Then I saw — oh, so clearly! — that I couldn’t go home, no matter how bad it was in Baltimore. At home, there’s no hope. Father will never change, and he’ll never let me have anything. I covered my head with my arm and began to pray.
It had been a while since I prayed. I’d been feeling a little disappointed in God, because I’d asked Him not to let Father be rude to Miss Chandler — but Father was — and then I’d prayed that my strike would succeed — but it didn’t, because Father burned my books. I know God can’t answer every prayer exactly the way you want Him to. But I couldn’t help thinking that He hadn’t been doing very well by me lately.
Even so, I prayed. It wasn’t a proper prayer, just a cry for help, but I felt He was listening. I recited Hail Marys. Then I recommenced crying. All of a sudden — I’d sobbed so hard I never heard him approach — a voice said, “Please let me help you.”
I sat bolt upright, ready to jump up and run away. But I didn’t — I guess because the man who’d spoken wasn’t looming over me. He was hunkered down in front of the bench, balanced on the balls of his feet. It was such a precarious position that I could have stuck out one foot and knocked him over. He was holding his hat in his hands — he’d taken off his hat to show respect. I thought that was nice.
He had a beard, and that surprised me because it’s usually older men who have beards, and he was young. His beard was dark and curly and so was his hair. He was solidly built and his shoulders were broad, and he had a large head — not too large, but the kind of head that reminded me of Jupiter, the Roman god. His clothes were handsome and he was well-groomed. In short, he didn’t look like the sort of man a girl has to run from — I mean, the sort of man from whom a girl has to run.
“Can I be of any use to you?” he said.
If I am to write the truth — and I vowed that I would when Miss Chandler gave me this book — I wanted to say yes right away. I wanted him to take care of me. Then I remembered how stupid I’d been with the yellow-haired man, and I saw I was in danger of being stupid again. So I didn’t answer. He took a clean handkerchief out of his coat and offered it to me.
That reminded me of Miss Chandler. I started crying again, and while I cried, the man made noises. They were sympathetic noises, and they were also, somehow, foreign. His voice wasn’t foreign; he spoke like an American. But his sympathetic noises weren’t like anything I’d heard before. And something about them made me cry harder. Oh, I’m like Florence Dombey; I cry too much. After a little, I wiped my eyes and tried to pull myself together. Men don’t like it when women cry, and I wanted that man to like me.
“Won’t you tell me —” the man began, but I interrupted him.
“I’m lost,” I blurted out. “I came to Baltimore to find work as a hired girl, but the train was late, so I didn’t get to town until dark, and I couldn’t find a respectable boardinghouse, and I asked a man who seemed kind, but he —” Then I stopped. I couldn’t tell this stranger what that man did. “He frightened me,” I said pitifully, because that was true, though it wasn’t the whole truth.
He nodded as if he understood. “Is he the one who hurt you?”
I thought for a minute he was reading my mind, because that awful man had hurt me. Then I saw that he was staring at my face, seeing the bruises that Cressy gave me. “Oh, no!” I said quickly, and touched the swollen place. “That’s from home. That happened a week ago.”
“Did you run away from home?”
I wished he hadn’t asked me that. I ought to have said no, right away, but I didn’t, and that was as good as saying yes. “I had to. My father —” I started to say burned my books, but my throat closed. It was a moment before I could speak. “I had to run away.”
He looked very upset. “What about your mother? Won’t she worry?”
“My mother’s dead,” I said, and he looked downright stricken and made more of those sympathetic noises. I added, “But I’m not that young. I’m eighteen.” I don’t know why I said eighteen. I’d meant to lie about my age, of course, but I’d planned to say I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. But for some reason, eighteen was what came out of my mouth. “Do you know where I might find a respectable boardinghouse?”
He shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve never needed one, not in Baltimore. Perhaps tomorrow —” He shook his head again. “That’s no use; you need a place to stay tonight.” He stood up. “I have an idea.”
I waited.
