Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Callie found herself speechless when Jasper guided her into his house. Never in all her dreams had she imagined such elegance. Mrs. Powers looked like a queen in her brocade afternoon dress. Her blue-black hair was as dark and vibrant as Byrch’s.’ Callie curtsied politely and lowered her eyes, afraid of what might be disapproval in the regal woman’s grim expression. Jasper’s indulgent tone to his wife was not lost on Callie.

  Mrs. Powers sniffed haughtily at her husband’s introduction and reached out to lift Callie’s chin, tilting her face this way and that. “You’ve the look of trouble about you, girl,” Anne Powers said. “I’ll have you know right from the beginning that it won’t be tolerated.” Callie inwardly shrank from the woman’s inhospitable words, but as the fates would have it, her eyes met the woman’s levally, her chin lifted, her lower lip pouted impudently, creating the mask of defiance that was the bane of her life.

  “Jasper, look at this child! Look at this impudence! I won’t have it, I tell you. I won’t!”

  “Now, Anne, I don’t see anything wrong,” Jasper insisted. “You’ve simply scared her half to death with your poking and prodding. Leave her be, won’t you?”

  “Hrmph!” Anne Powers sniffed, chancing a glance at Byrch, who was glaring in her direction. She was quick to remember the scandal he told Jasper he’d uncovered at the Magdalene Society, to which she was a very generous donor, and Byrch’s promise to keep her name out of the paper if she took this girl into her employ.

  Anne nodded curtly to her husband. “Very well, then. I don’t usually employ anyone without proper references, you understand,” she addressed Callie, who was bewildered by the term, “but since this is a special case,” she smiled at Byrch, “I suppose you’ll do.” Satisfied that she’d properly set both her husband and his young friend in their places, she clasped a hand on Callie’s shoulder. “Come with me, girl. I’ll take you upstairs to Mary. Today is Sunday, so it’s no time for you to learn what your household duties will be. Tomorrow will be time enough.” Feeling the touch of fine wool under her hand, she openly admired Callie’s new coat. “I must say, you’re properly dressed, at least. We won’t have to be ashamed of you at any rate.” She glanced pointedly at Byrch, certain that he was responsible for Callie’s fine coat and no doubt for everything else she had in that little satchel.

  “Come along, come along,” Mrs. Powers commanded as she started up the wide staircase in the front hall. “I’ll take you up to Mary now. My youngest daughter is not the best behaved child,” she explained as Callie followed her up the stairs. Callie looked back for one parting glance at Byrch, who forced a smile as if to say everything would be fine. Something told her nothing could be further from the truth.

  “The child needs a firm hand,” Mrs. Powers was saying, “and a slap or two if the deed warrants. You’re to remember you are a companion to Mary, not a playmate! Is that understood? You’re to keep her in hand. She’s a constant embarrassment to all of us. We never know what she’ll say or do from one minute to the next. You will monitor her every move and her every word.”

  Callie nodded in understanding. Mrs. Powers was tired of Mary’s disobedience but unable to control it; she would content herself with having someone else to blame for her daughter’s conduct. Any child of Anne Powers was not allowed to be anything less than perfect.

  “Do you understand?” Mrs. Powers turned abruptly when she reached the second-floor landing.

  “Yes, mum.”

  “No, no, don’t refer to me as ‘mum.’ I am ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Mrs. Powers.’ My husband, of course is ‘Mr. Powers’ or ‘Sir.’ The children, of course, address us as ‘Mamán’ and ‘Papá,’ with the French inflection.”

  Of course! Callie thought to herself, with the French inflection, whatever that was. Silently, she mouthed, Mamán and Papá, trying the new syllables for use.

  “And I’ll expect you do so something about that terrible Irish brogue! I simply cannot have it in my home, and God forbid Mary picks it up from you. I’ll expect you to improve yourself under my tutelage, Callie. You’ll discover I haven’t Mr. Powers’s affection for all things Irish. My family,” she drawled, “are Bostonians and have been wise enough to separate themselves from Ireland for many generations now. I, like them, am an American!”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Callie snapped her lips shut. She wanted to ask why Mrs. Powers thought being an American was something of distinction. Beth’s and Patrick’s new baby would have been an American just because it would have been born here. Wisely Callie kept her silence and tagged along behind her new employer.

