by Jane Steen
I shifted in my seat, looking around at the room behind me. The light of the small lamp I had carried into the remotest bay of the library did not shine far, and the shadows—combined with my low mood—made me nervous. The clock that usually provided a comforting tick in the large room had been stopped to mark Dr. Adema’s death. This late at night, the silence was so deep it was almost a presence in itself. The click of the heavy door, made of solid oak with beveled panes of glass, had been quite distinct.
“Mrs. Lillington? I’m so sorry to disturb you.” Professor Wale held a thick book in his hand, his index finger between the pages to keep his place. His thick, springy hair stood up around his bald spot, chalk dust mingling with the black and gray where he had run his fingers through it while teaching.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “You don’t disturb me. I’m glad of the company.”
I was learning to like the small, irascible man. He didn’t tolerate fools—I’d seen him berating an older student for stupidity with acidic eloquence—but he was fair-minded. I'd found him, not long before, tweaking the earlobe of a boy who’d taunted another over his clothes. The lecture on pride and arrogance he’d delivered on that occasion was at a volume to make the windows rattle. Later, he’d sent the badly dressed boy to me to have his wardrobe supplemented—at the professor’s expense.
“I thought one of the students left a lamp burning in the corner,” the professor said. “They’re careless little beasts, and an unattended lamp is a hazard in a library.”
He put his open book down on a nearby table and slipped something that looked suspiciously like a pipe into his pocket. Seeing my eyes follow the movement, he grinned, revealing yellow-stained teeth.
“You didn’t see that, Mrs. Lillington. This august institution frowns on the use of tobacco. But it’s a comforting habit in troubled times.”
“I don’t blame you.” I rubbed my eyes. “These past two days have been dreadful. I think the servants have taken Dr. Adema’s death the hardest.”
“He took many of them in after the war, you know, when the country was full of former slaves without employment. He worked through the churches to find the most deserving, those who still wished for a domestic place. They love him. Loved him.”
He sat down heavily in a chair near me.
“Didn’t you?” I asked.
Professor Wale nodded, leaning his chin on his hand. “Hendrik Adema had his priorities right. It galls me to think of that fatuous imp Calderwood presuming to take his place.”
I looked down at the book in which I’d been writing. “It bodes ill for me, this change. Mrs. Calderwood takes a dim view of my moral character.”
“Why?” The professor cocked his head to one side, looking like a curious, crested parrot.
I swallowed hard, realizing the trap I’d walked into. But I wasn’t in the mood to concoct a story, and besides—I trusted him.
“I—I made a mistake, once.” I hung my head. “My daughter is the result.”
I could feel my cheeks burning, but I looked up when the professor let out a low whistle.
“O-o-o-h,” he said. “Well, I made a few mistakes myself as a youth. But as the great Johnson said, I cannot conceive, and my follies did me no lasting harm. The harm I did to myself happened later, and my sins are no doubt far more grievous than yours, my dear.”
He leaned forward and patted my hand in a fatherly way. “Thank you for confiding in me. Is it anxiety about Mrs. Calderwood that keeps you awake so late at night?”
“In a way.” I felt my shoulders slump. “When I came to Kansas, I thought I was setting out on a great adventure—that I’d be on my way to a new life, one I’d chosen for myself.” I looked at him. “But I brought my problems with me, didn’t I? And I thought I could bring Sarah up far from gossip if I moved away from my home, but the gossip has already started.”
I gestured at my book, where columns of figures led to a depressingly small total. “And the worst circumstance of all is that I’ve trapped myself here. I don’t see how I’m even going to afford the fare back to Chicago or have any possibility of escaping from this place without throwing myself on the charity of my friends.”
“You were calculating your wealth?” Professor Wale’s dark eyes, often so weary looking, sparkled with the sort of inquisitiveness that aims at helping rather than just enjoying another person’s misery. “Of course, you were trying to work out how much you can save. What do you earn?”
