Hannah

by Kathryn Lasky

  It was a great deal to take in. Hannah’s head was swimming with the details of the elaborate chart, the multiplicity of rules that seemed to govern every action. It was dizzying, but she could restrain herself no longer.

  “Mr. Marston, I do not mean to interrupt. I hope that I am not violating a rule.” Mr. Marston cocked his head and looked at her attentively. “But does this mean that you are hiring me?”

  “Yes, it does. It does indeed. But before you agree to join our family, to become a citizen of our little nation, you must understand the laws that govern our citizenry. You shall be here”—he tapped the very bottom of the chart where there were two words—scullery girl. Above that position were at least a dozen others. “There are ranks and privileges associated with all these servants. For example, Susie, who is just above you, will supervise your vegetable scrubbing—is that not correct, Mrs. Bletchley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Marston stood up. “It will be hard work. But you will learn to take joy and pride in your work no matter how low your rank is.” He gestured at the elaborate chart. “There is nothing quite so satisfying as a job well done. That is what service is all about. We will send Willy with a cart for your things.”

  “I have no things, sir. Just a satchel. I can get it myself.”

  “Good. Be back in two hours. The Hawleys arrive tomorrow. Their ship docked in New York two days ago and they’ll be on the Thursday train. The five-oh-five. There is much to be done in the next…” Mr. Marston reached in his waistcoat pocket, drew out a watch on a chain, and popped open the face cover. “Yes, as I was saying: there is much to be done in the next thirty-one hours and thirty-five minutes!”

  5 TWO VASES

  THERE WERE MANY THINGS that Hannah did not understand during her first days at number 18 Louisburg Square. Not the least of these things occurred late in the afternoon of her arrival.

  “Quick! Quick! They’re coming. We must be in the front hall,” Florrie said, rushing into the scullery pantry off the kitchen.

  Hannah was confused. Were the Hawleys arriving early? “Fetch the vinegar and the lamb’s wool cloths. Third shelf and to the left. I’ll get a bucket of water. Meet me in the front hall.”

  Who’s coming? Hannah wondered. And why in the name of heaven do we need vinegar and polishing cloths to greet them? Certainly Florrie and she weren’t expected to polish the Hawleys or any guests who might be arriving.

  “Who is it, Florrie?” Hannah asked five minutes later as she came into the front hall with cloths flung over her shoulder.

  “The vases,” Florrie said.

  The front door stood wide open despite the light drizzle outside, and Hannah saw that Mr. Marston was standing at attention on the front steps as a dray pulled by two sorry-looking horses drew up along the curb. Florrie was right behind Mr. Marston, but a step inside the house to avoid the rain. “Mr. Marston, I can never remember how you call them vases, that Japanese name.”

  “The Kirayhasi vases, by the potter of the same name from Kyoto, Japan.”

  “They’re coming all the way from Japan?” Hannah said.

  “No, just Paris,” Florrie replied. “The Hawleys always travel with them wherever they go. Ain’t it so, Mr. Marston?”

  “Yes, indeed. This is the vases’ sixteenth Atlantic crossing.” Mr. Marston now turned around to the half dozen servants who gathered in the front hall. “All right, we want a clear path for the men. Miss Horton, are you prepared to man the corners and are Willy and Johnson here with their tools? Stepladders in place? Cleaning fluids at the ready, Florrie?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Miss Horton stepped toward Hannah. She had a long, thin face with a pinched look about her nose as if she were always seeking the alien scent of uncleanliness. There was a scoured look about her, and Hannah imagined that she regularly subjected her body to scrubbings with the most abrasive cleaning agents, and then rewarded herself with a bath in a solution of bleach and borax powders. She was as skinny as a stripped birch limb and nearly as white. Her hair was skinned up and twisted into a tight knob on top of her head. The cords of her neck were pronounced and rose from the stiff black collar of her dress like a bundle of twigs.

