Down the Rabbit Hole

by Susan Campbell Bartoletti

  Just before they left, the younger Mrs. Duggan sidled up to Gwen and said, “It would be lovely to have you for tea, Mrs. Pritchard.”

  A slight should always be ignored, and that’s just what Gwen did, which showed impeccably good manners. Gwen tucked Mrs. Duggan’s calling card in her purse. “I’ll look forward to that visit. Thank you for putting up with my little ones.”

  “Oh, those dear, sweet children! Speak nothing of it,” said Mrs. Duggan, patting Lucy on the head.

  Lucy grinned like the Cheshire cat.

  The Pritchards departed in one direction, and Gideon and I headed for the cab rank. It was early evening, and the sun was setting in a scarlet haze over the prairie west of the city. A steady, stiff wind whipped at my skirts.

  Chicago has over 330,000 people, and we passed every single one. Its busyness swept my breath away. The streets teemed with pedestrians — tourists, farmers, immigrants, workingmen, businessmen in frock coats — and horse cars and buggies and carriages, all hurrying to get someplace else.

  I found the cab rank and stepped up to the first hack. I winced at its sorry-looking horse with its sway back and bandaged forelegs. I gave the driver Miss Ringwald’s name and address.

  The driver curled his lip. “Ringwald! That crazy woman who runs around spouting nonsense about animals as if they were people! If she read her Bible, she’d know God gave man dominion over the animals and the earth.” He went on to say several nasty things about Miss Ringwald.

  Such arrogance! Beatrice Ringwald is a passionate, well-educated woman. She holds strong opinions on religion and politics. She’s unconventional, but she’s not crazy, and she’s not any of the other things he called her.

  “Where do you preach?” I asked.

  He seemed pleased at my mistake. “I’m no preacher,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. “I’m paying for a cab ride, not a sermon.”

  The driver dropped his jaw so wide his rotting molars showed. He snapped his mouth shut so quickly his teeth clicked. “You ain’t paying for no cab ride,” he sneered. “Have a nice walk.”

  He flapped the reins and the cab started down the street without us. His poor horse walked tenderly. “Your horse needs shoes!” I shouted after him. “Dominion means to take better care of your horse.” I wished I could have performed a citizen’s arrest.

  Along came another hack. This time I provided a neighboring address. The cabbie whistled. “Swanky neighborhood.”

  As the horse bobbed along, the cabbie explained how the city’s downtown was centered on the mouth of the Chicago River. The river’s two branches divided the city into the West, South, and North divisions. The wealthy live along the lakeshore and parts of the north side, he explained. The poor live in neighborhoods to the south and west of the downtown.

  “Everywhere you look, we’re sprouting new buildings and more houses,” he said, gesturing grandly. He called Chicago the biggest boomtown the world has ever seen. “It’s the hub for nearly every railroad,” he said. “Thousands of people funnel through its depots every day, just like you.”

  He went on to describe how, every day, trains full of timber arrive from Wisconsin for all the new construction. Every day, cattle and hogs arrive for slaughter, because Chicago is the meatpacking center of America. Every day, corn, wheat, and barley pour in from the plains, because Chicago is the world’s largest grain port.

  The cab continued north, past tall three-story commercial buildings. The most prominent building was the courthouse, with its gleaming white limestone façade. The evening sun gleamed yellow off its tall dome that rose above the surrounding buildings.

  “See that dome?” said the cabbie. “Inside hangs the largest bronze bell you’ve ever seen. Over eleven thousand pounds! And loud! You can hear it all over the city. That bell tells you when to rise, when to eat your dinner, and when to quit work.”

  Just then, the huge bell began to toll. Gideon clapped his hands over his ears. The cabbie shouted over the din. “That bell also tells you when there’s a fire. We’ve got lookouts posted on the courthouse balcony. At the first sign of smoke, they sound the alarm. But that’s not all. We’ve also got one hundred and seventy-two alarm boxes, situated at key points all over the city.”