“Sixty cents a day.” Somehow I didn’t mind confessing the smallness of the sum to this man. “With full board for all three of us—a generous amount considering the cost of food and lodging. I split my earnings with Tess—I could do little without her help—and we pool our resources to buy the things we need.”
“Sixty cents a day.” Professor Wale looked at the ceiling, where the lamp threw a golden pool of light from its chimney.
“I don’t think I’d do as well in Chicago if I did plain needlework,” I hastened to assure him. “Dressmaking work is getting harder to find now that the dry goods stores stock so many ladies’ garments. In any case, by my calculations it will take nearly a year just to save the fare back to Chicago.”
“But you’re not friendless there, I presume.” They were kind, those eyes, infinitely kind in their sadness.
“I have a friend I trust—an old friend of the family, who takes care of the tiny capital left after my mother and stepfather died.” Because my stepfather, Hiram Jackson, had spent my mother’s money as well as his own—but there was no point in telling that story.
“Yet you wish to remain independent of this person.”
I frowned. “I’d like to be independent of everyone, I suppose.”
“Ah, now we are getting to the essence of the matter.”
Professor Wale crossed one leg across his knee and curled his hands around his ankle. “Forgive me, my young friend, if I seem overly curious. But I tire easily of small talk, and I would like to look into your heart a little, if you’ll indulge a man old enough to be your father. So tell me, what are your priorities?”
The answer came with an ease that surprised me. “To provide well for my daughter and for Miss O’Dugan, who is like a sister to me. To make it possible for us to direct our own lives, even if we’re only women.”
“Aren’t you directing your life now?”
“Hardly. I can’t even write to my friend—I suppose you should know he’s a man and unmarried—without Mrs. Calderwood reading my letters.”
One of the reasons I was still awake was a nagging worry that either Mrs. Calderwood or Mrs. Drummond would read the letter I’d written to Martin that morning. Well, if my goose was going to be cooked, it might as well happen sooner than later.
The professor’s thick black eyebrows rose, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead. “I would have difficulty tolerating such interference indeed.” He fingered the pipe in his coat pocket as if he’d truly like to light it.
“I have little choice as things stand,” I admitted. “Right now, to provide for my family I must submit to my employers.”
“Hmmm. I suppose finding a husband is out of the question. Then you could tell the busybodies to go—well, let us say, to the door.”
“Oh, a husband would interfere more than anyone.” But I was laughing now, amused by the professor’s puckish expression.
“Some do not.” He waved a hand toward the ceiling. “They are in the minority, of course. So now that we’ve dealt with your immediate priority, what is the true desire of your heart? Your most selfish, most human craving?”
To my surprise, a new answer presented itself entire and complete in my head, bringing with it a wave of emotion that threatened to make my voice unsteady. I cleared my throat.
“I would like,” I said, “to become someone greater than I am. To use my talents to the full, to stretch my capacities to the utmost. If I were selfish, I would spend my days doing what I always did when I had no obligation to earn a living.
I would invent beautiful dresses on the page and turn them into reality. But it would be more than that—I would create beauty for other women. And I would direct other women to excel in the same field.”
A few seconds passed in silence while I considered what I had just said. I twisted round to look at the pages behind me, covered with figures in my sprawling hand. I felt as if I were groping for some concept that was barely within my reach, like a child learning its letters and starting to comprehend the connection between A-B-C and the words in its picture book.
“You know,” I said in a half whisper, not knowing if I was talking to the professor or myself, “until this moment, I thought I was content with my little ambition of bringing Sarah up away from gossip and providing for us all. I thought it was going to be enough.”
I looked up, puzzled, into the silent professor’s face. “I’ve fought for us, you know—to keep Sarah, to have Tess near me.” Indeed, I’d fought for Sarah’s very survival. I knew if I closed my eyes, I would see Hiram throwing my child into the river, so I kept them open. “And if I have to fight for both of them again, I’ll do it—to my last breath. But it’s not enough.”
