by Nancy Moser
They all looked at each other. What was she missing?
“Only Sean can vote. Women don’t have that right.”
Henrietta was shocked. “I know that is the way in England, but I thought America was the land of opportunity for all.”
“Opportunity, yes,” Edna said. “But men and women are not treated equally—in many areas.”
“Like inheritance.” Vesta told Henrietta about inheriting money from her grandparents but having it transfer to her husband. “Is it like that in England?”
“I’m not sure,” Henrietta said. “I must admit I never had cause to think about it.”
“Women are thinking about it now,” Maude said. “The suffragettes often march through the streets demanding the vote.”
“Many are put in jail for it,” Edna added.
“Many suffer hunger strikes,” Annie said.
“How horrible,” Henrietta said.
“Yet perhaps it’s necessary in order to elicit change,” Maude said.
Henrietta’s life was all about change. She was becoming an independent woman herself. To know that others were fighting for such freedom filled her with hope.
“Back to Roosevelt…as I said, he did survive.” Annie picked up a newspaper and pointed at a headline: Maniac in Milwaukee Shoots Col. Roosevelt. “He was shot in the chest, but his heavy overcoat, steel-reinforced glasses case, and fifty pages of notes for his speech slowed the bullet.”
“God took care of him,” Edna said.
“He even gave a ninety-minute speech afterward, showing people his blood-soaked shirt.”
“Before he was treated?” Henrietta asked.
Vesta nodded. “That’s Teddy. He’s a tough one.”
“He gets things done,” Annie said. “Speaking of…” She gave them a pointed look. “With private prayers for his recovery, let’s leave Mr. Roosevelt to his doctor’s care. Now is the time for us to work.”
Now was not the appropriate time to ask for special time away to buy cups and bowls.
At lunch all the women ate sandwiches and fruit they’d brought from home. Henrietta had already scrounged from her friends yesterday on her first day of work and chastised herself for not remembering to provide her own today.
Maude handed her half a sandwich.
“I’m so sorry. I should have remembered. Tomorrow I’ll bring my own, I promise.”
“When are you moving?” Annie asked.
Finally, something she could be proud of. “I’ve already moved. This morning.”
“Before work?”
“That’s why I was late. I had two men from the hotel bring my trunks over.”
“Good for you,” Vesta said.
“But…I do need a few basic items. A cup, a bowl, some towels…that sort.”
“I have extra,” Edna said. “I’ll make sure you are supplied.”
Henrietta was moved. “You are all so accommodating.”
“We’re friends,” Maude said.
“Forever friends,” Annie said with a smile.
Edna put on a mischievous grin meant for Henrietta. “I’m so glad you got to meet my Steven last night.”
“He seems like a nice man.”
“He likes you.”
Henrietta felt her eyebrows rise. “He does?”
Maude stepped into the conversation. “Are you matchmaking, Edna Holmquist?”
“Heavens no. Henrietta just arrived here. I wouldn’t think of it.”
Her grin said otherwise.
Henrietta wasn’t sure what to think of the idea. She was attracted to Steven—the air between them had trembled. But then he’d ignored her. Yet now his mother said he liked her?
Henrietta felt like a girl at her coming-out, whispering with her friends about some handsome lad who refused to acknowledge her. She wanted to ask more and encourage the situation. But she was in a new country, away from home, having spurned her fiancé. It had taken all her courage to be here, with these new friends, in this new life. And now she had a flat to contend with. There was no time for romance.
Yet she was twenty-nine years old. If not now, when?
Annie touched her arm. “Don’t let our talk overwhelm you. We’re just teasing.”
After work, Henrietta declined dinner invitations with Edna and Maude, and with Annie, Sean, and Vesta. She needed to learn to fend for herself.
But she did let Edna put together a bag of supplies: every item on her mental “need” list.
Walking home—home, her very own home—she passed a bakery that was just closing for the day. She rushed inside. A ruddy-faced man was wrapping the leftover goods in white towels.