“I live up the street”— he pointed to a place beyond the trees —“in the corner house, with my parents and sister and my brother David, but just now David’s in New York with my father. There are servants’ rooms at the top of the house that aren’t being used. Perhaps my mother would let you stay there. She might be able to help you find a job. There’s even a possibility — but we’ll talk about that later on. Will you come with me?”
I stared at him with my heart in my mouth.
“My mother’s very good,” he said. “She may seem a little brusque at first, but —” He fumbled in his pockets and brought out a card. “I ought to have introduced myself. I’m Solomon Rosenbach.”
I took the card. It was too dark to read it, but I felt vaguely reassured. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing a villain would do — give me his card.
“Will you come with me? You can’t spend the night on that bench. You won’t get a wink of sleep —” His face broke into a smile, and it changed everything. He was such a serious-looking person, but that wide, sweet smile made him look as if he were no older than I am. “And I won’t either.”
He was so kind, so truly chivalrous. I could say that he spoke to me with tenderness, except that makes it sound as if he had a particular interest in me, and I’m sure he hadn’t. I believe he would have spoken the same way to a lost child or a wounded dog. And the child — or the dog — would have trusted him and followed him home at once.
But I wasn’t a dog or a child. I’d trusted one man that night, and he’d insulted me unspeakably. “I can’t.”
He looked thoughtful, turning the brim of his hat between his fingers. Then he smiled again.
“You’re quite right, you know. It’s dangerous to go home with a stranger. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk to my house and hope that you’ll follow me at a safe distance. Then I’ll go inside, and afterward — as soon as I can explain — my mother will come out on the porch and invite you in. Will that suit you better? She’s very respectable, my mother. In fact, we all are, but you’re right not to take my word for it.”
I considered his offer. “Thank you,” I said. My voice creaked a little but I didn’t cry.
“There’s a good girl,” he said, and I guess that was patronizing but I didn’t dislike it. I followed him just as he said. He ran lightly up the porch steps, and when he reached the door, he wiped his feet on the mat.
My opinion of him rose even higher.
At first I waited on the pavement. Then I crept up to the porch. The windows of the house were open. There were no lights on in the front room, but it was dim rather than dark, because the room behind it was lit, and there was a big archway connecting them. I heard voices, and a woman exclaimed, “Oh, Solly! It used to be cats and dogs!” and then I heard his voice, hushing her.
That was when I knew I was safe. Because his mother — Mrs. Rosenbach — sounded like a mother, an exasperated mother. There’s something about the way a mother talks to her child. Listening, I felt kind of homesick.
After that, I couldn’t hear much. I can’t say I didn’t listen, but their voices were low and blurred. Then she came through the archway and a light came on. I didn’t know electric lights came on so suddenly. It wasn’t like gaslight; it was quicker and ten times brighter. I retreated to the top of the porch steps. The door opened, and Mrs. Rosenbach came out.
She stood silhouetted, with the light at her back. I was surprised by how small she was. The top of her head just clears my shoulder. But small or not, she wa
s mistress of the situation. If she’d been a teacher and rapped on the desk with her ruler, everyone would have fallen silent.
“Come in,” she said briskly, and I went.
Once I was inside, I didn’t look around very much; my whole attention was fixed on Mrs. Rosenbach. But I was aware that the house was fine. There was wood paneling halfway up the wall, carved and dark and rich looking, and big paintings with gold frames. It was almost like a church, it was so fancy and solemn, and the ceiling was high above my head.
But I was watching her, trying to tell if she would be kind to me. What I noticed first was that she was elegant, more elegant even than Miss Chandler (though not more of a lady). She wore a shirtwaist dress, silk taffeta I think it was. The way the cloth was made, it gleamed like polished copper in the lamplight but was jet-black in the folds. There were pleats down the front, and the buttons went down one side, instead of being in the middle. She had a slender waist and dark hair — it was only a little gray — and keen eyes. And though it was a warm night, and she wore a high collar, she didn’t look flushed or creased, and she carried herself like a queen.
“What’s your name?”
“Janet Lovelace, ma’am.”