“Why not?” There was something strangely alert about the way the little man was sitting now, as if he expected something.
“Because Sarah will grow away from me, won’t she? From the moment she was born, she was on a separate path from mine. And even Tess—there’s nobody more loyal, but if she develops ambitions of her own—ones that conflict with mine—I won’t hold her back.” I picked at a tiny pull in the fabric of my skirt. “She likes it here a lot more than I do, you know. The whole business of being a housekeeper fascinates her. When she’s finished the work I allot to her, she often leaves to go watch Mrs. Drummond, and they get on fine.”
I realized I would make the pull in my skirt much worse if I continued and tucked my hands under my armpits, my fingers curled into fists of frustration. “None of this is in my figures, is it? No wonder this task seems so hopeless.”
“When our sums refuse to come out right, it’s often wise to ask if we’ve left out a step.” Professor Wale beamed, his hair seeming to bristle with energy as he leaned forward. “I’ve seen self-realization dawn on your face, Mrs. Lillington. This is why I teach; this is why I struggle to make my students look at all sides of a question. There’s surface, and then there’s depth. My passion is the depths. I would dive to the absolute core of the earth and bring mankind’s most taxing questions into the open, for therein is the very mind of God.”
“I wasn’t aware I had any depths,” I admitted. “But you’re right, I suppose. I think you’re trying to make me see that I have to overcome my immediate dislike of—of, well, certain people and circumstances—and spend a little more time thinking about what I’m doing here. Otherwise, I risk simply carrying my problems with me from place to place.”
For some reason, I found myself thinking of Martin, who had needed to wait a long time indeed for the opportunity he was now pursuing. He had turned the years of waiting to his advantage, hadn’t he?
“My friend—his name is Mr. Rutherford—wanted badly to join the Union Army when war broke out,” I found myself saying. “But there were circumstances—they needed him at home. When the Enrollment Act came into force, he paid the three hundred dollars to buy his way out of conscription.”
I shook my head. Was the lateness of the hour affecting my brain? “I’m not even sure why I told you that,” I confessed. “Only that it distressed him greatly—to walk into the trap of a course of action he found almost unbearable.”
“You think of him because you too feel trapped,” Professor Wale suggested. “What did he do?”
“He buried his feelings and did his job.” Now I was starting to see the analogy. “He learned his business inside out, and incidentally became skilled at handling money.” I shrugged. “Which, I suppose, will redound to my benefit as well as his.”
I rubbed my eyes, realizing how exhausted I was. “But he lived half a life, Professor, for years. I’m not sure I could bear that.”
“No.” The professor rose to his feet, wincing as his knee joints cracked. “Yet wait awhile, Mrs. Lillington. Consider your options. Half a life for a year or two is preferable to living with regret for a lifetime.”
6
Ambition
June 16, 1872
My very dear Nell,
Great news! The fine emporium of Rutherford & Co. has opened its doors, with resounding success. Even I am surprised by the takings of the first few days.
They're comparing me to Marshall Field, although our strategies differ. Where Field seeks to be vast and comprehensive, my emphasis is on the well-dressed woman. I don’t worry about her carpets or her writing desks, just her clothing, from the skin out (if I may mention such a thing without bringing a blush to your cheek). But like Field, I aim to give my customers exactly what they want.
Joseph Salazar is turning out to be an excellent general manager. He has religious objections to working on Saturdays but spends Sundays—with no customers to inconvenience him—clearing off the paperwork instead, so we’re both happy.
And talking of Salazar, I can put your mind at rest about the Gambarelli family bearing a grudge against me. Their only course of action was to send along their heiress to congratulate me on my store and ask, in the mildest of terms, whether I had plans to poach—that was her word—any more of her father’s people. Since Miss Gambarelli’s father is a notoriously sly old fox, I deduce he has sent his daughter along to charm me (since I’m a bachelor) and find out everything she can about me. Well, two can play at that game.
