by Suzanne Weyn
“That’s most charitable,” Margaret commended. “Let me know when you will be available to be fitted for new dresses.”
“We will,” Catherine promised. “Father is downstairs, and he just brought home this season’s pattern books from his factory.”
“When did your father arrive?” asked Margaret.
“Last night,” Elizabeth told her as she took off her hat. “His new coachman made excellent time traveling up the Jersey shoreline. He says that he rode like a madman, which he half suspects he is.” She glanced at Bertie and smiled, covering her mouth as if embarrassed at having spoken without thinking. “That’s your father, isn’t it? No offense intended.”
“Yes, miss, none taken.” Bertie wasn’t sure if the offense had been intentional or not. Her father did seem half-mad even to her sometimes, overzealous if always well-intentioned, and she could see how someone might take him for a lunatic upon first meeting.
“We’ll be deciding on our new dresses once we look through the pattern books,” Catherine added. “That’s why we’re clearing out these old dresses to make room for the new.”
“In that case we shall be quite busy and must get to work,” Margaret declared.
Catherine and Alice stayed to watch, draping themselves along the arms and back of the one cushioned chair, while Elizabeth modeled her new outfit, wearing it inside out so Margaret could make the requested alteration.
“I have some old dresses from last year to give you as well,” Elizabeth said, as Margaret nipped in the dress waist with the pins Bertie handed her from the little cushion she held.
“But you know, Margaret, before you donate those dresses, you should offer them to the servant girls. I’m sure some of them would be happy to have them.”
“The servants don’t want our old cast-off things,”
Alice jumped in, with a glance at Bertie. “You don’t want those old dresses, do you, Bertie? I’m sure you have your own dresses that are perfectly fine.”
Pride nearly made Bertie agree that she had no need for anyone’s old clothing. The words had already formed and were just waiting to be set free, when her eyes fell upon the dresses, which now sat in a pile on one of the cutting tables. They looked as though they had never been worn!
How could she turn down such a gift?
Her mother had always said that false pride was a sin—and in this case, it would have been utter foolishness—so she swallowed her self-important words. “I would love some of those dresses,” she admitted.
“They wouldn’t fit you,” Catherine observed.
“I’m a seamstress,” Bertie reminded her. “Miss Alice is shorter than I am, but I could take that deep blue dress and remove the skirt of the ruffled yellow to use as an underskirt to lengthen it. Then I could detach the sleeves and add a yellow ruffle to the blue.”
“You are a natural stylist, I see,” Margaret commented, sounding genuinely impressed.
“My mother taught me to work with what I had,” she replied, recalling how her mother had never wasted anything, not even the buttons from torn or worn-out garments.
“Take the whole batch of them, then,” said Catherine. “The other servant girls are probably too heavy to fit them anyway.”
“Thank you. You are very generous,” Bertie replied, as she looked to Margaret to see if it was indeed all right for her to accept the gift. Margaret nodded almost imperceptibly, and Bertie’s spirits soared, thrilled by this newfound wealth.
At six o’clock Bertie carried the pile of dresses up into her small maid’s room and tossed them lightly onto the bed, eager to examine them more closely. She sat down hard on the end of the bed, blowing some hair from her eyes.
It had been a long day, with hardly any time to even eat anything. Margaret had explained to her that when Mr. Wellington arrived from his mills with the new pattern books from Europe, it was the busiest time of the year. The Wellington girls scoured the catalogs, wanting every latest fashion. “You’d better be prepared to put in some long days from now until Christmas,” she warned Bertie. “September is half over now, and Miss Catherine will be making her debut in society in early November. After Thanksgiving there will be holiday parties and balls for them all. Each event requires a new frock. Even young Mr. Wellington will require several new outfits, though now that he’s graduated, his father will no doubt start having his suits tailored in London.”
She picked up a taffeta dress with blue and green stripes that had belonged to Catherine. The dress’s full, shiny taffeta skirt was intricately pleated at the boned waist and swished deliciously as she held it in front of her. The other sisters were shorter than she, but Catherine was the closest to her size, and her things would be the easiest to alter.
Where she would ever wear such a rich-looking gown as this she had no idea, but it was a joy just to own it.
Spreading all the dresses out on the narrow bed, she allowed herself another minute to select one or two to bring back to the apartment to alter to her size in the evening. It had sadly occurred to her that there were other uses for the dresses than to keep them as gowns. They could be torn at the seams and their fabric used to make shirts and vests for her brothers and father, and she promised herself to make some blouses and smock dresses for Eileen.
She sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about Eileen. Though she’d seemed to improve quickly after coming home from the doctor’s office, Eileen was still sick. Her fever had gone down, but the cough and filmy throat persisted. All she could muster the energy to do was loll on the mattress playing with her rag doll. Yes, one of these gowns would make several cute dresses for Eileen. And there was one that was a little looser fitting than the others; it might look good on Maria. Tonight when she came by to visit—which she did almost every evening lately—Bertie would offer it to her, and they could make any alterations that were needed.