“My son tells me you ran away from home.” Her voice was courteous, but something else, too: maybe disdainful; maybe severe. “Wasn’t that a rash thing to do?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, as courteous as she. I surprised myself, answering her so readily, but something about her brought out my mettle. It was a queer thing: Mr. Solomon Rosenbach made me feel kind of frail and delicate, but she made me strong.
“You don’t think it was rash, to come to a strange city where you know no one, and have no place to spend the night?”
“If you put it like that, it sounds rash,” I admitted, “but I had to leave home. If I have to sleep on a park bench, I will. But I won’t go home.”
She took a step forward and looked at me, first as if I was a curiosity, and then more closely. She saw my bruises and winced at the sight of them. She said, almost under her breath, “No, you mustn’t go home,” and all at once, I realized what she was thinking. She’d gotten hold of the idea that someone at home had beaten me, and I tried to remember just what I’d said to her son. Of course I hadn’t mentioned Cressy; and I’d told him I couldn’t go home because of Father. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t lie.
But I didn’t confess, either. I don’t mean confess, exactly: I didn’t explain. I should have explained, but the Rosenbachs were looking as if they were sorry for me, and I wanted them to feel sorry for me, because I needed a place to spend the night. So I kept my mouth shut.
“I understand you want to be a hired girl.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you could help me find work, I’d be much obliged.”
“You have a character?”
I said hesitantly, “I think so, ma’am. Miss Chandler — my teacher at home — she thought I had a good character.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant references — a written testimonial to the effect that you are honest and clean and obedient. Have you anything of that kind?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You may find it difficult to find work without one. However”— she hesitated —“there may be a place here.” She took a step toward a small rocking chair and sat down in it. “Sit down. I should warn you that it’s unlikely you’ll stay here for long. I’ve dismissed three servants in the two past months.”
“I’d like to work here,” I said breathlessly. I meant it. I wanted nothing more than to work in this magnificent house. I could tell that the Rosenbachs were people of culture and refinement. At the same time, I wondered what the other servants had done to displease her.
Mrs. Rosenbach said unexpectedly, “Are you hungry? Have you dined?”
“No, but I had breakfast on the train, ma’am. It was a very large breakfast. I’m not hungry.”
She sighed. “Solly,” she said to Mr. Rosenbach, “go downstairs and fix the girl a sandwich. And a glass of milk, I think.”
Her son got to his feet and left the room. He was going downstairs, this wealthy, grown-up, well-dressed man, to fix me a sandwich. Luke would have called him a sissy. I thought he was manly and gallant.
Mrs. Rosenbach rocked in her chair. It’s funny — sitting in a rocking chair is kind of a homely thing to do, but the way she did it, with her wrists resting so lightly on the arms of the chair, and just the tip of one shoe showing — why, it wasn’t homely at all. A queen might rock that way, if she had a throne with rockers on it.
She said, “Malka is in bed. She’s tired out after the Sabbath.”
I wondered who Malka was. It struck me that Mrs. Rosenbach had the day wrong, because it was Saturday, but I didn’t say so.
“Malka is our housekeeper. She was my husband’s nursemaid when he was a child. Mr. Rosenbach is devoted to her, and when I came to this house as a bride, it was Malka who showed me how to run the household.” She corrected herself. “Malka and her sister, that is. Malka is twelve years older than her sister, Minna. My husband and I never wanted a large staff. We value our privacy, and we do what we can to make it easy to run the house. We have hot and cold running water, a gas range, and central heating. The laundry is sent out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, because I felt I ought to say something. I kept a straight face, but inside I was thinking, Good, no laundry.
“Malka’s over seventy, and she’s no longer strong. Until last year, Minna did most of the heavy work. But last year, Minna received an unexpected proposal of marriage — a widower, a man she knew when she was young. We’ve tried to replace her, but Malka”— she made an irritable clucking noise —“Malka has very strict standards of housekeeping, and none of the young women have been able to please her. She says young women nowadays don’t know what it is to work.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you accustomed to work, Miss Lovelace?”
