Instead she made tea. We sat at the formal dining table in the mahogany-paneled dining room, amid the shifting shadows thrown by the hall light, and we drank tea. The tea was brewed in a heavy silver pot, the surface shaped into vines and berries that I outlined with one fingertip. The thick Persian carpet was soft and inviting; I slipped off my shoes—my ballroom slippers—and rubbed my stockinged toes into it. The windows opposite me were thrown open, but no breeze touched the curtains. Why had Mr. Rumsey sent me here? To forge a friendship, or to be a spy? Or were the two the same for him?
Opposite me Mrs. Talbert was absorbed in her own thoughts. After some time passed, I grasped at a way to reach her; to make conversation, any kind of conversation at all. “This is a lovely teapot,” I offered.
“Thank you. A wedding gift.” She sounded indifferent.
Another step toward her: “I was proud of Millicent tonight.”
She did not respond.
“Her resilience. Of course she was in a state of shock and there will be repercussions ahead, but she didn’t break down in front of the police.”
Still Mrs. Talbert was silent. I continued. “Her reaction revealed an inborn sense of dignity.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, so I knew I’d finally said something that pleased her. “Millicent has always been modest and self-possessed.” She turned toward the still-dark windows. “Like her mother. My eldest sister.”
Abruptly her composure broke, and she hunched over, crying, her hands fisted against her mouth. I yearned to rush around the table to her; to hold her and comfort her. But I sensed that she wouldn’t want that kind of comfort—at least not from me. Minutes passed while she wept. Finally she regained control and sat up. The horizon was beginning to lighten, the trees outlined like dark skeletons. The pendulum clock in the hall made its muffled gong for five A.M. Without looking at me, Mrs. Talbert began. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve failed Millicent and my sister by taking on my burden of work. Maybe it is better to keep in the background, out of everyone’s way, and protect your own. This never would have happened if I hadn’t put myself forward and made myself so visible to everyone on the outside. I’ve had to make myself so harsh, for the work. Sometimes I sound sanctimonious even to myself. I feel like I’ve had to make my body into a shield to protect myself. Otherwise it’s too hard to get up on crates and shout at people. And what’s the purpose of it, anyway? Nothing ever changes. I should have been loyal to my sister and her daughter and kept quiet.”
I waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t I said, “You know you couldn’t hide away. Hiding isn’t your nature.” I believed in her work, I admired her courage. Her choice had been the opposite of mine, and it was the right choice. “Things do change, bit by bit, not so as you can watch them changing every day, but so that you can turn around suddenly and see them changed, and you’re astonished—the way you’re astonished to realize suddenly how big a child’s grown, and you hadn’t noticed because you saw her every day. The risks you’ve taken, you’ve had to take. What you must do now is find a way to protect Millicent without surrendering your fight.”
A freshening breeze picked up, the breeze of dawn that I welcomed each summer morning, pulling my blanket around me. Birds began singing in the garden—so many, so loud. I caught the sound of the mockingbird, sharp and close.
“Yes … protect Millicent,” she said doubtfully. She seemed to sink into meditation.
“Why did you and your husband decide against a formal investigation?”
Here, at least, she was secure; she seemed to wake from reverie: “If anything had actually happened to Millie—if she’d been killed, is what I mean.” I flinched when she said it, a real word abruptly taking the place of implication. “Of course William and I would have cooperated with the police. And the newspapers. We would have made it the greatest of causes: the lynching of a child.” Again: a real word, forcing us to face reality.
“The lynching of a girl child.” Closing her eyes, she expelled a long breath. “But as it is … well, we won’t talk to the police now. We’ll tell Mr. Rumsey anything we discover, of course: We can count on him to keep such matters private and do his own investigations. But we don’t want any of this to become public. Why should Millicent go through life known as the girl who was kidnapped? Why should she become a symbol? Why should someone in my own family be made into ammunition for the fight? I don’t have that courage.” She studied me frankly. “Now there will always be something that holds me back—slightly back—from the barricades,” she said with a trace of irony. “A secret. Now I understand you a bit better, Miss Barrett. You and the secret that holds you back. You’ll always know my secret, so in fairness I ask you: What is yours? What is it that holds you back?”