  A clanging fire truck grew closer. Gideon gripped the sides of the cab as a hose truck clattered down a cross street.

  “And we’ve got the most professional firefighters in these United States,” said the cabbie. “We’ve got seventeen steam engines, four hook-and-ladder trucks, two hose elevators, and one hundred and eighty-five paid firefighters. Paid firemen! Now that’s a newfangled idea.”

  The cabbie grew gloomy. “The only trouble, if you ask me, but of course no one ever does, is all this wood. Everything’s made out of wood because wood goes up so quickly and it’s cheap. You never saw so many cheap houses that a good wind could blow away. Why, even our streets and sidewalks are pinewood. One spark in the right place, and whoosh!” The cabbie snapped his fingers. “The entire city could go up in flames. If you ask me, but nobody ever does, we’re sitting in a tinderbox.”

  We crossed the North Branch of the Chicago River. Soon the cabbie turned onto Pine Street. Swanky, the cabbie had called it, and he was right. The houses grew steadily larger, even larger than the grandest houses in Scranton. At first they occupied half a city block, but within a short distance, the houses swelled to take up an entire block. The streets were lined with magnificent trees and beautiful gardens.

  At a gabled mansion, the driver slowed the horse and turned into the long, curving driveway. “You’re lucky,” he said, nodding toward Gideon. “Not many employers would hire someone with —”

  He wasn’t an unkind man, and so I overlooked his pitying look. “We have a special situation,” I said.

  We jumped out, grabbed our carpetbags, and started toward the front door. The driver motioned for me to go around back to the servant’s entrance.

  I gave him a small wave. He tapped his hat “good-bye” and started down the drive.

  Once the carriage rounded the corner, I grabbed Gideon’s hand and pulled him down the driveway and across the street toward the next block, where the house number matched Miss Ringwald’s.

  And what a house! It was a massive three-story stone house with matching towers at each corner and a mansard roof with ten windows.

  The wide front door was intricately carved with swirls, reminding me of Miss Ringwald’s own flamboyant nature. I finger-combed Gideon’s hair in place. “Tuck in your shirttails,” I told him.

  I twisted the knob on the large brass doorbell. It made a loud metallic burring sound. Oh! The tintinnabulation from my knees knees knees! How they knocked with excitement!

  The Fish Footman

  After several knee-knocking minutes, a tall, slim, waxy-faced manservant answered the door. With bulging eyes, he scrutinized us from head to toe and then stared over our heads stupidly at the sky. “Those seeking employment must use the rear entrance.” He swung the door shut.

  “I’m not seeking employment!” I yelled at the door and pushed against it.

  “Now see here, miss,” said the manservant. He pushed back. The door closed with a slam. It felt like a slap.

  I dug out Miss Ringwald’s letter and twisted the bell again.

  It took several twists before the manservant returned. Again he stared stupidly at the sky and said, “Those seeking charity —”

  “Charity! I’m not seeking charity. My name is Miss Pringle Rose and I’m calling on Miss Ringwald.”

  He shot out a white-gloved hand. It held a silver tray. “Your card?”

  I had no calling card. Instead, I dropped the letter in the tray.

  He stared, unblinking, at the envelope. He sniffed and stepped back, pulling the door wider for us to pass through. “Very well, miss. You may wait here.”<
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  He stalked off.

  “Fish or frog footman?” I whispered to Gideon.

  “Fish footman,” said Gideon.

  “Pickerel or trout?”

  “Trout,” said Gideon.

  It felt as though we had landed in Wonderland. Crystal pendants dangled from an enormous chandelier. The pendants scattered brilliant, dizzying sunlight on the walls, foyer table, and black-and-white marble floor. The foyer felt as though it were turning.

  It’s not polite to speak of other people’s money, let alone count it, but everything about the foyer, from its marbled floor to its sweeping marble staircase spoke not just of wealth, but vast wealth.