  On the third floor, Mrs. Powers drew up before a door, opening it onto a light and sunny room.

  “This is Mary’s nursery. She’s being punished and has to stay in here for the balance of the day She will not be permitted to eat at the dinner table with us because she refuses to eat with the silver. She chooses to use her fingers. Distasteful! Until she learns proper manners she will stay in this room. I will tolerate no excuses where Mary is concerned. She is your job, your responsibility, and you will straighten her out. How I ever had a child like this is beyond me. Anne is such a joy, such a lady. She takes after my side of the family. Rossiter is a brilliant young man and also takes after my side. It’s obvious that Mary favors my husband’s side of the family. They all have rebellious streaks in them. If only we could do something with that hideous red hair she has, but we can’t. It’s nothing but a rat’s nest of snarls and tangles. She won’t let anyone within an inch of her. You will make her presentable!”

  A miracle worker was what they needed here, not a companion, Callie thought sourly. She could barely wait to set eyes on the hell raiser that was to be her charge.

  “Mary, Mamán is here with your new nursemaid. Come, dear, and say hello, and let’s mind our manners. Mary, where are your clothes? Why are you in your underwear?”

  A child, small for her years, was sitting in the middle of the floor, building a tower with some brightly colored blocks. She ignored her mother and concentrated on what she was doing. Callie watched her as she maneuvered the blocks to achieve the height she wanted. It wasn’t until Mrs. Powers walked over to the stack of colored blocks that the child looked up and acknowledged her mother. She stared up at the two women. There was a question in her eyes.

  “Mary, why are you in your underwear? Where are your clothes? Get dressed immediately. This is your companion. Her name is Callie James. Now say ‘hello’ and do what you’re told.”

  Mary looked up at her mother and then at Callie. She said nothing, and instead of obeying her mother’s orders, she sat down and began to build onto her tower. Callie wasn’t certain if Mrs. Powers did it deliberately or it was an accident, but the tower crumbled to the floor. The hem of Mrs. Powers’s afternoon dress must have brushed against the teetering blocks. But if that were true, why did the woman seem so pleased?

  Callie waited to see if Mary would throw a tantrum. Instead she calmly began to rebuild, ignoring her mother completely.

  Mrs. Powers threw her hands into the air and turned to leave the room. “She’s impossible! If you can’t do something with her, we’ll be forced to send her to a proper school where they’ll take her in hand. And that,” Mrs. Powers turned, seizing Callie in her gaze, “means you will not be needed here!” It was a threat and well taken by Callie. Either Mary would come up to her mother’s standards or Callie would be out on her ear.

  Removing her new gray coat and placing it at the foot of Mary’s frilly pink and white bedspread, Callie crossed the room to sit down on the floor next to the little girl. They took turns adding block on top of block. When it appeared that another addition would make the structure topple, Mary sat back and stared at her vibrant creation. “My Papa would say this is beautiful, but he can’t come to the nursery because I’m being punished.”

  “Then let’s get dressed and get started doing things so that your moth . . . Mamán,” Callie tried the new word with the French inflection for the first time
aloud, “your Mamán will allow you to go downstairs. I’ll brush your hair and turn you into a beautiful little girl that will please your Papá and Mamán. Won’t that be nice?”.

  Mary frowned at Callie, tilting her head to the side, watching her new companion’s face. Then ignoring her, she began to rebuild the blocks. Knowing she had to show this little one that she meant what she said, Callie touched Mary’s shoulder and held out her hand for the child to grasp and pulled her to her feet. The smile Mary offered Callie was dazzling, her sherry-colored eyes dancing with delight. This apparent swing of moods puzzled Callie. How could the child be so oblivious to her one moment and then bestow the friendliest of smiles upon her the next?

  Settling Mary on a small chair, Callie reached for the brush on the dressing table and held it aloft, the child watching her every movement. “We’ll make a game of this, and before you can say ‘leprechaun,’ your hair will be done.” Callie crouched low and advanced slowly, a wide smile on her face, teasing and playing with Mary as she had with Georgie and Hallie and the twins. But would this peculiar child respond in play?