  When Miss Horton began to speak, her mouth reminded Hannah of a drawstring purse. “There is a particular way that we clean the vases upon their arrival. I shall explain and you can watch Florrie. We begin generally with a thorough dusting using the feather dusters. Stepladders don’t bother you, do they, dear? You’re steady? Because if you’re not, please tell me. We’ll get someone else for the task. This is very important. Nothing—I repeat, nothing—must ever endanger the vases. They are this family’s pride and most important possessions.”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll be fine.”

  “Good then. Let us all stand back and watch the arrival.”

  A hush fell upon all the servants as eight men came up the steps bearing two long crates, four men to each crate. Through the slats Hannah could see a tapering object wrapped in burlap.

  Mr. Marston had taken a post just inside the entry hall and was walking backward, his arms held high in the air. “Steady there, watch the left side. That corner takes a sharp turn, down the hall past the morning room on the right, and into the drawing room on the left.”

  “It’s so exciting,” Florrie whispered. “The vases! It means the family is really coming back.” Hannah looked at the faces of the other servants. Their eyes gleamed, and despite the grayness of the day, a nearly ecstatic light bathed all their faces. She supposed this had something to do with Mr. Marston’s idea of service. She remembered how his voice had been almost tremulous when he had spoken of the satisfaction of a job well done. “That is what service is all about,” he had said.

  Mrs. Bletchley sighed softly. “Well, now everything’s back to normal.”

  Hannah couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever feel this way. Could she ever share in the pride that seemed to envelop every single servant as this peculiar ritual was completed, a ritual that seemed so central to this household? They live for this household, she thought. It is their only life. But could it be her only life? She had once walked by a store near The Boston Home for Little Wanderers that had a ship in a bottle on display. It shocked her. How could one stuff a ship, an ocean, and the wind that drove that ship into a bottle? The ship had looked stifled, gasping for air.

  “Now, come with me, girls,” Miss Horton said. “While they are uncrating the vases, I’ll explain to Hannah about their care.” Hannah and Florrie followed Miss Horton into the drawing room. Both crates were lying on the hardwood floors while Johnson, the handyman and carpenter for number 18, pried up the nails with Willy, his assistant. It took them no time to have the vases out of the crates and the debris removed. Then Mr. Marston withdrew a long pair of scissors. The servants stood back as he flourished them and walked around the wrapped vases that lay like two shrouded corpses on the gleaming wood floors. He circled them once, then twice. “I am considering beginning at the base for my initial incision. Then I propose a medial cut at a forty-five-degree angle.” As carefully as a surgeon in an operating theater contemplating the removal of a major organ, he gazed at his patients.

  Miss Horton was now crouching at one end. “Would it help if I loosened these top swatches here?”

  “Yes, yes, good idea. And knife, please, Mrs. Bletchley.” He paused. “You did bring the gutting knife?” Mrs. Bletchley sniffed and stepped forward.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please stand by until I call for it.”

  Florrie leaned over and whispered to Hannah, “Mrs. B hates her knives being used for anything but kitchen work. Says it ruins them.”

  The endless yards of burlap and canvas bandages were cut away. The operation took nearly twice as long as moving the crates into the house. Now Hannah could see the lovely blue designs against the white porcelain—a bird in flight, a tree, some low shrubs, and clouds.

  “This is the scary part,” Florrie whisp
ered as Mr. Marston took out several pairs of rubberized gloves from his apron. He handed a pair to Willy, another pair to Johnson, and then put on a third pair himself. “That’s so their hands won’t slip when they raise up the vases,” Florrie said softly. “This is the only thing that Mr. Marston ever lifts that’s heavier than a magnum of champagne.” Hannah had no idea what a magnum of champagne was.

  What ensued was like a silent dance in which each dancer knew his part to perfection. At a nod from Mr. Marston, the three men stepped forward. Johnson held the base steady. Willy slipped his hands under the midsection and Mr. Marston supported the slender neck with both hands. On a nearly silent count of three, the vase rose and was then transported the scant few feet to its position on one side of the wall facing the fireplace. The second vase soon followed to the other side of the wall.

  Mr. Marston stood back. “Good work, all of you. Miss Horton?”

