by Jeanne Dams
Hilda wasn’t sure whether the cook meant the dinner party or Mr. Williams’s illness, and she didn’t like to ask. One possible end to Mr. Williams’s illness was too disturbing even to mention.
She was, however, quite clear about the most important matter. She wouldn’t get out of the house today, nor tomorrow. So much for talking to Patrick.
But Hilda was due for another surprise that day.
Things went badly from the start. Everyone had extra duties, some of them unfamiliar, so the work went slowly. But worse than that was the feeling of unease about the house. A trained nurse took over from Janecska in midmorning, and came out of Mr. Williams’s room from time to time looking grave. Even the family was worried. Mrs. Clem had known Mr. Williams ever since the family had moved into Tippecanoe Place fifteen years before, and she paid a call on him herself, taking him a little vase of hothouse roses from the bouquet in her own room.
Hilda took a moment to glance at the papers when they arrived. Wild speculation about the murder continued, but little new fact. Apparently Miss Jacobs had not actually been raped, after all. The Tribune conveyed, in delicate euphemism, the impression that she was a virgin still. Hilda shook her head, sighed, and left the papers to be dealt with later. There was no time for ironing them tonight.
At about five o’clock, Hilda was scurrying from the kitchen to the butler’s pantry, carrying a tray full of the best china. (In the emergency conditions Elsie had, with threats of dire consequences if she damaged anything, been allowed to wash the Royal Crown Derby.) A loud knock sounded as Hilda passed the back door. She was so startled she nearly dropped the tray. She glanced at the shadow visible behind the glass in the door, and muttered Swedish imprecations under her breath as she called for Anton to see who was there.
But Anton was apparently out of earshot, so Hilda set the tray down on a table in an alcove and stomped to the door.
Patrick stood outside.
A wave of longing swept over her, so strong that she had to catch hold of the door for support. For an instant, she wanted nothing more than to be safe in Patrick’s arms, shut away from turmoil and confusion and hard work forever.
Being Hilda, she refused to give in to her emotions. Anyway, she was being silly. No one could protect her from the world. She didn’t need protection. She could look after herself.
Still, it was an effort for her to keep her voice stern. “I cannot come out, Patrick, and I have no time to talk. Family dinner is at seven, and we are in a hurry, all of us, because Mr. Williams—”
“I heard. Word about Tippecanoe Place gets around, you know,” said Patrick, stepping inside and firmly closing the door after him. “Some of the men are back today, so I have the evenin’ off. I thought the household would be in a rare taking, and you worked off your feet. I came to help.”
“You? Help? But you do not know—”
“I know how to fetch and carry, and soothe the feelings of an irate Irish cook, and make people smile. Someone can teach me to hand round food at the table.”
“Oh, you would never be allowed to do that! Even though it is just the family tonight. You do not know the rules, and you do not have on the right clothing.”
Patrick’s eyebrows rose almost into his tousled black hair. “It takes rules, and special clothes, to give folks their food?”
“You know it does, Patrick. There are rules about which side to offer things, and how, and besides that, butlers change their clothes all day long. Sometimes I think it is all they do. Plain trousers and an ordinary coat in the morning, striped trousers and a tail coat in the afternoon, a dress suit in the evening with black trousers.”
Patrick grinned. “Then I expect me fireman’s uniform won’t do. Never mind, me girl, I was teasing you. I’ll make meself useful behind the scenes. Now where’s that tray you was carryin’ when I peeked through the glass?”
“It is here, but Patrick, Mrs. Sullivan will not—”
He picked up the tray. “You let me worry about Mrs. Sullivan. Now, where’re all these dishes goin’?”
She allowed him to carry the tray to the butler’s pantry, but insisted on putting the china away herself. “Suit yourself,” he said with a grin. Whistling, he went back to the kitchen.
Hilda didn’t dare hurry with the china, but she ran to the kitchen as soon as she could. Standing just outside the door, she eavesdropped shamelessly.
“…and how did a colleen like yourself get to be such a fine cook, now tell me that? And without eating more of your own cookin’ than’d keep a bird alive?”
(Mrs. Sullivan was many years the wrong side of forty, and weighed, Hilda guessed, not much less than two hundred pounds.)
“Ah, get away with ye! Sure, an’ it’s a fine line o’ blarney ye spin, me lad.” Her brogue, like Patrick’s, had broadened so much that Hilda had some difficulty in following the conversation.
“ ’Tis no blarney to say you’re the finest cook in South Bend. Even me own blessed mother doesn’t make as light a bread, and her the best baker in all of County Kerry. It’s honored I am to be helpin’ ye in yer hour of need. Only tell me what I can do. I’m yer willin’ slave!”
There was a rich chuckle, and Mrs. Sullivan sailed out of the kitchen, looking positively kittenish. Hilda got away from the doorway just in time.
