He shook his head slightly and seemed to regain his composure. “Nothing is wrong, nothing at all. It’s just that…”
His voice dwindled off, but he continued to stare at her as if he were searching for something. The scarlet tide of her blushing had receded, but her heart was pounding, and her mouth felt dry. Please, leave, she prayed silently. Just leave!
She picked up her feather duster and began to sweep around the fireplace, although it was quite clean. “The family is not here yet. Not expected until later this afternoon.”
“Yes, I know. I came to look at this room as a possible place to pose the girls.”
She kept her back squarely to him and continued to sweep the nonexistent dust. “I think I heard Mr. Marston say that the portrait was to be painted in the drawing room in front of the vases.”
“Ah, yes, I know. The precious vases!” There was something in his tone that suggested perhaps a faint contempt for the two vases. Hannah could feel his eyes studying her. “And you—what do you think of the vases?”
Something froze in Hannah. Slowly she turned about. “You don’t think they’re pretty?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, yes, the vases are very pretty,” he replied. “But I wonder about trying to contain something as wild as the sea on the surface of a vase made of clay.”
Before Hannah could stop herself, she replied, “Yes, it’s like trying to cram a full-rigged ship into a bottle. I saw one once in a store window.”
The painter tipped his head again and regarded her with renewed curiosity. “Precisely. Some things can’t be contained.”
But that of course was precisely what Stannish Wheeler did, thought Hannah. He was a portrait painter. He put life on canvas, or at least tried to.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, an odd, tight smile playing across his face. “I’ll wager that you think the vases are beautiful and are most especially drawn to that tail breaking through the crest of the wave.”
Hannah felt her blood run cold. He reached out to touch her arm, but she turned away. “I am sorry if I have offended you in some way. Please, forgive me.”
Hannah fought against touching the pouch beneath her dress. It had become somewhat of a nervous habit. But the painter must not see her do this—if he saw one touch, he would know too much about her. Already it was as if he had intuited that she had crept down the stairs to where those vases stood sentry, two mystical guards of some unknown world.
In Mrs. Claremont’s Guide for Domestic Service one of the most important admonishments was to never enter into conversation with guests of the house, except if needed to serve. Hannah pressed her mouth shut. Mr. Wheeler did not need to know what she thought of the vases. Any explanation of her thoughts was outside the job requirements.
“Ah, Mr. Wheeler!” Mr. Marston said, entering the room. “Well, you have had a look. But I seriously doubt the Hawleys will agree to a change of venue. You know, the vases and all.”
The painter pulled his gaze away from Hannah. “Yes, I understand, Marston, but tell me one thing. If indeed the Hawleys have carried the vases back and forth across the Atlantic numerous times—”
“Sixteen times to be precise,” Mr. Marston cut in.
“Yes, and also take them to their summer home in Maine, why would they not move them from one room to another?”
“That is really not for me to say, Mr. Wheeler.” The silence was broken only by Hannah arranging the kindling in the fireplace.
“Yes, I understand,” Mr. Wheeler said. And then she heard them both turn and walk from the room.
I am like glass to him, like water, Hannah thought to herself, alone now in the music room, heart racing. He sees through me, but how?
8 THE RIVER
STANNISH WHITMAN WHEELER’S composure disintegrated as soon as he reached the bottom of Beacon Hill. He stopped and leaned against a lamppost, closing his eyes. “It simply cannot be. It cannot be!” he murmured, then shook his head as if to banish the wild thoughts that were swirling in his brain. As he stepped out to cross Charles Street, he was nearly run over by a hansom.
“Watch where you’re going, idiot!” the driver yelled as he swerved the horse to avoid him. “Wanna get yourself killed?”
“Maybe!” Wheeler muttered.
He continued across Charles Street and entered a neighborhood known as lower Beacon Hill, where the hill flattened into a small nest of streets bordering the Charles River. He turned onto Brimmer Street, and walked a short block to the building on the corner where he lived and worked in an apartment on the top floor. The rent was reasonable and the light was good, for it faced north. But most important, he could see the river.