  “Yes, sir.” The housekeeper stepped forward with a tray that had a decanter and three small glasses. Mr. Marston poured some amber liquid into each glass, then handed one to Willy and one to Johnson, and took one himself. He turned around to face the other servants. “To a job well done. Safe again at number Eighteen.”

  “Hear! Hear!” someone said.

  “What are they drinking?” Hannah asked.

  “Sherry. It’s the only time they ever drink upstairs. Mr. Hawley gave them permission. Each time the vases come home, they have a toast. Just the men, though—the ones who lift them up. But the dray drivers get a handsome tip from Mr. Marston.”

  “Very nice, Hannah,” Miss Horton said, examining the patch of porcelain Hannah had just dusted. “Now come down and we’ll move the stepladder around toward the back of the vase and you can begin there.”

  The vases were more than eight feet tall, and Hannah had to maneuver her stepladder around and climb it carefully. That was when she saw the design of the tail breaking through the curling waves. Her heart skipped. “What’s this?” she whispered to the vase. Her breath fogged a small patch of the crashing wave. Only a tail was visible from the cresting water. The rest of the fish was obscured by a froth of foaming water. But was it a fish? This tail seemed to suggest something infinitely feminine and lovely. The flukes had gracefully sweeping contours that evoked beauty and power—an incredible power. Then something else caught her eye. The scales of this creature had a familiar shape, flat, not quite oval. Her breath locked in her throat. She closed her eyes and felt the weight of the pouch on its string beneath her dress. It couldn’t be!

  “Hannah, are you finished dusting? I’ll pass up a bowl of vinegar water and a sponge.”

  “Just a minute, Miss Horton.” Hannah moved her duster slowly over the tail, wondering if the vase Florrie was working on was identical.

  Miss Horton handed up the bowl of water. “Squeeze the sponge out completely, because if there’s too much water, there will be streaks. Can’t have that,” the housekeeper admonished.

  Fifteen minutes later the job of washing the vases was complete. While Florrie took the cleaning fluids and sponges and dusters back to the pantry, Hannah excused herself to go to the servants’ privy. She was desperate to look at the crystals contained in the pouch, in particular the one that had been transformed into an oval shape. In the dim light of the privy, she loosened the drawstrings of the pouch and shook the contents into the palm of her hand. “A teardrop,” Hannah whispered. “Just like the ones painted on the vase.” She closed her eyes again and tried to think. One thing she knew for sure. She could not let this mystery distract her from her work, her job. It was crucial that she do her work well, fit in, and never give them reason to question her dedication to the smooth running of number 18.

  Supper was served in the servants’ dining room, off the kitchen. Except for the fish chowder it was a cold supper, as Mrs. Bletchley had been too busy preparing for the Hawleys’ return to do anything “fancy,” as she called it, for the servants.

  Mr. Marston stood at the head of the table. Mrs. Bletchley was to his right, and he did not begin to serve until she had seated herself.

  “The dollhouse arrived, too?” Mrs. Bletchley asked as she sat down.

  “Yes. All in good order.”

  “The dollhouse?” Hannah turned to Florrie.

  “Ah,” Mr. Marston said. “You didn’t see the dollhouse yet, Hannah?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The dollhouse is as important in its own way as the vases, and has made almost as many trips back and forth across the Atlantic. You see, Hannah, although the Hawleys spend a great deal of time abroad, they feel their true home is here in Boston. As the girls started coming along, they didn’t want them to forget their house on Louisburg Square. So Mr. Hawley commissioned an exact replica of number Eighteen. Craftsmen were hired to copy all the furnishings, the oriental rugs, even the vases in miniature. It is a wonder to behold and the girls still play with it. Florrie and Daze are in charge of its cleaning and setting up. I suppose you’ll be doing that tomorrow morning, won’t you, girls?”

  “We’ve already started cleaning it, Mr. Marston,” Daze said.

  “That’s good. There is always so much to do, isn’t there?” Mr. Marston replied as he dished out the food and passed the plates.

