The Kitchen House (25 page)

For Miss Sarah, appearance and propriety were of utmost importance, though she herself was stout, and her taste in clothing did not lend itself to flattery. She had a weakness for sweets, and as a result, her brightly colored dresses were often more fitted than the seamstress intended. Like Meg, Miss Sarah had an odd inclination to stare at one while he or she spoke, but what set her apart from her daughter was that Miss Sarah silently mouthed along with the speaker as though to better digest the words.

Mr. Madden was away a good deal of the time, but when not lawyering, he was taken up with gardening. He indulged Meg at every turn, which left Miss Sarah to draw a more solid line with her daughter. It was over dinner that I first witnessed the closeness between father and daughter. Both loved the world of botany, but while Mr. Madden kept his interest largely to his garden, Meg sought to understand what lay outside their domesticated backyard.

I was amazed to learn that Mr. Madden was the one who provided much of the live food for Sinsin. To Miss Sarah’s dismay, it was often a topic discussed during our meal. There were days when I forgot to eat, so intrigued was I with the unusual dinner conversation. In due course, Mr. Madden tried to include me, but I was
so stricken by shyness that I was almost unable to respond. It must have taken the better part of a year before I could look him in the eye to answer his questions.

I must add how surprised I was on the first day when I was told that I would dine with the family; heretofore, I had not sat at a formal table such as theirs. Guessing my need, Miss Sarah jumped at the task of guiding me through. I was eager to prove myself and immediately patterned myself after her example.

In the weeks that followed, Meg insisted that her mother release me from my household duties so that I might take part in all of her lessons. Our tutor was an older widow, Mrs. Ames, bright enough, though often sidetracked and much given to gossip. Daily, but for Saturday and Sunday, we had morning lessons in reading and penmanship. Art and music were reserved for two afternoons a week, while dance classes were given on alternating days. The rest of the time we had the freedom to wander out on excursions. Initially, I would have liked to go to the downtown shops, to see for myself what I heard existed there. But Meg was uninterested, so in our free time, I assisted Meg as she gathered new plant specimens for botanical study, or I helped her devise new ways to catch a fresh dinner for Sinsin.

With each passing month, I was introduced to other aspects of a new and pleasant world. Yet, though most of my days were spent in happy pursuit, always, underlying, was the tenuous feeling of an uncertain future. I was told on more than one occasion that my education here was to enhance my opportunities, but I was never informed as to what those opportunities were. Fearful, I kept the questions to myself. I was not ungrateful for the fortunate circumstances I found myself in, but through all my time in Williamsburg, my deep longing to return home did not abate. Early on, when writing a letter to Belle, I considered entering a plea for her assurance that I might one day return. But after reflection, I knew the futility of asking for her intercession and decided otherwise. That decision, though, left me feeling more alone than ever.

I dreaded bedtime, as that was when homesickness overtook
me. At night my lovely bedroom felt empty and lonely. In the dark, I felt sick for the scent or touch of Sukey, and I longed for the late-night kitchen sounds or the familiar voices of Belle or Mama. Before sleep, I could not stop the memories. I replayed Sukey’s run for the carriage over and over, and when the pain was too great, I took my blankets from my bed and arranged them on the floor to resemble my old pallet. From there I pulled Mama’s basket from under the bed. I removed each treasure, then gave myself over to the impotent sorrow that engulfed me. When I finally slept, I often dreamed that I was on a ship. I would wake, my heart pounding from fear of the next wave, the one that would wash away all that was familiar.

T
HE DAYTIME WAS EASIER, AS
I had constant distraction. I was interested in all of the classes, but dance instruction provided the most amusement. Dance was taught by Mr. Degat, and accompanying him with a fiddle was his longtime friend Mr. Alessi. The two shared a home but often did not see eye to eye, and each thought nothing of correcting the other’s work. There were days when our class was suspended because one or the other stomped out, leaving only half a team to continue alone. Considering their interdependence, the one-man attempt was usually unsuccessful.

