Diary of a Wildflower

by Ruth White

  We walk up a short flight of stairs and onto a paved street. Here I am bombarded with sounds and sights and new sensations. Rapidly moving cars. All kinds of stores. Gigantic advertising signs. Girls in short dresses and short hair. I’m dying to stop and gape at everything, but I don’t want to embarrass myself first thing on arrival.

  Chris points to a shiny black automobile with the top open. “It’s the black breezer there.”

  He takes my carpet bag and tosses it into the back seat. Then he opens the passenger door of the car and motions that I should step in. Which I do. He gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

  “Nice automobile,” I say.

  “Yeah, it’s a brand new LaSalle Coupe. The cat’s meow.”

  The cat’s meow? I must remember that one.

  “We’re lucky to get it today,” Chris says. “I hardly ever see it when the boys are home from school.”

  “What boys?”

  “Brody and Roman – or Mr. Brody and Mr. Roman to you and me. The Myles’s sons. They’re home from school for the summer.”

  Chris turns around in the middle of the street and heads through the business district.

  “And do the Myles have other children?” I ask.

  “No, just the two boys.”

  I’ve never seen a trolley before, but I know that thing over there must be one. And there’s a real pawn shop. A gas station. A pharmacy. A clothing store. A food store. And a motion picture theater. Wings starring Clara Bow is playing. I would love to see that!

  But back to the moment. Brody and Roman. I must remember their names.

  “How old are they?”

  Chris laughs. I am puzzled. Was that funny?

  “Husband shopping, are you?” he says.

  Oh, so that’s what he thinks. How should I respond?

  “All the girls like Brody and Roman,” he goes on. “And they are handsome rascals. I’ll give’em that. But rich and spoiled. And they’ll marry rich. You can count on it. Anyway, to your question, Roman is two years older than me, I think, so he’s twenty. He’s got two more years of school, and he’s as single as they come. No handcuffs for that fella. Brody is twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and he’ll graduate next June. He’s engaged to Miss Angela Temple of Richmond – or Angel, as they call her. She’s a deb. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Richmond Temples.”

  Of course I have no idea who the Richmond Temples are, but I can imagine. I am thinking of that name – Angela Temple. With a name like that, she would have to be a beauty.

  “A deb?” I ask.

  “You know, a debutante. She came out last year.”

  We leave the business district behind, and for a short distance we drive between rows of neat, two-story frame houses in white and pastel colors, with well-trimmed lawns and hedges and spring flowers. It’s all very lovely. There is an automobile parked in front of nearly every one of them. Then we are in open countryside.

  “Chris, if I were looking for a husband,” I finally answer his question, “I would have stayed at home. But I came here to find something else.”

  We smile at each other. You wouldn’t call him handsome. He’s too boyish-looking. But you could call him cute.

  I look at the scenery again. It is flat, mountainless. How strange. I see long driveways and large, rambling two and three story homes set far back from the road.

  “How many servants work at the Myles house?” I ask Chris.

  “Well, there’s Tootsie, the youngest, about your age, and the other three housemaids are Jenny, Ellie and Marie. Then there’s Bridget, the kitchen manager and chief cook. You’ll probably be helping her out quite a lot. There’s Louise, the housekeeper. You’ll answer to her. There are three gardeners, Jeff, Brett and Zack, and three colored girls who come to help with

  special occasions.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s a big house,” Chris says, as he pulls off the paved road and onto a driveway, “and this is it.”

  “Oh, this?” I say, a bit disappointed because it appears to me that the driveway is the most impressive thing here. It’s very long and lined on each side by old white oak trees that almost come together overhead to form an arch, and it’s paved with bricks.

  The house itself is simple, neat, early American, built with faded red bricks and white columns across the front portico. We follow the driveway as it curves around to the left. That’s when I see that the house goes on and on with enormous add-ons to the rear.