I stared at her but said nothing. With dawn fully upon us, the room turned bright and clear, and the time for unfettered confession was gone.
“Shall I guess?”
“Guess all you like,” I said more dismissively than I intended.
“I’ve pondered it more than once. And I believe I’ve discerned it. Not that I have any evidence,” she noted quickly. “But in evaluating the alternatives I’ve allowed myself a speculation.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes. Indeed,” she said pointedly. “Here is what I have decided: A long time ago, you fell in love with a man. You were reckless. He couldn’t marry you for whatever reason. You paid the price. You bore a child. Even I, for all my sanctimony”—she cocked her head in good-hearted self-deprecation—“understand what love can make a woman do.”
I burst out laughing, and my laughter was bitter. “I never ‘fell in love’ with a man.” Immediately I realized that by protesting one supposition I’d virtually admitted the other.
She looked confused.
“Love would have been easy,” I added, as if that were an explanation. And from her changing expression, I saw that it was, the truth slowly coming upon her.
“Oh. I see. I’m sorry.”
Some words, like the words needed here, were too horrible to say, and we would never say them; words like rape, for example—that was a word neither of us would ever say.
“Who was he? Was he a stranger?”
“No, not a stranger. Although I suppose he was a stranger, when all was said and done. Some might consider him a gentleman.”
“I understand.”
Did she? “I was … young then, for my years.”
“Yes. Couldn’t you try, I mean, I don’t wish to pry, but—wouldn’t it be possible to pretend that the child is an orphan left to you by a deceased sister or a cousin, or something like that? Not that I’ve done that with Millicent, mind you. She’s my sister’s child fair and square, but I have heard of such solutions.”
“When it happened, I made arrangements for—” Suddenly I didn’t want the full truth known, even by her. Firmly I said, “I made arrangements.”
“To your satisfaction?”
“I trust so.” I felt my composure on the verge of breaking, but I couldn’t allow it to break. Not now, not ever. “I hope so.”
“Aunt Mary!” Millicent called from upstairs in a voice of terror. “Aunt Mary!”
Automatically we both stood, our moment of confidence over.
At first she screamed and cried so uncontrollably that I despaired of finding a way to calm her. Yet gradually she did calm, the Talberts and I sitting beside her, talking to her, reassuring her, holding her. At eight A.M. Mr. Talbert felt he had no choice but to leave for his office in order to keep up an appearance of normality. By then Millicent sat propped up in her canopy bed, her embroidered nightgown buttoned to her neck. As the day slowly wore on, Millicent, in shifting, jostling sentences, began to tell her aunt and me what had happened.
“I was walking home from the Crèche,” she explained, “and I was walking on exactly the streets I’m supposed to.” Defensively, apologetically, she glanced at her aunt, who nodded in reassurance. “Then all of a sudden there was
something over me. Maybe it was a blanket? I think it was a blanket. It could have been a shawl. It didn’t smell good, no matter what it was. I thought there were two men next to me, and they pushed me into a carriage and they tied my hands behind my back; the string hurt me.” She massaged her wrists, although there was no sign of rope burns on her skin.
“And then?” I asked gently.
“When we got to that—place, that grain elevator, they took me up on that—belt, and it was scary because I couldn’t see anything and I felt like I was swaying and I was going to fall off, even though the men kept pushing me against the belt so I couldn’t fall. Finally when we got to the top, they pushed me out on the walkway and told me not turn or move or else I would fall in. And I really did think I would fall in—it was so small a place to stand, and—” Reaching for her aunt, she again burst into tears, and while Mrs. Talbert hugged her close, my own eyes filled. After a few moments Millicent collected herself and continued: “Then they untied my hands and took away the blanket.” She twisted and twisted the sheet in her hands.