  I squeezed Gideon’s hand. I couldn’t help but think how comfortable Gideon and I would be here and how grateful I felt to Beatrice Ringwald for her willingness to help us.

  Shoes clicked down the hall. A tall, gray-haired figure strode forward. “You know my daughter?”

  I had seen fathers like Mr. Ringwald at Merrywood. They were the sort of men who entered a room chin first. “My mother, Eliza Duncan, and Miss Ringwald were classmates at Merrywood School for Girls.”

  From the silver tray, he picked up the letter. “May I?” he asked, and I nodded. He opened the letter and flicked his eyes over its words. “This letter was written over four months ago.”

  He returned the letter to its envelope and handed it to me without a word about my parents. It was rude of him. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said Mr. Ringwald. “My daughter no longer lives here.”

  I must have blinked a hundred times. “Pardon?”

  Her father said, “My daughter is under a doctor’s care at Bellevue Place.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “It’s a private sanitarium.”

  I gasped. “Sanitarium! You mean a mental asylum?”

  Her father ignored my question. “Surely you have family in Chicago. Surely you would not have traveled such a distance alone.”

  There was that falling feeling again, the feeling that I was spiraling down a deep, dark hole. We had come so far. We could not return home.

  Gideon tugged on my sleeve and whispered, “Adam.”

  The falling feeling stopped as I remembered Gwen’s calling card. “Of course, we have someplace to go.”

  “It’s settled, then,” said Mr. Ringwald. “I’ll have my driver bring the carriage around.”

  That’s how I found myself sobbing in the Pritchards’ parlor, where Gwen pulled me into a tight embrace and patted my back, saying, “There, there,” over and over again.

  Why do those two words soothe so much?

  In the children’s room, Gwen made up a bed for Gideon and me — just a nest of quilts and bedspreads, really — but I slept through the night for the first time in months.

  Monday, September 11, 1871

  The Pritchards live in a cramped but tasteful two-story frame house on Sherman Street on the South Side of Chicago. The parlor carpet was once fine, judging by its colors and pattern, but is worn thin. The furniture is sturdy but spare. There’s not one framed photograph or ornamental plate or knickknack or Rogers group statue.

  Peter works as an organizer for the National Labor Union. He publishes a small, single-sheet labor newspaper, which he started with a small inheritance from his father. (Oh, what would Father say to that! Never mind. I know.)

  This morning we breakfasted on tea and toast and baked beans, dark with molasses. I sat Gideon down for his morning lessons, and Adam and Lucy joined in.

  Lucy has a quick mind. She’s just four but she recognizes upper- and lowercase letters and can sound out simple words.

  After lessons, I read to the children, just as Mother did for Gideon and me so that we would learn to read dramatically and with great feeling. I read “A Mad Tea Party” from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, using different voices for the different characters, the way Mother always did. That made the children laugh.

  A sad look came to Gwen’s eyes and I could tell she was someplace far away. I let her visit there and continued reading to the children.

  Tuesday, September 12, 1871

  A barn caught fire on LaSalle Street and we could see the plumes of smoke. The minute my back was turned, Gideon and Adam sneaked away from morning lessons to follow the clanging wagons.

  They stayed away a very long time. “It’s what boys do,” said Gwen. I suppose she is right, for the streets are filled with boys playing marbles and chasing each other. I am happy that Gideon has found a true friend.

  Summer should have ended, but Chicago is hot and sticky and dirty. Peter blames it on the wind, which blows from the southwest, bringing in waves of heat from the prairie.

  The trees droop from a lack of rain. The grass and leaves are crisp and dry and lie in heaps against the houses. Everything appears an odd, washed-out brown, like a sepia photograph. Even the horses look exhausted as they clop down the streets. I feel sorry for the horses that pull the fire equipment and sorrier for the firemen, who are bleary-eyed with exhaustion because they’re on call twenty-four hours a day.

  Later

  Peter brought home a copy of the Chicago Tribune. I paged through the newspaper, looking over the advertisements, hoping to find employment.