  “The original house is old,” Chris says. “1805, I believe. But all of this in the back has been added in the last fifteen or twenty years. The addition includes the most modern kitchen you’re likely to find anywhere. That’s where the servants’ hall is, sorta behind the kitchen. Then there’s a big dining room and the ballroom, which opens out onto that covered terrace right over there.”

  He points to an extension of the house that has no walls, just a floor and a partial roof. As the car rolls by it, I can see plants on this indoor-outdoor room, also some brightly-colored chairs and gliders scattered about. A few hundred feet past the main house, we stop in front of another building, which is long and skinny. Here I find a row of doors numbered one through twelve and a narrow porch running the length of the building, with a set of steps at each end.

  We get out of the car and Chris carries my bag for me up to number three, where he takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, then hands the key and the carpet bag to me.

  “Welcome to the slave quarters,” he says, “and remember to keep up with your key. Mrs. Myles does not like it when we lose’em.”

  It’s the first key to anything I have ever had in my possession. Of course I will guard it with my life.

  “And who is my roommate?” I ask.

  “No one. Unless you want one.” He grins down at me. “Do you want a roommate?”

  “You know what I mean!” I snap at him.

  I see surprise flicker across his face, then contrition. “Sorry,” he says. “No, there’s no roommate. It’s all yours.”

  I find it thrilling that I am going to have this room all to myself. I have envisioned living in a crowded space somewhere in the bowels of the main house with other girls.

  “That last door there on the end – number one,” Chris says, “is the ladies’ bathroom. The

  gents’ is number twelve on the other end.”

  “That’s good to know,” I say.

  “Dinner is over,” Chris says, “but Tootsie will bring you a tray.”

  “Nice,” I say. “When will I meet Mrs. Myles?”

  “Tootsie will let you know.”

  “Thank you, Chris. You’ve been very helpful.”

  He tips his hat to me for the second time, then leaves me alone. I step into my room. The floor is wooden, the fireplace is stone. There’s a closet, a comfortable-looking armchair, and a dresser with four drawers and a tall mirror. There’s also a wash stand holding a wash bowl, soap, towel, and a bucket of water with a dipper hanging on its rim. Most important is the bed with a pretty green and gold quilted coverlet, and beside it a bedside table and lamp.

  I close the door, set my carpet bag down and go to the closet. Inside I find a green and white checked bathrobe hanging on the clothes rack. There are also fresh linens on a shelf above the rack.

  I wander around the room touching the furniture, opening drawers, glancing out the window, which is wide and gives a view of that lovely terrace at the back of the main house. The window is open and a fresh breeze blows in, gently moving a pair of clean white curtains. This is my room. It is my private space. I have a key. I begin to put my things away in the drawers and closet.

  When darkness descends, I glance around, out of habit, for a lantern. But wait, there’s that lamp by my bed. It must be electric! I find the switch and the room lights up. I smile at myself in the mirror.

  “You have electricity, Lorelei,” I say out loud.

  There’s a knock at the door. “It’s To
otsie, honey,” comes a friendly voice. “I brought you some supper.”

  I open the door. Tootsie looks for all the world like a pixie – a very pretty one. Her uniform is a short dress made of the same green and white checked fabric as the bathrobe in my closet. Over her dress is a white ruffled apron with a bib. Perched atop her cropped red hair is a white pleated tiara-style cap. I know it’s only a maid’s uniform, but I love it.

  She grins at me. “I’m in number two next door to you. Welcome, neighbor.”

  “I’m Lorelei or Lorie.”

  “Hope you’re hungry, Lorelei or Lorie. I got roast beef and all the fixin’s.”

  “Thank you. I’m starving.”

  “Mrs. Myles welcomes you and wants to see you first thing in the morning,” Tootsie says, as she sets the tray down on the dresser and turns to me. “Right now she wants you to settle in and rest from your trip.” She looks me up and down. “Well, ain’t you the berries?”

  I know it’s a compliment, but I don’t know how to respond.

  “Won’t you sit for a moment?” I ask.

  She hesitates, then says, “Just for a bit. I still got work to do in the kitchen.”