“Pardon, but I’d like to buy some bread please?”
He pointed to three loaves. “Only ones left. I’ll have fresh tomorrow morning.”
“I’d appreciate one now please.” She looked around. “Do you happen to have any cheese or butter?”
“I’m a baker, miss, but…” He sized her up in a glance. “You new around here?”
“I just moved in down the block. I’m afraid I didn’t think about eating.”
He chuckled. “A body won’t let you forget about that for long. Hold on.” He went to the back of the shop to an ice box and brought back some slices of beef and cheese.
“I don’t want to take your personal—”
“Hunger is very personal. Here.”
She opened her reticule. “How much?”
He waved a hand. “Call it a welcome meal.”
Henrietta felt tears threaten. “Thank you, Mister…?”
“Cody. And you are?”
“Henrietta Kidd.”
He extended a hand for her to shake. “Nice to meet you. Come back tomorrow morning and I’ll have something fresh for you.”
“Thank you. You are so kind.” She carried the food close to her chest like a treasure.
Henrietta sat on her very own chair at her very own table. Using the stash of utensils and dishes from Edna—she’d given Henrietta two of each in case she had guests, which was a laugh—Henrietta sliced two pieces of bread and painstakingly laid the beef and cheese upon them as though she were a chef at a fine restaurant creating a meal for the king. Then she raised the sandwich and said, “Bon appetit!”
It tasted as good as any meal she’d ever had. Was that because it was seasoned with the satisfaction of her independence?
Her memories returned to her journey from Crompton Hall to this flat. She’d had a wonderful life there. Her mother and father loved her; her brother annoyed her—as was the job of all younger brothers. The village of Summerfield was populated with lifelong friends, and the Kidds had extended family at Summerfield Manor. Her uncle Morgan was the earl. His children were her cousins. Henrietta lived in peace, wallowed in harmony, and wanted for nothing.
Except for a long-hidden desire to discover some special meaning for her life—her purpose, if she could be so bold. She’d been correct in telling Annie that she was the reason Henrietta had come here, for Annie discovering her purpose had inspired Henrietta to do the same.
On the surface it seemed odd to think that a servant could change her life, especially a servant who had caused all sorts of drama and commotion when she’d run away.
Annie had left a note for Henrietta. Remembering it now spurred her to find it and read it again, fresh. She went into the bedroom and opened the smaller trunk. There, in a small pocket along the side of the lid, was the note. She sat on the bed and read it aloud, needing to hear the words.
Dear Miss Henrietta,
Please share this with your mother. I am leaving your family’s employ and am venturing out into New York City to find my new path. I am sorry to do this in such an abrupt fashion, but I have realized that as a housemaid there is no place to go, no ladder to climb. I have a stirring within me that forces me to take this drastic step. I know it is a risk, but it is a risk I must take. Please forgive the trouble this causes, and know that I truly appreciate your family’s past
kindness. Also know that I have greatly enjoyed serving you. Especially you. I wish you all the happiness in the world, Miss Henrietta, for you deserve it.
Sincerely,
Annie Wood
Henrietta carefully folded the note and let it sit upon her lap. Although she had been peeved for her own loss—because it was Annie who always made her feel good about herself, despite her weight fluctuations—Annie’s blatant show of courage moved her. And this was not Annie’s first escape from a life that didn’t suit her. Five years before fleeing in New York, Henrietta’s mother had given Annie a job at Crompton Hall, when she was only fourteen. It wasn’t because Annie possessed any great promise as a housemaid except for a willingness to do the work.
Any work was better than staying with her despicable family—two loathsome parents who were lazy, mean, and abusive, and who contributed to her brother’s death from a burst appendix. They’d been good at hiding their abuse, but when it had become common knowledge, many in Summerfield took Annie under their wings. That she’d been eager to learn skills such as basic sewing with gratitude and a willing heart made their largesse increase, causing Henrietta’s mother to hire her, successfully giving her a safe place to live and work. And thrive.