  Here are the jobs I found:

  The sad truth is that I have no skills. Someone else has always washed my dishes, cooked my meals, polished my furniture, stitched and sewed and ironed and washed my clothes. But this advertisement looks promising:

  I have asked Peter and Gwen for a letter of reference. Peter promised to think it over and give me an answer in the morning.

  A hot, sticky breeze is blowing through the window. I have bundled up Mother’s cape for a pillow. I can hear Peter’s and Gwen’s murmurs. They’re probably listing all the reasons they cannot provide me with a reference: I have no skills. I have no true work experience. Gwen has only known me for ten days. They do not know my background.

  My great-great-grandmother Annabella came to America at fourteen, with only a silver needle and thimble and this scarlet cape, but her spinning and weaving and sewing skills allowed her to make her way in a new country.

  I feel stupid and useless. What good did my studies at Merrywood do?

  Wednesday, September 13, 1871

  At breakfast, Peter tapped his teacup with a butter knife. “Children, I have an announcement.”

  Gwen cleared her throat and corrected Peter, saying, “We.”

  “We have an announcement,” said Peter. “If Pringle is willing, we’d like her to stay on as your nursemaid.”

  Gwen lifted her splinted arm. “Heaven knows, I need a nursemaid.”

  Adam and Lucy shouted, “Yes!” Sallie banged her cup.

  And so the Pritchards have taken pity on Gideon and me. In exchange for room and board, I will work as a nursemaid for Adam, Lucy, and Sallie.

  Imagine that! Pringle Rose, a nursemaid. Perhaps I’ll stay until I’m somebody else.

  Later

  I have never done the marketing before, but today I bought a cabbage, onions, carrots, turnips, and a shinbone of beef. I wasn’t sure how to select the best vegetables, and so I watched another woman pick and choose, her fingers expertly squeezing this one and thumping that one.

  The huckster was a pleasant man. I marveled at the pinewood streets and sidewalks, and he told me that wood is treated to look like stone and brick. I thought of all the good that wooden streets and sidewalks would do for ladies’ dresses and shoes, especially on rainy days.

  “Chicago is famous for its muddy streets,” said the huckster. “Why, one time I passed a gentleman up to his waist in mud. I offered to help him, but he said, ‘No, thanks. I’ve got a fine horse beneath me.’ ”

  Thursday, September 14, 1871

  “If you can read, you can cook
.” That’s Gwen’s motto. She handed me Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery As It Should Be, and I followed the instructions and made soup.

  First I cut the beef into chunks and laid it in the bottom of a heavy pot with a lump of butter. Then I cut up some herbs and laid them over the beef. I covered the pot tightly and set it over a low fire.

  When the gravy was almost dried up, I filled the pot with water and let it boil. I spooned the fat and scum from the top into a jar that Gwen saves for soap fat. Then I grated five turnips, three carrots, and half of a cabbage and now it’s simmering a good long while and smells delicious.

  Later

  Peter ate three bowls of soup.

  In between spoonfuls, Peter talked about the American workers’ fight for an eight-hour workday. “Imagine eight hours for work, eight to do as you will, and eight to rest,” said Peter. “Some day every worker will have an eight-hour workday, and he will thank a union.”

  Father called unions a dangerous plot. Father said unions are un-American, because they go against our capitalist economy because they interfere with the rights of industrialists and private individuals.

  “Should a worker dictate to his employer how he should manage his shop?” I asked Peter. “A shop in which the employer has invested his own capital?”

  “A worker has invested his capital, too,” said Peter. “A worker’s capital is his legs and arms and back. Why shouldn’t he negotiate his worth?”

  “If a worker doesn’t like his employer’s terms, then he should go elsewhere to work,” I said. “For example, the striking coal workers are foreign-born. They forget that we invited them to our shores to be good workers. Perhaps they should remember that they earn more in America and enjoy more freedoms — including the freedom to work where they want — than in their homelands.”