“Sure, and it’s a fine young man you’ve got for yourself, Hilda! Givin’ up his time off to help us, I call that downright neighborly. Now mind the two of you keep your mind on your work tonight!” But she said it with a coy smile. “You’ll be servin’, Hilda, with Anton, so you’d best be goin’ up and puttin’ on a clean apron. I’ll keep Maggie in the kitchen to help me. When you come down, you can have yourself a bite to eat before you start your kitchen work. Patrick, you’ll be eatin’ with us. There’s plenty.”
Hilda was so taken aback by the cook’s attitude that she forgot to grumble about being assigned Maggie’s duties.
The evening’s work, which Hilda had been dreading, was made easier by Patrick’s genial presence. He did whatever he was asked to do and made a joke whenever possible. He kept the backstairs atmosphere so pleasant that all the servants, over-worked and tired though they were, stayed cheerful, even while they were cleaning up in the kitchen afterwards.
Hilda, all evening, went about her duties in a sort of daze. She knew her job, and Maggie’s job, too. Never once did she hand the vegetables on the wrong side of a diner; never once did she drop a spoon or jostle anyone’s elbow, even though she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing. In fact, she wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Her mind didn’t seem to want to function. Too many things had happened too quickly; too many ideas sought her attention. It was good that she was kept busy with menial chores. One doesn’t have to think when one is concentrating on being deferential and filling coffee cups properly.
When the dishes were done, when the china and silver had been put away (by Hilda; she would trust no one else), when the table linen had been put in the bin for the laundress on Monday and the crumbs swept up from under the table and the leftover food put away in the pantry or ice-box and the kitchen table and floor and sinks scrubbed and the servants’ breakfast table set for the next morning, Anton and Elsie went home.
Mrs. Sullivan looked at Patrick and Hilda. “It’s early yet, only just past nine. We’ve got along wonderful this evenin’, thanks to Patrick. But I’m tired, all the same, and I’m goin’ up. And just as soon as I’ve seen how Mr. Williams is feelin’, I’m for me bed. And Maggie’s comin’ up, too, aren’t you, Maggie?”
Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but she changed her mind after one look at Mrs. Sullivan’s face. “Yes, ma’am. And Hilda, too, I suppose.”
“No,” Mrs. Sullivan snapped. “Hilda, I know you’re tired, too, but somebody has to be ready to go to the door if anyone should come, and answer the telephone, and see to the bells if one of the family rings. I’m sorry, Hilda, but those are your jobs when Mr. Williams is busy. So now you’ll ha
ve to take over. You can shut up the house and go to bed at eleven, unless the family needs you. And don’t forget to turn off all the lamps!”
As if, Hilda thought, she was likely to forget. The house had burned nearly to the ground some years before, when it was only a few months old, and the first thing any servant in the house was taught, and reminded over and over, was to be careful about any kind of fire. The gas lamps and wall sconces and chandeliers were inspected regularly and kept in perfect repair, and were never left burning at night, nor were the servants allowed to take candles to bed. Hilda hated being the last up at night, for it meant climbing the three steep, narrow, twisting flights of the back stairs in pitch darkness.
Mrs. Sullivan pushed Maggie ahead of her and turned back to Hilda. “Don’t keep Patrick too long, now. I ought to stay and chaperone you, but you’re a sensible girl, Hilda.” And with a wink she began to trudge up the steps.
Hilda was tired, but the wink brought her awake in an instant. “Why,” she whispered to Patrick, “I believe she meant to leave us alone.”
“She’s a young Irish lass at heart, though you’d never think it to look at her,” he whispered back. They listened as the cook’s firm tread slowly moved out of earshot, and then Patrick took Hilda’s hand.
“Come, girl. There’s a fire still in your sittin’ room, and we’ve things to talk about.”
He sat down on the shabby old couch and patted the cushion beside him, but Hilda shook her head and turned to one of the wooden chairs around the table. “No, Patrick. Mrs. Sullivan has shown that she trusts us. We must not misbehave ourselves.”
Patrick sighed. “Me girl, this is the first time in months I’ve had you alone anyplace where we wasn’t freezin’ to death. And you’re tellin’ me I can’t even have you sit next to me?”
Into Hilda’s mind swam Norah’s comments. “Patrick’s Irish. I wouldn’t be so sure…”
“It would not stop at that, would it?” said Hilda primly. “No, we must talk, but it must be talk only. And Patrick, I am sorry, but we must not be too long. I am very tired.”
“You work too hard.” Patrick dropped his flirtatious tone and became serious. “Hilda, I watched you tonight. This was just an ordinary family dinner, but you was run off your feet.”
“That was because Mr. Williams was not there. The work is not usually so hard.”
“It’s hard enough. How many times have we been out together when you was so tired you near fell asleep? How often have I heard you complain about old Williams bein’ a tyrant, and a slave-driver, and—”
“No, Patrick! It is not right to talk about him when he is ill, when he is maybe…” She wouldn’t say the word, but it hung in the air between them.
“All right, I won’t talk about him. I’m sorry he’s so bad sick, but I’m not wantin’ to talk about him, anyway. I’m talkin’ about us. I’m wantin’ to take you out of this, give you a house of your own, servants of your own. Haven’t you had enough of bein’ ordered about?”
