr. Jenson, is hardly ever here. His room is the last on the end. No need to concern yourself with him. I take his meals up when he’s in town.”