  She parks on the bed and I sit beside her.

  “Is the work hard?” I ask.

  “Not at all. It’s the life, I tell you. It’s a breeze.”

  “Chris rattled me a bit when he welcomed me to the slave quarters,” I say.

  Tootsie laughs. “That Chris! He shoulda explained why we call it that. We may joke about it now, but back in plantation times, this building was actually used to house the slaves. A lot of work has been done to it since then – electricity and bathrooms and all – but in the olden days a whole family of slaves lived in each one of these rooms, and animals lived underneath.”

  “That’s why we’re so far off the ground,” I say. “What’s under us now?”

  “Just firewood and stuff like that. Don’t worry, no animals, no fleas!”

  We smile at each other.

  “Do we get any free time?” I ask.

  “Sure. You work five days and get one day off, five on and one off all year long. If your day off falls on a weekend or holiday, you’re lucky. If not, then that’s the way the old mop flops.”

  “That’s not so bad. What do you do on your day off?”

  “Hang around and rest. Or we go into town, see a picture show, buy a bit of gum, or something.”

  “Maybe we can go together?”

  “That would be dandy if we could, but we won’t ever get the same day off. Mrs. Myles makes sure she always has at least four maids on duty at all times.”

  “I understand they throw a lot of parties,” I say.

  “Yeah, and they’re hotsy-totsy! Good food. Lots of dancing.”

  “Can you dance, Tootsie?”

  “Yeah, but not at the Myles parties. The servants aren’t allowed.”

  “Of course not,” I say, though I was hoping the servants might have that chance once in a while.

  “Still it’s fun watching the rich people dance.”

  “Just how rich are the Myles?” I ask.

  “Old money rich,” she says. “The oldest money probably in the South.”

  “Old money?”

  “Yeah. Old money is inherited from generations back,” Tootsie explains. “There has been a Broderick Lynch Myles living in the house since 1805. He was BLM III, and the one who built the place. They say that Thomas Jefferson himself dined here once with that Broderick. Now the young Mr. Brody is Broderick Lynch Myles the VII, next in line for the bulk of the estate. Roman will get a second son’s share of the money.”

  “Just like English royalty,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Tootsie says. “And their blue blood is considered more royal than new blood, just like their old money is considered more royal than new money.”

  “You know what, Tootsie? I wouldn’t care if my money was old or new as long as I had me some of it.”

  “Me neither!” And we have a laugh. “Do you like my bob?” she says then, as she pats one side of her head.

  “Your...oh, your hair cut? Yes, I like it very much.”

  She giggles. “I just had it done on Saturday. My hair was as long as yours, but I got it bobbed for my boyfriend. He’s real modern.”

  “Oh, you have a boyfriend?”

  She giggles again. “Oh, yeah. He’s ducky.”

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Can’t say,” she whispers. “It’s a secret.”

  “I see. He’s not married, I hope?”

  “Lord no!”

  “Sorry,” I apologize. “That was rude of me.”

  She grins and says, “Don’t give it a thought.” Then she jumps to her feet. “Gotta get back to work now. Toodle-loo.”

  And Tootsie is gone as suddenly as she arrived.

  I pull the armchair up to the tray on the dresser. The food is scrumptious.

  After I’m stuffed, I stand by the window and stare at the main house. On the upper floors of the original building I can make out shadowy figures moving around behind the lighted windows. I try to imagine who they are. I wonder if those are family bedrooms.

  Darkness has fallen completely. I should get a bath and go to bed. I grab the robe and a towel and slip out the door. Outside there are electric lights burning at each end of the porch. The bathroom is the same size as my room, and has a fireplace at the same spot on the wall. Otherwise it’s very modern. I find soap on a shelf, turn on the taps and step in. What luxury to have hot water running right through the pipes into your tub. I can do this every night without having to heat up a single pan of water. I sink into the warmth and relax. But the other maids will no doubt be coming in soon to get ready for bed. I should make myself scarce before they get here.