  Mary shrieked with laughter as Callie made wide, sweeping motions with the brush. She worked on one hank of brilliant red-gold hair at a time, beginning at the ends and working toward the scalp until it was entirely free of tangles. It fell nearly to Mary’s waist like a rippling, molten waterfall. Callie viewed her handiwork and marched the child to the mirror. “You’re beautiful, Mary. Now show me where your dresses are, and we’ll make you look like a princess.” Mary turned and gave Callie a grateful hug.

  “You didn’t pull my hair and hurt me.” Then backing away to look into her face, the child said, “I don’t know your name.”

  “Callie. Callie James.” Something uneasy moved in Callie, so intent was the child’s gaze.

  Then breaking away and going back to her toys, Mary said, “Come build a castle with me, Callie.”

  “Mary! I told you to show me where your dresses are!” The little girl looked at her questioningly, and Callie frowned.

  “Come build a castle with me,” Mary repeated.

  Callie turned her back to Mary. “I can’t build a castle with you, Mary Powers, because I’ve got to tend to the little monkey who’s hiding in my satchel.” She turned abruptly and saw that Mary continued to arrange the blocks. “Yes, I’ve a little monkey in there, and he likes to eat apples, and he’s just waiting for some little girl to take him out and hug him.” Again she turned. This time Mary was frowning, but when she saw Callie’s inquiring gaze, she quickly looked away. Something was wrong. If she’d said the same to the kids back home, they’d be running and crawling all over the satchel, looking for a way to release the monkey, squealing at the top of their lungs.

  “My monkey has a long, curling tail and little, little hands, and he can climb along roof tops, and he loves little girls.”

  “Hmmm? Come play with me, Callie!”

  Callie dropped to her knees. She recognized that inquiring expression now. It was Granda’s. She touched Mary’s shoulder again. “You’ve trouble hearing, haven’t you?” Mary shrunk backwards, suspicion and apprehension clouding those bright sherry eyes, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

  “I can hear when you’re facing me and you’re close to me.” The child hung her head in shame. “How did you know? Even Mamán and Papá don’t know.” Then as though touched with the flat of a hot iron, Mary became very animated. “Don’t tell, Callie, please don’t tell. It’s a secret. Mamán will send me away if she knows. Mamán doesn’t like for anything to go wrong. Anne can hear and so can Rossiter. I don’t want to be different. You won’t tell? Please don’t tell!”

  Callie was dumbfounded by the heart-rending plea and the expression of sheer helplessness on Mary’s face. How could she refuse this child, betray her trust? Yet how could she neglect to tell the Powers’s something as important as this? It was easy to understand how Mary’s impairment made her parents think she was ignoring their orders and disobeying their wishes. This child had obviously become expert at hiding her infirmity. Knowing Mrs. Powers, Callie could understand why. If Mary was correct, and Callie suspected she was, Anne Powers could not tolerate such a defect in her child. She would send her away somewhere, and that would leave Callie without a position, out on her ear, and dependent once more on Byrch Kenyon.

  Mary saw the indecision on Callie’s face, and it frightened her. She threw her arms around Callie’s neck, hugging her tightly. “Please don’t tell. Please.” Her small body trembled and quaked, and Callie’s child’s heart went out to her new little friend. “I wasn’t always this way, only since I had the measles last spring. I caught a fever. Then when Anne boxed my ears for doing something naughty and Mamán boxed them again because we were fighting, it got worse.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your Mamán, Mary?”

  “Because I was afraid she’d send me away. She’s always saying she’ll send me away. I’d never see Papá again; he’d say Mamán knows best! Please, Callie, please.”

  The two children held each other, pledging themselves to their conspiracy. Callie knew she was wrong in not telling the Powerses, but Mary was so frightened, as frightened as Beth Thatcher had been when she thought Patrick’s dream was being destroyed: Life had not dealt kindly with Beth then, and Callie’s mistrust in the fates gave her no reason to think they would deal any more kindly with Mary.