She was staring at the dresses and thinking of what to make for Eileen when her door burst open. Looking up in surprise, she gasped to see young James Wellington standing in the small room, facing her.
“Sir?” she asked, startled.
“James,” he reminded her. “We’re alone.”
You can call me James when we’re alone.
She was very aware that they were alone—and standing quite close together, since the room was no more than a large closet. Up close, he was even more handsome than she had recalled. “Can I help you? I mean, why are you here?”
“My cursed father!” he said angrily. “Things are so nice when he’s away, but he always returns!”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“I’m hiding! Don’t you see? This is the last place he would look for me. What are you doing here? Hiding from Margaret, I don’t doubt.”
“This is my room,” she told him.
He blinked, not understanding. “You’re not living here, are you?”
“It’s a sort of changing room—a courtesy, I imagine. It comes with the position.”
“Oh. Well, I am sorry, then. I didn’t realize.” He looked her up and down with a direct gaze. “Nice to run into you again, at any rate. You know, you’re even prettier than I remembered, and I recalled you as being very pretty indeed.”
He smiled, and she returned the smile despite her concerns about the impropriety of this situation.
“Why are you hiding from your father?” she asked.
“Blast him! He is so unreasonable. My illustrious father just discovered that I have been rejected from Harvard. Up until this moment I don’t think he was fully aware of exactly how badly I did at St. Paul’s Academy. I tried to explain to him that it was no matter because I don’t even want to go to Harvard—or any university, for that matter. I want to join him in running the family textile mills. I’m his son. I’m old enough now.”
“And he doesn’t want you to work with him?” asked Bertie.
“No! He wants me to be a lawyer or the president of the United States or some other dull thing like tha
t. But I’m built for business. I like making money, or rather, directing others to make it for me. Besides, I have no interest in academics.”
“And he’s very angry at you?” she asked.
“He’s in a towering rage,” he replied. “I stormed out of his study, but I couldn’t think of anywhere to go that he wouldn’t find me, except here. Mind if I wait with you here until the coast is clear?”
“I don’t think it’s quite proper. I could be fired.”
“I won’t let them fire you.”
“I have my reputation to think of.”
He smiled at her wolfishly.
She knew she should be worried, even offended, but she found him so charming. “You can stay a few more minutes, and then you must go. Please,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, taking her hand.
She knew she should pull it away, but his hand was large and strong. Her rough, work-worn palm felt delicate when he held it.
He lifted her hand to his lips and bent his head to it, placing a long, warm kiss just above her knuckles. Then, raising his head slightly, he gazed into her eyes. “You have saved me,” he said, without a trace of mockery. “I am in your debt.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Secret Room
The image of James Wellington took up permanent residence inside Bertie’s head. She forced herself to wash the hand he had kissed but found it consoling to think that he had left an indelible if invisible mark there that no amount of scrubbing could ever remove.
She didn’t daydream about marrying him in a grand ceremony or even of eloping with him on the sly. No future together would be possible for them— he was a prince of industry, the heir apparent, sure to inherit his father’s company and wealth. They lived in different worlds that would never meet—so she did not imagine a future with him.
He was simply there in her mind every second that some task did not divert her from thinking of him. She was helpless to control it, even if she had wanted to. And part of her very much wanted to stop thinking of him. It made her feel like a silly girl, this unbridled, senseless mooning over a handsome, educated, gentleman son of a millionaire whom she could never make her own.
It was ridiculous!
But there it was, just the same. She could find no way to make it stop.
So she spent the next week learning the fine points of making tissue-paper patterns, cutting, pinning, and sewing them with greater refinement than she had known even existed. Margaret began teaching her to use a sewing machine, a thing she relished learning and took to quickly.
The parts of her mind not bent on learning what Margaret had to teach were spent worrying about Eileen, who was still coughing and weak.
Finn had now been laid off from the firehouse entirely. “Last hired, first fired,” he explained. “They’re cutting the number of firehouses, supposedly to save taxpayers money.” The good news was that he was able to stay home with Eileen and took adequate care of her. At least, that’s what Bertie had thought at first, but in actuality he spent most of his days poring through the newspapers in search of a new job and in teaching Liam to read and write. Bertie worried that Eileen was not getting the attention she needed. Sometimes when she came home in the evening, the little girl seemed listless and the place was a mess.
At home in the evenings, Bertie ripped out the seams of most of the cast-off dresses and refashioned them into vests, shirts, and underwear for her father and the boys. She used one of them to make Eileen’s smocks and saved the three gowns she liked best for herself. The remaining gowns she used to make extra bows and trim to add to the other three in order to make them fit. With her new sewing skills, she was gratified to see that the workmanship in these garments was better than anything she had ever previously produced.
And all the while she was doing these things, like a subterranean spring running below all her surface thoughts, James Wellington was there: his handsome face, his wolfish grin, his shining, mirthful eyes, and his woodsy cologne. The picture she savored most strongly consisted of no more than the memory of a fleeting moment, the swiftest glance. The moment had come just as he was leaving her room. He had turned to say good-bye, and their eyes had met. She saw then how attracted he was to her.