One escape had been handed to her, but Annie’s second escape had been her choice.
Henrietta’s mother had been incensed when Annie had disappeared with two other young servants of a relative’s household while visiting New York. But when they eventually found out what had been going on the previous year—that Annie had been doing all the sewing and needlework on their dresses, work that the two lady’s maids took credit for—her mother’s anger had cooled to understanding and even admiration.
The clincher was seeing Annie at the House of Paquin in Paris when Henrietta and her mother were there to order Henrietta’s trousseau and wedding gown. Annie was representing the Butterick Pattern Company, getting ideas to transform couture into fashion for the home seamstress. Annie, a girl to be pitied, had turned into a woman of great potential. She’d found a life far better than any she—or anyone else who knew her—could have imagined.
Annie’s courage to grab hold of her destiny and try to make it better had spurred Henrietta into wanting to do the same. It was after that Paris trip, when she and her mother had returned to Crompton Hall and continued the plans for the wedding, that Henrietta began to have doubts there should even be a marriage. It wasn’t that Hank wasn’t a loving man. He was. He’d been supportive when Henrietta had tried—and succeeded—to lose weight. He usually said all the right things, including that he loved her no matter how plump she was. But instead of embracing his words, she distrusted them, finding them variable, like the nap of velvet that felt smooth when stroked in one direction and rough when stroked the other way.
Why did he have to mention her weight at all? Actually, he had been instrumental in making her lose the weight in the first place—by adding a thorny caveat. They had just enjoyed a fabulous feast of trout, mutton, wild duck, and a savarin of peaches for dessert. Although it was highly unladylike, Henrietta had followed her father’s lead and had leaned back in her chair with a satiated moan. They’d laughed about it. It was later than evening when she and Hank were walking through the garden to admire the stars, that he’d made the comment about loving each other through their weaknesses. In retrospect she could see how he’d wisely turned the issue to himself first, stating that he knew he enjoyed cigars a bit too much. She’d agreed, for she hated the foul things.
But then he’d said, “What weakness plagues you, my dear?” She’d of course mentioned her love of food, laughing again at the communal moan she had shared with her father. Which had led to his comment about loving her no matter how plump she was. It sounded akin to saying, “I’ll love you no matter how ugly you are,” but she’d tossed that interpretation aside and had thanked him for it.
And then she’d started to lose weight. This was not a new phenomenon but a pattern. Yet once again in hindsight, it could be found interesting that Hank had finally proposed after she’d lost a goodly amount. She’d been so happy to finally be engaged—at age twenty-eight—that she’d enjoyed the moment for that fact alone. And of course she’d said yes.
Only after witnessing Annie’s success did she rethink her choice. Annie’s courage had been a beacon that had lit her path and made her see its shadows. The fact her trousseau had been ordered and her wedding dress designed pressed the timing of her decision, for she did not want her father to waste his money. It was only two days after her return to Summerfield from Paris that she’d sat down with Hank and told him she appreciated his proposal, but no thank you. He’d been understandably confused, and Henrietta had trouble explaining it because she knew he would never comprehend how his word choice in one sentence had been instrumental in making her change her mind. So she’d used vague words, blaming herself, building up his ego, wanting what was best for him. All excuses were valid. But none helped ease his pain.
And yet…once he’d left their home she felt as though she could breathe freely for the first time in years. Part of this freedom was due to her broken betrothal, but there was more involved. For the first time in her life, Henrietta was free from the expectations of others. Not that her parents were pleased at her action, not that they wouldn’t expect her to find another man to marry so she could live out the customary life of a young woman of society. The change involved her realization that she wanted none of it. She wanted more.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said aloud. “I’m finding my more.” The thought of it made her smile as she finished her simple dinner.
That accomplished, she realized it was chilly in the room and looked at the fireplace. Only then did she realize she had no wood. No paper. Nothing to burn. And no matches. And more than that, she had no practical knowledge of how to build a fire.