  It was a cold, gray morning, and Callie was loath to leave her bed in the tiny room adjacent to Mary’s nursery. Here the ceiling was merely the naked rafter that lay just beneath the shingles and eight inches of snow. The only warmth in the room came from a grate in the central chimney, which ran up the center of the house from the fireplace in the parlor on the first floor. Since the fire was never lit before ten in the morning, Callie woke each day shivering beneath her blanket.

  She’d been employed at the Powers’s house for nearly two weeks, and several days ago she’d been instructed to get Mary and her clothes ready for the Christmas trip to Boston, which was less than a week away.

  Jumping from her bed, Callie was quick to dress, taking pleasure in the long, dark stockings that covered her legs and grateful for the warmth of her blouse and jumper. Stoically, she splashed water on her face and dipped her finger in a small pot of salt, rubbing it over her teeth the way Peggy had taught her. She rinsed her mouth with water from a cracked ironstone pitcher and spat into the chamber pot. That was another of her duties aside from being companion to Mary—chamber pots and bed linens and laundering her own clothing as well as Mary’s. Last night she’d added another paragraph in her letter to Peggy, telling her how she’d learned to polish silver in the wood ashes from the kitchen stove and was learning to be a proper hand at the dining-room table. She did not recount for Peggy, however, the vast amounts of sumptuous foods served at the Powers’s house nor the fact that no one ever seemed to clean his plate, thinking it would be cruel in the face of her family’s poverty.

  Callie was waiting until the end of next month to post her letters when she could include a bank draft secured by Jasper Powers. Out of the glorious fourteen dollars she would earn each month, she would send Peggy twelve. She would have gladly sent it all home, but Mr. Powers thought if unwise. Twelve American dollars he told her, converted to English pounds, would go far in Dublin.

  . . . Little Mary Powers is the sweetest of girls, Mum. I already feel as though she might be my own little sister, even though no one could ever take the place of Hallie or Bridget in my heart. But, Mum, you should just see this one. She has bright red hair, the color of fire in the sky, and dancing brown eyes that have the gold of berry tea in them and that are quick as a deer’s and do not miss a trick. She is a smart one, is our little Mary, and good with her letters and figures and can remember long rhymes and ditty songs.

  Mary has her own teacher who comes to the house twice a week to hear her lessons. His name is Mr. Harrison Reader, and Mrs. Powers says he is a fine young man of exceptional virtue.
He has a clear, fine voice that can be heard throughout the house, and when he reads poetry or plays, he stands with one hand on his heart and the book at arm’s length in the other and recites as though he were an actor on the stage. Mary likes Mr. Reader and so do I. I am allowed to sit in on Mary’s lessons because Mrs. Powers hopes Mr. Reader will teach me to talk without my brogue. I am trying. Mr. Reader says I have a fine mind and I am good and quick with numbers. He likes to teach history and government best. He says that politics is close to the heart of every Irishman, and he must be right because I like to hear about Mr. George Washington and Mr. Thomas Jefferson and the Kings and Queens of Europe.

  Mary’s sister is seventeen years old, and she goes into New York City to attend school three days a week. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday she lives in the City at Miss Rose Northrup’s School of Quality and Ladyship. Those three days are the most peaceful here at the house. I have already written what a hoity-toity she is, and I do not like her very much. But she is pretty with hair blacker than coal and eyes darker than shoe polish and skin whiter than little baby Joseph’s bottom. Miss Anne is much involved with her friends and spends most of her day doing needlework or sitting before her mirror.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Powers take the family to Boston—that’s a city far north of New York—I will stay here on Staten Island with Mr. MacDuff, the handyman, and Lena, the cook. They are both very nice to me and teach me how to do things the way Mrs. Powers likes them done.

  In the spring, Mr. MacDuff is going to teach me how to grow pansies and Scotch roses. He is a Scotsman and talks with a funny burr. I wonder why Mrs. Powers does not seem to mind a Scottish burr, but the sound of an Irish brogue raises her hackles.

  Callie tripped lightly down the back stairs and entered the kitchen where Lena, a stout, red-cheeked widow woman, was standing at the stove. Hugh MacDuff was sitting at the table, sipping scalding coffee from a mug. “Good morning!” Callie greeted them cheerfully. “Is the water hot for Mary’s tea?”