It had taken her breath away to think that he—so handsome, so desirable—could be attracted to her.
When Saturday morning finally arrived, Finn went out to talk to a friend and came back elated. “They have a spot for me in a firehouse in Boston,” he announced. “I have to leave right away.”
“That’s great, Finn,” she said. Neither of them was sure where Boston was, but Finn would be traveling with his friend.
“I’m sorry to leave you here with the kids. How much longer will you be staying in the apartment?”
“I’m going to try to keep it going. Da wants me to give it up, but the Wellingtons won’t want Eileen and Liam living in the carriage house, and my room is too small.”
“I could take Liam with me, but then who would watch Eileen?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not fair to Liam, though. He should be in school.”
Finn shrugged. “I’ve taught him some of what I know.”
“I envy him that,” Bertie admitted. “Someday maybe you’ll teach me to read. Or maybe Liam will.”
A silence fell between them for a moment. “I hate to see you go,” she said, breaking it.
“I know,” he said. “I hate leaving you here to deal with everything. There’s a lot on you these days. I know that, even if Da doesn’t.”
Emotional tears jumped unexpectedly into the corners of her eyes. It made her happy that he saw all she was doing. She didn’t expect praise, but his appreciative words touched her just the same. She wrapped him in a hug, squeezing tight. “I’ll miss you,” she said.
“We’ll be together again,” he replied, a catch in his throat as he held on to her another moment.
Finn left late that night. After saying good-bye to him, she went to bed and lay listening to Eileen’s heavy wheeze. Had this illness left the child permanently frail? As Eileen slept in the moonlight, her porcelain skin seemed nearly transparent, with lines of blue veins at her temples. The illness had turned her into a whisper of her former self.
In the morning Bertie rose early and got a bucket of water from the hall sink. She washed her hair with the same bar of soap she used for the dishes, sticking her head out the window and rinsing it by pouring the water over her head.
Toweling her hair dry, she put on one of the secondhand dresses, the blue and green striped. It would take too long to wait for the mass of curls to dry, so she twisted it into a knot, pinning it into place.
Today she would go to church and pray for Eileen. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She would be back before Eileen and Liam even awoke.
She knew where to find the church, because she passed it each day on her walk uptown. Although it was only a neighborhood church, it was higher and grander than any she’d known back in Ireland.
Bertie found it comforting to hear the words of the Mass spoken in Latin. It was a language she did not understand, but the sounds were familiar from her childhood, when she’d attended Mass every Sunday. All the while she kept her thoughts on Eileen, begging God and his mother, Mary, to help her get better. Once or twice James Wellington came unbidden into her mind, but he was quickly banished.
After Mass she placed a penny in the tin collection box to light a candle for Eileen and knelt to say one more prayer. By the time she was done, most of the others had left the church. She went out of the dark, cool, silent building and once more returned to the bustle of the street.
She was heading toward home when Ray Stalls fell into step with her. “You are looking quite the lady today,” he complimented her.
Since the day he had gotten Eileen to the doctor, she had dropped her wary suspicion of him. How could she be anything but cordial to him after all he’d done for her and her family? “Thank you,”
she said.
“How is the little girl?” he asked. That night, in the hallway outside the doctor’s office, after she had finished crying on his shoulder, he had excused himself, saying he had an appointment he could not miss. She had not seen him since.
“She is better but not much,” Bertie reported. “I’m worried about her.”
“So many little children get sick,” he commented sympathetically. “Children cannot stay healthy in these filthy conditions, without proper water or food.”
“She wouldn’t be as healthy as she is if you hadn’t helped us,” she declared.
“Ach!” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
“You know, we have never been introduced,” she pointed out.
“My name is Ray Stalls,” he said, extending his hand to shake.
“Mine is Bertie Miller,” she replied, shaking.
“Is that your real name?” they both asked at the same time, their voices overlapping.
“It depends what you mean by real,” Ray considered. “Here, in America, this is really my name. Is it the name I was born with? No.”
“The same for me,” she admitted. “What is your real name?”
“It’s a secret.”
“I was born Bridget O’Malley,” she offered.
“That is a lovely name, as is Bertie Miller. My real name is not as lovely, and so I will keep it to myself.”
“That’s not fair,” she argued.
“Nothing is fair.”
“But America is the land of equality for all, is it not?” she stated.
“It is a lofty goal, yes. It is certainly better than the places we came from, where no one even thinks equality is something to strive for.”
“But you don’t think everyone is equal?” she questioned.
“Does it look like that is true to you?” he countered.
She thought of life at the Wellington home and her life in her Five Points tenement. Clearly they were not equal. “Everyone is equal in the eyes of God,” she remarked.
He smiled. “All right. Maybe there.”
She stopped at a narrow building, where wire chicken coops were stacked atop one another and hens laid eggs that went instantly on sale. She wanted to buy three for breakfast. Ray took out a leather wallet. “Can I help?” he offered.