“It’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Talbert said, stroking her head. “You don’t have to tell us anything more now.”
“No, I want to tell you.” She pushed herself away from her aunt ever so slightly and looked at me. “That’s when I opened my eyes. But I couldn’t see anything. I felt like the blanket was still over me, because everything was so dark. Like I was blind! And by then the men were going back down the belt—they didn’t even need any light, they could just do it by touch.” Mrs. Talbert and I exchanged a quick glance: Was this a clue? Only men well-accustomed to the grain elevators would be able to use the belt in the dark. “When they got to the bottom, they lit some matches to find their way out. Then I was alone. All alone in the dark!” Her eyes became huge as she remembered her fear. Mrs. Talbert squeezed her shoulders, steadying her.
I asked, “Did they say anything else?”
She shifted her head. For a moment she considered. “Well … when we were going up the belt they told me not to be scared. But they laughed when they said it. That made me more scared.”
“What language did they speak?”
“Sometimes they spoke English and sometimes they spoke a different language. I don’t know which one. It wasn’t French. And it wasn’t German.” Those were the two modern languages Millicent was studying in school. “And it wasn’t Latin,” she suddenly added with an impish grin that startled both Mrs. Talbert and me; it was a welcome glimmer of her former self, and Mrs. Talbert exhaled in relief. Of course she studied Latin at school too. But as suddenly as she had smiled, Millicent looked crestfallen. “Should I have asked them what language it was?”
“No, little darling,” Mrs. Talbert said, hugging her close once more. “You did fine, just fine. You were wonderful.”
“Why did they choose me to take?” She hit her fist against the quilt. “What did I ever do to them?”
“They weren’t taking you, my darling. They were taking what you represent.”
She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re a smart and lovely Negro girl from a good family. That makes them mad. And—well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that they were also taking me. And your uncle. Taking all of us who try to fight for what’s right.” An idea seemed to come to Mrs. Talbert, a way to help her niece. “So you see, you were part of our battle too. What you faced and overcame—well, you made your contribution. With dignity and bravery.”
This Millicent understood. Of course she had met her aunt’s friends and attended her aunt’s church; she knew the language of the fight for justice. She brightened even as she became more serious. “Did I do exactly what I should have done?”
“You were wonderful. You were a heroine! A heroine for all of us! I’m so proud of you. All our friends are so proud of you!”
Looking aside in her modest way, Millicent seemed pleased.
“I’ll always remember the day you were a heroine!” Mrs. Talbert exclaimed. Silently I blessed her, for she had found precisely the way to redeem all that had happened.
That day, Millicent slept on and off, and when she was awake Mrs. Talbert or I read to her from Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. In the late afternoon we helped her to dress, and slowly, with our help, she made her way downstairs. At first she looked around in bewilderment, as if she didn’t recognize her own home: the vase of peonies on the drawing room table, the tree branches tapping the long windows. She ran her fingers along the carved backs of the wooden chairs. At five o’clock we sat in the drawing room for afternoon tea, including cucumber sandwiches and little round cakes. Millicent ate in small, furtive bites. She seemed exhausted, which was natural of course and relieved my mind precisely because it was natural.
At about six-thirty, as we sat by the windows enjoying one last cup of tea, an impressive brougham drove up. Miss Love emerged. She regarded the house with narrowed eyes, then strode up the walkway. She banged on the front door and pushed past the astounded servant to find us.
Without greeting Mrs. Talbert or Millicent, she announced, “Louisa, you must come with me.”
Mercifully she was no longer attired as the Spirit of France.
CHAPTER XXIV
Even as the brougham drove away and I turned back to look, the neighbors came silently to the Talbert house. They must have been waiting all day for me to disappear. Miss Love and I drove through the neighborhood in the early evening glow of this long summer day. We passed the plain, brick Michigan Street Baptist Church, where Mary Talbert did much of her work. Once the church had been a stop on the Underground Railroad, and men and women slept on its padded pews and ate in its cellar. I felt a rush of optimism—for my friendship with Mary Talbert, for my own future.