Look out for a parcel—I’m sending you something rather special to celebrate my success. You may as well know that I wrote to Dr. Calderwood, impressing upon him that I stand in loco parentis (or at least in a fraternal relationship—I’m not that old) to you and can send you respectable gifts from time to time. Accept them and rejoice with me. There’ll be something for Tess and Sarah in there too. Hug Tess for me, and tell her she looks pretty in pink.
Yours, as always,
Martin
Tess’s face turned crimson with pleasure as I read Martin’s closing words to her. “A parcel! Nell, what do you think Martin’s sending me?”
“I hope it’ll be a nice dress cloth for the summer. It would be a mercy to have new clothes at little expense. I’m going to have to buy Sarah some new boots, and mine are wearing out, so I can’t possibly afford fabric as well. Everything’s so expensive out here.”
I bent my head to the duck trousers onto which I was sewing buttons. Mrs. Calderwood’s reservations about my unworthy self sewing nether garments for the students had given way to economic necessity. The cost of sending to Wichita for the boys’ pantaloons exceeded the allowance the seminary charged for new clothing. I might be a fallen woman, but I was cheap.
“Momma, see!” Sarah toddled to my knee, holding out a wooden block that one of the servants had made for her. “Esssssssss.” She screwed up her eyes as she pronounced the letter.
“You’re very clever, precious girl. S for Sarah.”
She was losing her baby fat now that she could walk with confidence. Sometimes we ventured out onto the open prairie so she could chase the little birds and rabbits that flitted among the waving grasses.
“Dat.” Sarah pointed at the buttons I was sewing.
“It’s a button.” I reached for my scissors—stowed well away from Sarah’s acquisitive hands—and cut the thread.
“Buddon. Sary wanta buddon.”
“You can play with buttons once you stop putting everything in your mouth.”
I sighed and looked out of the window. Sewing buttons on trousers was tedious, and the task always fell to me since Tess had never mastered it.
“You will be damned to hell!”
We all jumped, and Sarah lunged forward to clutch at my skirts. The declaration had been made at full volume in a tone that suggested damnation was not o
nly certain, but imminent—and it was right outside our door.
I bundled my work onto the table, picked up Sarah, and went to see what the fuss was about.
The door jerked inward so suddenly it almost caught me on the nose, and Mr. Poulton stepped on my foot. I let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Sarah screamed in fear and buried her face in my neck.
“Where are you, you coward?” The second voice was Professor Wale’s, followed by the man himself. He brought a whiff of the outdoors and more than a fragrance of pipe tobacco with him, from which I deduced he’d been breaking the rule against smoking again. He was bright red in the face.
“A blowhard, that’s what you are.” He addressed Mr. Poulton, apparently unaware of our presence in his rage. “Start a fight and then run for the hills. We had a name for men like you in the war—and your pretty face never saw a skirmish, I’ll be bound.” He ran out of breath and coughed violently, bending forward with his face turning an alarming purple color.
“Of course I never saw a skirmish, you buffoon.” In contrast to Professor Wale, it appeared that the angrier Mr. Poulton got, the icier his demeanor. “I was twelve years old when the war started—and you are frightening the child.”
“Oh. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lillington. But if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s typical of Poulton here that he’d come and hide behind the women and children to avoid losing an argument.” The professor snorted derisively.
“I have the strongest objections to both of you being here.” I stroked Sarah’s hair, making a shushing noise to calm her. “Do you have to carry on your political arguments in my workroom?” My foot was smarting.
“This isn’t mere politics we’re discussing, it’s salvation.” Mr. Poulton turned his violet-blue glare on me for a moment, then returned his attention to the professor. “You’re spreading poison that will hide God from every man, woman, and child who’s foolish enough to believe this scientific claptrap. When you see them turn away from the Bible, won’t you feel the weight of it on your own dirty conscience?”