After one such episode, Meg informed the table at supper that evening of their latest unhappy drama. The two men were already tense when the class began. When a misstep happened between Meg and Mr. Degat, Mr. Alessi stopped his music and voiced the opinion that if Mr. Degat had moved to the left instead of to the right, all would have come off as intended. Mr. Degat expressed the view that if the fiddle playing had been more even, he would not have been so distracted. Mr. Alessi declared that his fiddle playing was above reproach and perhaps Mr. Degat would like to apologize for such a slur. Mr. Degat assured him that he would not, and with that Mr. Alessi put down his instrument and left the room for “some clean air.” Furious, Mr. Degat walked over to the resting fiddle, picked up the bow, and snapped it in two across his
knee. He then carefully replaced it beside the fiddle. Having spent his rage, he came back to us, nervously glanced at the door, then clapped us to order. Class would go on, he informed us. He would hum the accompaniment to our dance. And hum he did, after partnering me with Meg. We had scarcely begun to dance when Mr. Alessi strode in. A scream of outrage followed the discovery of his split bow. As he made his exit, he announced that Mr. Degat was a vile and wicked man. In response, Mr. Degat only hummed louder as he waved us on. Mr. Alessi had been gone under a half hour before Mr. Degat developed one of his debilitating headaches and had to cut our class short.

At the story’s end, Mr. Madden, not one to voice an opinion on such matters, questioned Miss Sarah if she might want to consider hiring another fiddle player. Miss Sarah reacted with surprise. They came as a team, she said. And did he not realize that Mr. Degat was the very best instructor of the very difficult minuet? Besides, she said, the two of them always worked out their differences. I glanced at Meg and could see that she was as relieved as I when Mr. Madden did not voice any further disagreement. We both enjoyed our dance class as it was.

T
HERE WAS A
L
ATIN CLASS
taught on Saturday morning, and I was surprised to learn that it was taught by no other than Marshall. This was a free day for him from his own school, and by special arrangement made with his uncle Madden, he agreed to teach Meg the language he studied there. Although I had little interest in the subject, I was suffering from homesickness and looked forward to seeing Marshall. Upon our first meeting, he greeted me kindly and did not seem surprised at my new position in this household. I’d had only a little to do with him the previous year when he had come home to visit his father, but I did recall the attention he had shown me. And now, simply by seeing him, I felt a happy connection to the family I had left behind.

It was routine on Saturdays, following the lesson, for Marshall to stay on for the afternoon dinner. Mr. Madden and Miss Sarah
showed a genuine interest and affection for Marshall, and because of my own similar needs, I recognized how he thrived on their attention and approval.

Marshall was a handsome young man; everyone said so. His blond hair had darkened to a sandy color, and if a facial feature had to be named as most prominent, I would reference his firm jaw and strong cleft chin. He had a full mouth, straight white teeth, and eyes of the bluest blue. Always well groomed, he stood over six feet in height and was broad-shouldered and of excellent physique.

Marshall was a good teacher, and although he confessed he did not have a deep passion for botany, it appeared to give him satisfaction to help Meg decipher the Latin terminology that held for her so many of nature’s secrets. So, given my shared enjoyment of botany with Meg and the appeal of Marshall as a teacher, I began to look forward to the Saturday class.

O
NE NIGHT AFTER A TERRIBLE
bout of homesickness, I formulated a plan. I decided that Miss Martha must recover, and when she did, I would return home with her to serve as her companion. That was when I first began my plot to see her.

In the first months when I asked to visit Miss Martha, Miss Sarah left no doubt with her adamant refusal that the hospital was not a place for someone of my age. I noted that Miss Sarah herself made fewer visits each month until, finally, late one Thursday afternoon on her return, I overheard her speaking to Mr. Madden. I unabashedly stopped outside the library door to listen.

“It is simply too horrible to speak of! I convinced him to come, and now to have this happen!” she said.

“He is her son,” Mr. Madden replied. “You were right. It was time he went to visit.”

“But you don’t know …” She began to sob.

“Begin, then, my dear.”

“I don’t know if I can speak of this,” she said.

“You must. Tell it to me straight.”