  “Yes, so much.” Mrs. Bletchley sighed. “Tomorrow night I promised a nice big cod. I’ll send Willy down to T Wharf. Mr. Curtis already has my order.”

  “Mr. Marston,” Hannah said, turning to the butler. “Might I ask a question about the vases?”

  “Certainly. What question do you have?”

  “Is there a story with the vases?”

  “A story?” Mr. Marston said. “You mean a history? I believe they were made sometime in the last century.”

  “No, not that kind of a story. I mean the paintings on the vases—the birds, the waves, the fish tail—do they all tell a story?”

  “Maybe it’s a Bible story,” Johnson offered. “Jonah and the whale.”

  “I don’t think it’s a whale story,” Hannah said softly.

  “What kind of fish tail do you think it is, dearie?” Mrs. Bletchley asked. “Not a cod. I’ll tell you that. No cod or salmon has scales like that.” They all laughed, except for Hannah, who touched the place on her chest where the pouch hung.

  “You can’t tell because the rest of the fish isn’t really visible,” Florrie offered.

  “Perhaps it’s a myth of some sort,” Miss Horton suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Marston said and then slapped the table lightly. “Now, I suggest that we all turn in early.” He once again pulled out his watch from a vest pocket. “For as I said, they shall be arriving on the five-oh-five tomorrow. That gives us twenty-one hours and thirteen minutes. And tomorrow morning the trunks will be arriving in advance on the first train. The girls’ rooms are ready?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Horton said. “Lila’s is thoroughly dusted. All the water closet items vinegared. We’ll do another spraying of rose of attar on the bedsheets. She shan’t have reason to complain. If I hear so much as a sniffle coming from her this time, I swear it will be the devil’s work!”

  “We need not swear, Miss Horton,” Mr. Marston gently admonished. “This is a Christian home. I am sure you and Daze and Florrie have done admirably.”

  The conversation had quickly switched from the vases to the subject of Lila Hawley, the eldest and apparently most delicate of the three Hawley daughters. “But,” continued Mr. Marston, “we don’t want her looking all blotchy from hay fever as I believe Stannish Whitman Wheeler, the new young artist who is quite the talk on both sides of the Atlantic, has been engaged to paint the girls’ portrait while they are here in Boston this spring.” A chorus of oohs followed.

  “Who is that?” Hannah asked.

  “Stannish Whitman Wheeler”—Mr. Marston turned to Hannah—“at the tender age of nineteen has emerged as if from nowhere as one of America’s foremost portrait painters. He has painted portraits of the finest families in Amer
ica, England, and France. The Hawleys have engaged him to paint, as I understand it, a group portrait of their three lovely daughters—Lila, Clarice, and Henrietta. He started sketching them in Paris this winter. The painting is to be completed here.”

  An artist! Hannah thought. She had never met an artist. It was hard to believe that someone could make a profession out of painting pictures of people. He must see differently, feel differently. It was hard for Hannah to imagine someone like that entering the rigid and unbending world of number 18.

  6 THE ROOM AT THE TOP

  THE DRIZZLE HAD continued and a thick night fog had rolled in, casting an eerie, gauzy whiteness on the square so that the dark was not really darkness. Gaslights hung like luminous pearls over the sidewalk, their stands having dissolved into the mist.

  Hannah stood, looking down from her narrow, gabled window, wondering what the three sisters would be like. Lila, she knew, was of a delicate constitution and Clarice was supposed to be the prettiest as well as the most serious. Henrietta, the youngest, seemed to be the favorite of the staff. The girls didn’t go to school, but had a governess who traveled with them. And there had been quite a bit of talk about Lila’s debut the following year at Christmas, when she would turn seventeen.

  Earlier that day Hannah had helped Florrie prepare the vinegar and lemon solution to wash down the bedroom. Several times she had heard Lila’s hay fever mentioned, but there seemed to be more to her condition. The words high-strung had been often used. But then again the servants had talked of Mrs. Hawley as being high-strung as well. Terrible expression, Hannah thought. It made her think of bodies twitching on the gallows.