  When I step out onto the porch in my robe, I see a medium-sized black and white dog at the foot of the steps nearest me, and there is something familiar about her. She wags her tail when she sees me.

  “Dixie!” I call, for she does look for all the world like that sweet dog I lost those years ago. She comes bounding up the steps toward me with a grin on her face, as if I have called her by her real name. I get down on my knees beside her. “Just look at my Dixie girl! You haven’t changed a bit.”

  I put my arms around her as I used to do. My hair falls over her, and she begins to wiggle like she’s as tickled as I am. I cup her pretty face between my two hands and look into her eyes. “Sweet Dixie, I’ve missed you so.”

  At that moment I catch a movement from the ground. Someone is down there in the shadows – someone who appears to be watching me. I go back into number three, and when I peep out the door again, both the dog and the person are gone.

  Later, in a fresh petticoat, I lie in bed and listen to the sounds in the night. I can hear the other maids going in and out of their rooms and the bathroom. I hear them talking and laughing together, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. After a while all is quiet, except for muffled sounds from the main house, the whinny of a horse, the call of a night bird, and the lonely whistle of a distant train.

  In spite of myself, I think of home. It’s my first night ever sleeping anywhere except in the loft of the log house on Starr Mountain, and I imagine Jewel lying in her bed looking out at the stars. It’s her first night ever sleeping in the loft by herself. I hope Samuel is with Caroline tonight. They are all so far away.

  A great wave of loneliness sweeps over me. So this is homesickness.

  Sixteen

  Monday, June 3rd, 1929

  A vague ringing wakes me. I roll over and open my eyes. It’s barely daylight. The ringing comes again, and I realize it’s emanating from the wall above my head. I look up and see a small silver bell moving ever so gently. It must be the wake-up alarm, but it’s not at all alarming. It’s really quite melodic. I spring from bed, dip some water into the wash bowl, splash my face in it, then dress quickly in my yellow dress, and brush my hair vigorously.

 
; Just as I turn toward the door there comes a knock. I open up to find Tootsie standing there grinning at me. Behind her are two other girls dressed in the same green and white checked uniform. They appear to be a few years older than Tootsie.

  “This is Jenny and Ellie,” Tootsie tells me. “It’s Marie’s day off. She’s sleeping in.”

  And so begins my first day. We enter the main house through a side entrance into the servants’ hall behind the kitchen. This is a large room with a long table in the center, where I’m told the servants gather to eat their meals or take a break on a slow day. One wall has cubby holes for mailboxes. Somebody has already printed LORIE on one of them.

  “Come along,” Tootsie says to me, “Mrs. Myles wants you in the library.”

  Wow! They have a library?

  We breeze through the kitchen where Jenny and Ellie are pitching in to help cook breakfast. We go through an enormous dining room, then turn down a narrow hallway, which is dark and feels damp.

  “We’re in the old part of the house now,” Tootsie tells me.

  At the end of the hallway, she knocks on a wooden door.

  “Enter.”

  Tootsie leads me into a room with shelves packed full of books on every wall. Maybe I will be allowed to borrow some of them.

  In the center of the room is a massive wooden desk. An attractive dark-haired, middle-aged woman is sitting there wearing glasses and flipping through some papers. On a couch nearby, two young men dressed in casual summer trousers and shirts, are seated. One light and one dark. Must be the university boys, Brody and Roman – rather Mr. Brody and Mr. Roman. And Chris was right – they are handsome rascals.

  “Lorie is here, ma’am,” Tootsie says.

  Mrs. Myles stands up immediately, drops her glasses to dangle from a chain around her neck, and smiles at me. “Lorelei!” she says with enthusiasm. “I am so glad to meet you, my dear.”

  “Thank you ma’am,” I say. “I’m glad to be here.”

  “You may go, Tootsie,” Mrs. Myles says. She has a slight accent that I can’t identify.

  Tootsie leaves me alone with the lady of the house and the two young men. Mrs. Myles comes around her desk, and stands peering down at me with beautiful, dark brown eyes.