It was the same wherever he went, be it Boston, London, Paris, or Florence. The only thing that changed was the name of the river—the Charles in Boston, the Thames in London, the Seine in Paris, the Arno in Florence. Always a river. A river that flowed to the sea.
But now it was as if the sea had flowed back to him. He sank into his armchair in front of the window and took his customary posture. His elbow propped on one arm of the chair, his chin resting in his hand. He watched the river, observing the play of light on the water. Sometimes the water seemed like a gray satin ribbon unspooling toward the sea. Sometimes, like this day, the first bright, sunny one after long drizzling weeks, it flowed like a liquid rainbow. He liked it in all its moods, although he sometimes detected a tint of mockery in its shifting reflections.
He had been stunned when he entered that music room and she had turned around. How could he have expected such a thing? It was not that she was beautiful. But he had known the moment he entered the room, before she had even turned around, that there was something…a fluid grace in the way she bent toward that coal scuttle. Does she know yet? Or maybe it is the other way around, maybe she has chosen…no…no…, he argued.
Stannish now entered a complicated internal argument with himself. She had made that remarkable observation about the vases—how had she put it—like trying to cram a ship in a bottle? That remark alone would suggest that she had not made the choice; that she was ignorant, or rather, innocent.
It was all too complicated. He could not refuse the commission. He had already started the portrait. The Hawleys were one of the most important families here in Boston and prominent in Paris as well. Not only that, but the portrait was to be displayed at the Paris Salon, the most important art exhibition on either side of the Atlantic. Hervé, his dealer in Paris, would kill him if he backed out. But how could he continue in the household? Perhaps he would not see her that much. She was definitely not high on the staff, a parlor maid at best.
Finally the voices in his head ceased. He gazed out at the river and made his decision. “I am a great painter. I am on the brink of getting everything I’ve worked for. And I know all I have given up.”
9 BLOOD AND MILK
“THEM TARTS, YOU PUT a berry right in the center of each and mind you really get it in the center, Susie. Hannah can help you.”
The Hawleys had arrived promptly on the 5:05, and now at almost eight they were just sitting down for dinner. Hannah had never heard of anyone eating supper, which they called dinner, so late. In the three hours since they had arrived, she had not caught a glimpse of a single Hawley. This apparently was her destiny, not belonging to that exalted order of upstairs maids, like Florrie and Daze, or Miss Horton, the head housekeeper, or Roseanne, who was Mrs. Hawley’s personal maid.
As soon as Hannah had finished helping with the dessert tarts, Mrs. Bletchley reminded her that she should go kindle the stove in Lila’s room and take the pan of milk “for that creature.” Hannah carefully ascended the back stairs balancing the milk pan in one hand and the kindling scuttle in the other, wondering why Mrs. Bletchley called Jade “that creature.” The stairwell was quite dark with only very dim gaslights on the landings. Just before she approached the third-floor landing, she caught a glimpse of something pale and milky white flowing silently through the darkness. Her heart skipp
ed a beat. Dotty! No. No ghosts. She had slept in Dotty’s bed undisturbed. Hannah swallowed and took a deep breath. “Stupid you are! Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she scolded herself in a muttered whisper, and walked forcefully and somewhat loudly up the last half flight of stairs to the landing.
“Ah!” said a voice when she reached the landing. A large woman stood at the head of the stairs. She was not just large, but voluminous. Her skirts billowed from her ample hips, and her bosom jutted out like a promontory. But she had a friendly face, with cheeks that swelled into bright red crab apples and a perfect tiny bow mouth. She was uniformed but not aproned, a significance not lost on Hannah. Miss Horton did not wear an apron either. The lack of an apron indicated that a servant was of the highest ranks in the upstairs world. This must be Roseanne, Hannah thought, though she hardly fit the part of a lady’s maid. With her ruddy face, she looked more suited to scaling fish down at T Wharf. But Florrie had told Hannah that Roseanne was one of the most coveted ladies’ maids in Boston and the only staff, aside from the governess, to travel to Europe with the Hawleys. Efficient and skilled with a needle, she could mend anything, repair lacework, and she possessed an immense archive of recipes for removing any kind of stain.