Once Miss Sarah began, she told the story in a rush. “I said,
‘Marshall, she is your mother. You are her only hope. Seeing you, she is certain to respond.’ He didn’t want to come. I could see how pale he was even as we approached the hospital. In the lobby, he had to sit, but I, thinking he might inspire a breakthrough, all but forced him to go through with the visit. She was sleeping when they unlocked her cell to let us in, and I suppose because of that, the attendant didn’t stay. Marshall took his seat on a stool in the corner, and immediately, across the way, another… pitiful woman … reached her arm through the bars and screamed for his help. When I saw how this affected him, how he trembled, I took pity and was about to suggest we leave, but that was when Martha woke up. She was calm—until she saw Marshall. Before either of us had a chance to guess at what her actions might be, she rose from her pallet and flung herself upon him. When he tried to free himself, she caught his face and kissed him in a fashion that … surely she thought him her husband. When she began to … God help me … to touch him, he was in such a stupor that he could not protect himself. It took me calling for the attendants before he was able to free himself.” Miss Sarah choked back sobs.

“Oh, my dear,” Mr. Madden said.

“But that is not all,” she murmured, and I leaned in closer to better hear.

“What, then? Say it once, and we shall never speak of it again.”

“Before we could leave, before we could make our exit, she lifted her skirts and … urinated.” When his wife began to sob, I imagined Mr. Madden holding her to him while he soothed her. After she quieted, he asked again about Marshall.

“He would not speak to me in the carriage. When I took his trembling hand, he pulled away. I tried to apologize for my part, but he would not look my way. How could I have failed him so dreadfully?”

“You did not fail him, my dear. You were right to include him. Of course you would presume his presence to have helped.”

“But I might have guessed. Remember last Christmas dinner … when he had too much drink … how he claimed that Martha
hated him, that she blamed him for Sally’s death? And do you remember his anger when he spoke of her extreme laudanum use throughout his childhood?”

“But isn’t laudanum one of her treatments now?” Mr. Madden asked.

“No, they’ve stopped it.” There was a silence before she continued. “As it stands, I can’t see how she will ever be released. They’ve tried everything. They bleed her every week, they purge her, they’ve tried intimidation and then the restraining chair. Many times they’ve used the cold baths, but nothing, nothing is working.”

“My dear,” Mr. Madden said, “why do you continue to visit? What possible purpose can it serve?”

“I cannot abandon her,” Miss Sarah said. “It is my responsibility. She is alone all day in that terrible cell. She sleeps on a pallet, without even the dignity of a bed. They won’t give her cutlery. She is forced to eat with her hands, like an animal!”

“Does she know it is you when you visit?” Mr. Madden asked.

“There are times after she’s taken exercise in the yard—the mad yard, they call it—when she appears to have some recognition. But then she pleads for the baby, or for our sister Isabelle. I feel I must be honest, yet she grieves so when I tell her they are both dead.”

I could take no more and, victim of my own indiscretion, ran to my room with this news that further troubled my already sleepless nights.

T
HE FOLLOWING
S
ATURDAY, AFTER THE
visit to his mother, Marshall did not come to teach our Latin class, nor was he present for our afternoon dinner. On Miss Sarah’s insistence, Mr. Madden went out to find him. The search ended in the late evening when Marshall was found drunk in a tavern some miles from town. Meg was already asleep, and I was with Miss Sarah in the front parlor when Mr. Madden returned with his nephew. Marshall was so inebriated that it took the three of us to get him to a bedroom.

As we settled him on the bed, Miss Sarah and I saw his right
hand was badly bruised and cut. Together we cleaned it, and though our nursing must have pained him, he communicated only through incoherent mumbling. When he began to retch, we turned him to his side, but from the state of his clothes, it was clear that his stomach had already given up everything but the bloodstained gall that he now spat out. When he slept, we all retired for the night, only to be woken later by shouts from Marshall’s room. By the time the Maddens reached him, he was crashing about the room.

Meg stood with me in the hallway, and we comforted each other until Miss Sarah came and sent us back to our rooms. There was activity the night long. Unable to sleep, I dressed at dawn and went out to ask Miss Sarah if I might be of service. Her eyes were red with fatigue. “If you could just sit with him, I might sleep for an hour,” she said. “Mr. Madden is preparing to leave. He must see to … to take care of … the consequences.”