Miss Lovelace. It sounded so pretty, even better than I’d expected. I answered her by throwing out my hands, showing first the palms and then the backs. I never thought I should be glad of my rough, work-scarred, big-knuckled hands. “Oh, I can work,” I assured her. “I grew up on a farm.”
“What can you do?”
I took a deep breath. “I can cook and scrub and sweep and dust. I can sew, of course, and mend and darn. And I can kill a chicken, and dress it, and plant a garden and put food by, and make sausage, and blacklead the stove and keep the fires going. I don’t guess it matters, if you send the laundry out, but I can wash and starch and iron. And I can whitewash, and tend chickens, and churn, and take up the carpets and beat them, and —”
Mrs. Rosenbach lifted her hand. I stopped talking.
“Are you tactful?”
I had to think about that one. “I couldn’t say, ma’am. I didn’t have to be too tactful on the farm.” Then I rallied. “But Miss Chandler said I showed signs of a refined nature. I think I could be tactful, if I set my mind to it.”
“You’ll need to set your mind to it,” Mrs. Rosenbach said drily. “What we are looking for is someone who can shoulder the heavy work without making Malka feel that she’s an old woman. She’s touchy,” she added, in a way that made me wonder how much she liked Malka.
I heard footsteps, and young Mr. Rosenbach came in with my sandwich. He’d cut it in triangles and put it on a plate, instead of carrying it around in his hand, the way Luke does. He’d remembered the glass of milk, and he’d put sugar cookies on the side of the plate where the sandwich wasn’t. He even handed me a napkin. I never met such a man in my life.
Once I smelled food, I was hungry. But I didn’t gobble. I took a small sip of milk to show my refined nature and daintily nibbled my sandwich, which was cheese.
Mr. Rosenbach said, “Is it settled?” and his mother raised her head and gave him a look.
“Nothing is settled. I’m telling her about Malka.”
�
��She needs a place to spend the night,” Mr. Rosenbach persisted, in such a mild tone of voice that it didn’t seem like nagging. “It’s getting late.”
I glanced at the clock. It was past ten.
“She may stay here tonight,” Mrs. Rosenbach conceded. “If Malka doesn’t make too great a fuss, she may stay a few days.” She turned back to me. “If you do your work well, I will provide you with a written character, which will help you in your search for employment.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, but I felt a little disheartened, because she didn’t seem to think I’d be working for her. “I think I can help your housekeeper without hurting her feelings. And you’ll find me very willing.”
She tilted her head. There was something about the way she did it that reminded me of that word satirical. It isn’t a word I think about much, but it flashed through my head just then. “Willing to work in a Jewish household?” she said, and when I didn’t answer right away, she added, “You, I think, are not Jewish.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. I was as taken aback as if she’d asked me if I was an Indian. It seemed to me — I mean, it doesn’t now, but it did then — as though Jewish people were like Indians: people from long ago; people in books. I know there still are Indians out West, but they’re civilized now, and wear ordinary clothes. In the same way, I guess I knew there were still Jews, but I never expected to meet any.
“It’s just as I said, Solly,” said Mrs. Rosenbach, “she has no idea.” She seemed both irritated and amused. “Have you ever met a Jew before, Miss Lovelace?”
“No — no, ma’am,” I stammered, “but I’ve read about them in the Bible. And in Ivanhoe, Rebecca was a Jewess, and she’s my favorite character in the whole book.”
It was her turn to look surprised. “You’ve read Ivanhoe?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I saw that she’d been thinking I was an ignorant girl. That piqued me, but I didn’t waste time worrying over it, because I was racking my brain, trying to remember everything I knew about Jews. Most of the characters in Ivanhoe were horrid to Rebecca and Isaac, because they were Jews. But Ivanhoe was good to them, and Ivanhoe’s the hero. And Rebecca — why, Rebecca’s the heroine, and a hundred times more interesting than Rowena, who’s mostly just beautiful. I added, “Ivanhoe’s a really good book, Mrs. Rosenbach.”
The Hired Girl Page 8