“Coming up with her nibs’s dinner, I take it,” she called down.
“Yes, Jade’s milk.”
“You should use the dumbwaiter, dear. Less chance of spilling.”
“It was occupied. Mrs. Bletchley was sending up dessert from the kitchen to the dining room.”
“Oh, just ask her. People bend over backwards to keep Jade happy, not to mention her mistress, Miss Lila. I’d like to wring that damn cat’s neck and turn Lila over my knee and give her a good hard spanking!”
“Oh!” Hannah inhaled sharply and nearly spilled the milk.
“Well, get along with you, dear, and mind you don’t cross the cat. Her claws are something fierce. She’s got six toes, you know.”
Roseanne turned and went down the hall the opposite direction from Hannah. Gusts swirled in the wake of her large body and its wide skirts. A rose in a slender bud vase trembled and dropped a petal as if in homage to its human namesake.
All the gaslights were lit as Hannah made her way down the hallway to Lila’s room. The door was half open. As she walked in, she heard a low tearing sound, like fabric ripping. She spun around, milk sloshing over the edge of the pan. Facing her was the most enormous white cat she had ever seen. It stood in front of the porcelain stove, blocking her way. Arching its back, it made the ripping noise again. Hannah froze as the cat fixed her in its slitted stare. She now realized why it was called Jade. Its eyes were like twin gemstones.
Hannah instinctively knew that this was not the kind of cat to be called with a “Here, kitty, kitty.” She bent down and slowly set the pan of milk on the floor. The cat did not deign to look at the pan, staying firmly rooted to its spot with its back arched and its hard gaze locked on Hannah. A piercing blue-green light emanated from its eyes and seemed to focus with burning intensity on the spot beneath Hannah’s uniform where the pouch was concealed.
The cat hissed and arched its back higher. Hannah felt it might leap across the room and tear at her throat. The cat was blocking the door to the stove grate, but Hannah took a step closer. The cat blinked. A gold vertical slit flashed through the jade gleam.
One minute passed, then another, without the cat moving a fraction of an inch.
“She was expecting Dotty.” The voice came from behind. There was a flow of white as Jade stirred and Hannah knew it had not been a ghost on the stairs, but Jade.
Hannah turned around. “Begging your pardon, miss, she would not let me get to your stove.”
Standing in the doorway was a slender girl a year older than Hannah, the cat now in her arms. Lila Hawley buried her chin and nose in her pet’s thick fur and settled her eyes on Hannah. Hannah gave a little gasp. Four hard gemstone eyes locked her in their gaze.
“You’re the new scullery girl, aren’t you?” Lila Hawley spoke through the fur.
“Yes, miss, I am.”
“Do we like her, Jade? She came to light our fire. We should let her do that, shouldn’t we, Jade?” She spoke in a low voice that seemed to gurgle up from the back of her throat. The sound was not unlike the ripping noise the cat had made, but softer, quieter. “We’ll let her light the fire. Yes.” She paused. Then she stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked Jade’s nose. “Oh, and I know what you want. You smell it, don’t you?”
Lila walked toward where Hannah had put down the pan of milk. She crouched down and looked at Hannah while she kept talking. “Yes, Mummy’s brought you a special treat and no one is going to know our little secret. Scullery girl won’t tell.” She drew a wad of newspaper out from the deep pocket of her dress. Jade was now out of her arms and crouching in front of the milk pan. Lila unfolded the paper and took two dark, gelatinous lumps into the palm of her hand. The cat was quivering in anticipation, and Lila’s pale hand was dripping now with what looked like blood. She slipped the lumps into the pan and dark red swirls radiated through the milk. “We love our chicken livers, don’t we. And nobody tells how we sneak them out of the kitchen when Mrs. Bletchley’s not looking or that we bring them upstairs. And nobody’s going to tell either, are they, darling Jade? Because Mama doesn’t like me feeding you anything but milk upstairs. Dotty never told. And Hannah won’t tell either. Will she?”
“How did you know my name, miss?”
