The House of Closed Doors (31 page)

“Of course.” My mother’s reply sounded vague, and a shudder ran down my legs. What was I going to do if Mama inadvertently mentioned Sarah in a letter to the happy couple?

THIRTY-NINE

F
ortunately for my peace of mind, Mama did not write back immediately to Cousin Elizabeth. She had little energy for anything much, preferring to sleep late and confine activity to the hour in the afternoon when she received visitors. I was now expected to receive with her, but I found those times very trying. Which is why, one hot afternoon, I was slumped in a chair in the kitchen staring at nothing in particular.

“Ah, there you are.” Martin held a hand up to Bet, who was attempting to rise from her seat at the kitchen table. “No, please, Bet, I don’t need a thing and do not wish to disturb your rest. Nell, why are you in the kitchen?”

“I’m hiding.” I shrugged my shoulders at Martin as he pulled out one of the plain wooden chairs, watching him slide his arms out of his formal working jacket. He hung the garment over the chair and sat down opposite me, resting his elbows on the vast, scrubbed table.

“Aunt Amelia said you had gone out for some fresh air.”

“As if there were any fresh air.” I turned away from Martin, determined to be out of sorts. The late summer heat was oppressive and the black gown, although most becoming‌—‌as Martin had predicted‌—‌felt heavy. I had stripped Sarah of her gown and put her, dressed in her thin shift, on a blanket atop the cool tiles. She was busy gazing at her toes, chewing on them from time to time and keeping up a stream of very soft sounds that sounded like an attempt at speech.

Martin was silent for a few minutes, and the kitchen settled back into its former tranquility. The calls of chickadees and finches drifted in through the half-open window, fitted with a screen to exclude the insects. The large wall clock near the scullery door ticked with a monotonous metal sound. At one corner of the table sat Marie, preparing the vegetables for dinner. Bet’s meat pie was finished and sitting ready for the stove, covered with a clean cloth to keep off any flies that dared invade the kitchen. Bet had donned a clean apron and a better cap in order to serve tea to the visitors and had given me tea and a delicious slice of yesterday’s jam sponge. Now she sat at her ease, her gold-rimmed pince-nez‌—‌a treasured possession‌—‌perched on her nose as she read a Beadle’s Dime Novel.

A commotion upstairs announced the departure of the visitors, and the parlor bell rang. Bet sniffed and carefully removed her pince-nez from her large, straight nose. She plunked her novel on the table. It was called
Myra, The Child of Adoption
, and from its lurid cover I assumed it had a romantic ending.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I said. “I simply could not bear one more moment of making polite conversation and telling lies.”

“So you left your poor mother to do your dirty work? She is looking dreadfully tired, Nell.” Martin’s voice held a note of concern.

“Exactly. If I am there to pepper with questions, they never go away. If I leave Mama with them, she soon tells them that she is too weary for a long visit.” I buried my face in my hands. “I wish they would leave me alone. I do not even want to walk around the town; there is always someone who has not yet had the chance to pry into my affairs.” I sank my chin into my hands and glared at the table. If Martin thought I was not worried about Mama, he was wrong. But I had no intention of discussing her in front of the servants and lapsed back into silence.

Bet returned and seated herself at the table, pulling her pince-nez out on their retractable line from the bow-shaped brooch pinned to her bodice. “I have settled Mrs. Jackson on her chaise for a nap,” she said. “Her hands are that cold, Miss Nell, even in this terrible heat. I gave her one of her fur muffs to wrap around them, the poor dear.” She shook her head portentously and picked up her dime novel.

Sarah crowed loudly and rolled off her blanket onto the tiled floor. Bet immediately shot out of her chair and scooped up my daughter, murmuring nonsense words to her and smoothing her red curls. Sarah grabbed at Bet’s pince-nez and dislodged them roughly from her nose, making Bet’s eyes water. She checked to see that the sudden shock had not harmed the lenses, then sat down at the table and showed Sarah the picture on the front cover of her novel. Sarah immediately grabbed at the book and shoved one corner into her mouth.

“Ah, no now, Miss Sarah.” Bet removed the book from Sarah’s grasp and pinched up a crumb of sponge cake from the half-eaten slice on her plate. She held it to Sarah’s mouth long enough to allow it to become mush against Sarah’s pushing tongue, getting her fingers covered with drool in the process. Sarah absorbed the cake, blinked a few times as if surprised, and then rocked strenuously backward and forward. Martin and I burst into loud laughter, and I began to forget my fit of temper.

“Your stepfather’s off on his travels again in a few days,” observed Bet.

“Where is he going?” I was glad enough of the news that I would have Hiram out of my sight for a few days. Even his newfound politeness could not reconcile me to his presence.

“North Carolina, I hear. On business.”

“He sure has a lot of business.” Marie had been topping and tailing green beans at an impressive speed, but now she laid down her knife and flexed her hands. “Don’t he ever go to that store of his? My father says a man needs to stay on his premises, see the work’s done right.”

“Your father’s never owned a store, nor never done work right neither,” snapped Bet. “You carry on with your own work, and thank the Lord for the good training I’m giving you.”

“Yes, Bet.” Marie sighed and picked up her knife.

“I had a letter from Mrs. Lombardi this morning,” I informed Martin, who was making faces at Sarah. “Hiram read it before I did.”

“Ah. Well, it is the right of the paterfamilias to read his womenfolk’s correspondence, Nell.” Martin cringed in mock terror as I searched for something to throw at him, but I desisted when I caught Marie’s black eyes twinkling at us in amusement. I mopped my perspiring brow with a dainty handkerchief, trying to look the part of an elegant widow.

“Come out to the garden, Mr. Rutherford,” I said with my most dignified air and then spoiled the effect by adding, “Oh, that’s no use. We’ll either be in the blazing sun or eaten up by mosquitoes. Come up to the parlor, and I’ll tell you Mrs. Lombardi’s news.” I peered at Sarah, who yawned, showing a tongue smeared with mashed cake.

“Oh, don’t worry about the little darlin’, Miss.” Bet stifled a belch behind a freckled hand. “I’ll make a little nest of cushions on the blanket, and Marie will watch over us both as I take my nap.” She looked longingly at her large armchair. Marie breathed the faintest of sighs and stuck out her underlip just a little, but not so that Bet could see her. I rose from my chair and headed for the parlor, Martin close behind me.

FORTY

W
hen we reached the parlor, I excused myself for a minute and went to peer around Mama’s door. She was asleep in her chaise longue, a faint sheen of perspiration on her face. Her dainty hands and small, narrow feet were carefully bundled up to keep them warm. A faint breeze entered from the window, but it must have been at least eighty degrees in the room. I felt my brow furrow into a frown as I crept as quietly as possible down the stairs.

Martin was sitting in my mother’s chair, his long legs looking incongruous as they stuck out from its plush depths. He was still in shirtsleeves, his hair tousled where he had been running his fingers through it as he often did when thinking.

“Hiram poked fun at Mrs. Lombardi,” I said without preamble as soon as I was in the room. “He said she was too lenient with the inmates, that she ought not to be running the Women’s House. Did you know, he and some of the other governors want to move the feeble-minded inmates to another institution? They say that they are too slow to work properly and should be in a place where all of ‘their kind’ can be looked after together. I heard him telling Mama.”

“I would not think Mrs. Lombardi would ever allow such a thing to happen.” Martin’s eyes were sympathetic.

“That’s just the thing. I don’t think she would. But I do think Mr. Schoeffel would agree to the scheme‌—‌he is always ready to pander to the governors’ whims. And they have not yet chosen a superintendent. I think Mr. Schoeffel would like that post.”