She shook her head in shame. “Snap to it, Henrietta. You chose this.”
She decided the night wasn’t so chilly that she couldn’t tolerate it, and put wood and matches on a mental list. She would gain her warmth by movement. She had two trunks of clothes to put away. But where? At Crompton Hall she had a dressing room attached to her bedroom. Here she didn’t even have an armoire. Just some nails and hooks on the wall. And a small dresser with four drawers. After hanging up the dresses that would be most affected by wrinkles, and putting her undergarments, stockings, and nightclothes in the drawers, she rearranged the trunks to hold her other dresses with as few folds as possible.
Then she placed a trio of porcelain vanity boxes on top of the dresser. One contained hairpins, one face powder, and one was a stoppered bottle of perfume that Great-Grandmother Addie had given her on her twenty-first birthday. She removed the top and dabbed some on her neck and wrists. The aroma of lavender—though a little pungent because of its age—transported her back to Summerfield. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the trip. But the cry of a child next door broke the spell. Lastly she put her comb, brush, and mirror on top of the dresser. Their gilt, filigreed handles seemed incongruous on the battered dresser top, yet they were an apt illustration of her current life.
To continue her unpacking, she removed a stuffed stocking from the trunk and emptied it onto the bed. These coins and bank notes were the extent of her wealth, and but for a few American coins she’d obtained on the ship before disembarking, they were in pounds and shillings. It had been a wise choice to move from the pricey hotel to this flat, especially since she wasn’t yet familiar with American prices. But would this amount be enough to help her friends?
It was distinctly odd to compare her past when she never concerned herself with prices, to this present life where each cent and dollar was precious. From riches to rags. Or nearly so.
The lie she’d told Annie and the others weighed on her. Yes, she could fund them—to the level of her own savings. The lie lay in the fact there would be no money coming from her parents.
“Why did I imply otherwise?”
Thinking of her parents made her remember the letter she’d sent them from the hotel the day before—the letter asking their forgiveness and telling them she was all right.
But was she all right?
She sighed. Being in a pensive mood, she tried to think about what she would be doing this evening if she were at home.
She’d take a bath. She’d ring for her maid, who would draw the steaming water, scented with rosemary and thyme. Henrietta would soak neck high, closing her eyes, letting her thoughts float away.
A bath would do her well right now. Unfortunately, the room was shared by three other flats on her floor. From what she’d seen, the porcelain was chipped in many places and held testament to the last user, who’d left a distinct ring.
The idea of a bath in such a tub was too unappealing. But at least with her newly procured towel and a bar of soap she could wash her face and arms.
She removed one last item from her trunk, her beauty bible, Health and Beauty Hints, by Margaret Mixter. Henrietta’s mother had given it to her two years ago when it had first come out, telling her that to follow Mrs. Mixter’s regime would keep her complexion young and her body fit. One line from the book had stuck with her and had made her frenetic in her loyalty to the tome. She turned to it now—for it was underlined: By the time a woman is twenty-five years old, she should devote at least ten minutes, night and morning, to massaging her throat under the chin. If she does this religiously, by the time she is forty, she will not have the hanging “dewlap,” which, more than anything else, proclaims a woman no longer young!
Once Henrietta had a chance to wash her face—for the prescribed five minutes—she would proceed with the book’s seven-step program, massaging her skin with a mixture of almond oil, white wax, lanoline, elderflower water, witch hazel, and spermaceti. Her face, eyelids, neck, and arms…nothing would escape Mrs. Mixter’s diligence.
Before she proceeded, Henrietta did the ordered exercises of her body, balling her hands into fists at her shoulders and thrusting them outward, then touching her toes. Mrs. Mixter assured that a mere five minutes a night would keep one’s waist small. Although she’d seen no results—as yet—Henrietta dared not stop. She had trouble enough with her waist, best not make things worse by ignoring solid advice.