“Oh, I always make it a point to learn all the servants’ names, especially the scullery girls’.” She had stood up now and walked closer to Hannah. Very close. Hannah took a step back. “Don’t move!” Lila commanded. She raised her hands. The tips of her fingers were slimy with the blood. “Now turn around.”
“Why, miss?”
Lila sighed deeply. “You’re not supposed to question me. And besides, I’m doing it for your own good.”
“My own good?”
Lila rolled her eyes in a show of exasperation. “You don’t want me to wipe my fingers on your clean white apron, do you? I’ll just do it on the hem of your skirt. It will never show. See how thoughtful I am?” The corners of her mouth pulled back into a tight little smile.
Oh, yes, and I’ll have to wash out my hem every night, Hannah thought.
“As a matter of fact, just crouch down and start the fire up, and I’ll wipe my hands while you lay the kindling and light the fire. That will be very efficient, won’t it? Two tasks completed at one time.”
Hannah shook her head in slight dismay but turned around, and began doing exactly as Lila had commanded. The faster she got away the better. While she was laying the kindling, she could feel the tugs on the hem of her skirt.
“Oh, Jade, guess who came for dinner tonight,” Lila chatted. “Mr. Wheeler.”
Hannah caught her breath. She had tried to not think about him ever since she had met him that morning in the music room, but now Lila was prattling on.
“He is the handsomest man in Boston. And he’s going to paint our portraits. All of us together. I mean not Mama and Papa, but us girls. I wish it were just me. But Mama says if he does a good job on this, she’ll have him paint one just of me. I mean the whole reason for us coming home from Paris is so Mama can plan my debut. And the whole reason for a debut is to introduce young ladies to society so that they might find a husband. So I think as soon as we decide on the debutante dress, Jade, that Mr. Wheeler should start painting me all by myself. I want an off-the-shoulder dress.” The room seemed to resonate with this odd conversation and the soft noises of the cat slurping the bloody milk.
Lila dropped the hem of Hannah’s dress and the fire started with the first struck match. Hannah couldn’t wait to get out of the bedroom. She did not say good night. She merely gathered up the scuttle and her matches as quickly as possible. Lila was sitting on her bed, cuddling Jade and talking to the cat earnestly about her dress, her beautiful shoulders, and how boring Boston would be if it weren’t for
Mr. Wheeler and how she hoped he would come to Maine this summer when they went. Hannah stole a glance. A nimbus of gold light from the overhead fixture enveloped the girl and her cat. But together on the bed they did not seem illuminated, but rather the center of a dark violence.
As Hannah started down the back stairs on the second-floor landing, she met Daze coming up.
“You got the fire going in Lila’s stove?”
“Yes, but Holy Mother in heaven, she is strange!”
“I warned you.”
“That cat!”
“Oh, yes. She and that cat. Quite a pair they are!” Hannah felt a tremor pass through her. “Lila sneaked up the chicken livers, did she?”
Hannah nodded and then said, “Do you think Mr. Marston knows?”
“Probably.”
“And he doesn’t tell?”
Daze sighed deeply. “Look, dear, Mr. Marston above all wants to keep what he calls a ‘well-regulated house.’ When Lila goes off, it’s like a rock being thrown into the middle of a still pond. Peace is shattered. Everything starts to fall apart. Mrs. Hawley ain’t the steadiest herself. So she goes into what they call ‘a decline.’ Then Mr. Hawley begins fretting and his heart ain’t so strong. It’s just bad all the way round. Understand?”
“Uh…yes, I guess so.”
Hannah didn’t really understand at all. And what disturbed her the most was this odd relation that Lila had with the cat. The cat was like Lila’s imp, her demon spirit that made her whole. And then Hannah had the most shocking thought of all: to feel whole was a wonderful thing, a luxury. Did she actually envy Lila in some way? Something had come together in Lila that Hannah almost coveted.
She wished she could steal down to the drawing room and put her cheek against the coolness of the vase. If she closed her eyes, she knew that in the hollowness of the vase she would hear those timeless rhythms of the sea.
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