“Don’t upset yourself, Louisa. We’ll find out who did this.”
Startled, I turned from the window to face Miss Love. “I wasn’t upset.”
“You can’t fool me, the way you were looking out the window. I can read your mind like an open book.”
“Oh.” Worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep the irony out of my voice, I said nothing more.
“Mr. Rumsey has sources.” She seemed to swish the word around in her mouth like fine wine. “Don’t tell the Talberts,” she cautioned, placing a restraining hand on my arm. “It’s not that I don’t trust them, but their acquaintances may not be—well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Feigning innocence: “No, what?”
“My dear Louisa. The fact is, Mr. Rumsey is giving this matter his full attention. He told me so this afternoon.”
“He visited you?”
“I visited him. To learn what took him from the party. Dexter keeps no secrets from me!” She laughed complacently. Dexter Rumsey and Maria Love had been children together, romping on Delaware Avenue when much of it was still forest and farmland. “I imagine we’ll be hearing shortly about an unfortunate accident befalling an unfortunate man or men. A slip along the slippery shore of the Niagara River, for example,” she said with a disturbing hint of glee.
“What are you saying? You believe Mr. Rumsey would order people murdered—I don’t believe it!” Even as I protested, an image of Speyer and Fitzhugh came into my mind.
“My dear girl.” Again she placed a restraining hand on my arm. “I was only joking. Your night’s adventures have made you sensitive. But don’t you wish to see justice done for young Miss Talbert? You know very well there would be no justice for her in a public court. And I’m sure you don’t want her name in the newspapers. I certainly don’t want the Crèche publicly involved with this—and it is involved, don’t forget, since she was walking home from the Crèche when she was … taken.” Miss Love wrapped her large, gnarled hand around my upper arm. “I will not have my life’s work besmirched. I’m grateful the Talberts saw fit to keep this matter private,” she hissed. “Dexter’s initial thought was to order a full police investigation—so he told me today. In this case the Talberts had more sense.�
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She let go of my arm. We rode in silence while the brougham turned onto Ferry Street, crossed Main and Linwood, and finally came to Delaware. As we drove up the avenue, the gardens and mansions resplendent around us, she said with reluctance, “Louisa, the time has come that I must warn you of something. Dexter doesn’t know that I’m warning you, and I’m putting myself at risk by doing so. Nevertheless, it must be done. And I must rely on you to keep the matter entre nous.”
I looked at her quizzically.
“You are poised on the brink of disaster.”
I laughed at her melodrama. “I am?”
We turned onto Chapin Parkway. “Beck,” she called to her driver, “continue to Lincoln, circumnavigate the park and the exposition.” In a lower voice, she repeated, relishing the word, “Disaster.”
“Miss Love, with all due respect, you must be exaggerating.” I spoke lightly, indeed without due respect. But after missing a night’s sleep, I had lost the ability to make myself tiptoe around her.
She glared. “You think it’s a joke,” she said quietly. “But it isn’t.”
With grand irony I replied, “Of course not.” I felt giddy. Warnings in a carriage—whatever was she thinking of?
She didn’t like my tone. “I know you young women make fun of me. Don’t think I don’t know it,” she said bitterly. “But you don’t realize how hard I had to fight to get what I wanted. It took years of fighting to be allowed to set up the Crèche. Years of fighting to get a woman like you named headmistress of Macaulay, to secure architectural commissions for Louise Bethune and Francesca Coatsworth. All in secret, this fighting, all in the background. Small steps, one at a time, that you and your friends take for granted, acting as if women were always allowed to enter the public domain. But we weren’t—when I was young, we weren’t. I couldn’t fulfill a quarter of my dreams, not a tenth. Instead I had to spend my time charming and cajoling pompous fools like Ansley Wilcox to grant me ‘favors.’ I had to manipulate even Dexter, to make him think everything was his idea and pray he wouldn’t realize. So don’t laugh at me, Louisa Barrett.”
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