Hilda waited a long time before replying, so long that Patrick looked at her anxiously. “No, wait,” she said. “I must say this the right way.”
Patrick looked more anxious than ever.
She took a deep breath. “I have thought for a long time about this. Always I say to myself the same t’ings. Things. I say—I think to myself, you understand—that I want to marry you and have my own home and—and children. I say that I want to be my own mistress, not a servant anymore. I say that now, if you become Uncle Dan’s partner, these things are possible. And then I remember about your family, and my family, and how much they would hate this.”
She sounded so forlorn that Patrick longed to take her in his arms, but she saw the wish in his eyes and put out a forbidding hand. “No. Let me finish. Always I think the same things, and never do I come to an answer. But yesterday I talked to Norah.”
At the “but,” Patrick’s eyes grew a little brighter.
“We did not have enough time, because she had to hurry home to cook supper. And she was very tired, and I had a new thought, that maybe marriage was not all fun, that it, too, was work. But,” she hurried on to forestall him, “Norah said something else, something that made me think another new thought. All day today, when I could think at all, I thought about what she said. She asked me what I wanted most, to please my family or to marry the man—the man I loved.” Hilda looked down and addressed her next remark to Patrick’s shoes. “And I decided,” she whispered, “that I do not know what our families will do, but I want to marry you.”
This time she didn’t try to stay Patrick from the joyful embrace that swept them both into another world, one built of pink clouds and inhabited by chubby cupids.
When he at last freed her, gently, reluctantly, he reached into his pocket. “I’ve had this for a while, darlin’ girl, just hopin’,” he whispered. “I’ve held your hand often enough to have an idea of the size. I hope it fits.”
He slipped the ring on her finger. It was a little loose, but she didn’t even notice. She gazed, awestruck with the beauty of the gold setting and the fire of the diamond. “Patrick! You—it must have cost—is it real?”
“It’s not so big, and it’s only from Sears, Roebuck, but it’s real. One day I’ll buy you a fine one, big as a hotel doorknob!”
“You will not. It is this one I love. Oh, Patrick!”
The embrace this time was more passionate. Despite Hilda’s best intentions, there’s no telling what might have happened if they had not, after a time, heard the insistent knocking at the back door.
“Ignore them,” said Patrick, his lips against her cheek, his hand stroking her golden hair.
Hilda sighed. “I cannot, Patrick. I am on duty. And you are on call. It could be anyone.”
Patrick came down to earth with a thump. “Yes, that it could be. And you’re not goin’ to the door, me girl. Not when there’s murderers still runnin’ loose. I’ll go.”
The pink clouds had not yet quite receded for Hilda. Someone to protect her. Someone to look after her. She sighed luxuriously and smiled at Patrick’s retreating figure.
He was back in moments, bringing with him a tall, agitated man. Hilda blinked, and blinked again, but the man was still her brother Sven.
“Hilda, you’ve got to come,” said Sven, ignoring Patrick completely. “Erik’s run away again, and Mama says you’re the only one who can find him.”
School was suspended…as the city is trying
to unravel the mystery of the crime.
—South Bend Tribune
January 23, 1904
8
IT TOOK HILDA A MOMENT to gather her thoughts. “Erik…?” “What is the matter with you?” said Sven impatiently. “You must come, I tell you. Erik is gone, and Mama is beside herself. I know it is hard for you to get away, but if I explain to Mr. Williams—” He looked around the room. “Where is Mr. Williams?”
“He is in bed. He is very ill. There have been nurses with him all day, and oh, Sven, he might—”
But Sven was not interested in Mr. Williams just then. He surveyed the empty servants’ room. “Where are all the other servants, then?”
“They’ve gone home, the dailies, and Maggie and Mrs. Sullivan have gone to bed.”
“Then what,” roared Sven, “is he doing here?”
Sven was a good six inches taller than Patrick and looked, just then, a good deal like one of the more fearsome Scandinavian gods, Thor, perhaps.
Patrick grinned. “I came to help, and I stayed to talk to Hilda. I have the right.” He ignored the frantic signals Hilda was making behind Sven’s back. “She and I are engaged to be married.”
“You are what?”
“Sven, there is no time for this,” said Hilda firmly. “We must find Erik. You can tell me everything, later, and forbid me to marry Patrick, and whatever else you are thinking, but now, tell me: When did Mama last see Erik, and where?”
“That’s my girl,” said Patrick in an undertone,
and the love and admiration in his voice made Hilda feel, suddenly, like a queen on a throne. Oh, she could tackle anything with Patrick at her side!
Sven frowned. “He was—but we must talk about—”
“Later, not now. Erik. Tell me.” Hilda grasped Patrick’s arm.
Sven glared at Patrick. “I—oh, ja, later, then. Erik was—you know there has been no school this week, ever since his teacher was found killed?”
Hilda nodded.
“So Erik has been going to work all day at the firehouse.” Sven shot Patrick another angry look. “And today he saw a newspaper that said school would begin again a week from Monday, after Miss Jacobs’s funeral. And when he came home, Mama says, he said at the supper table that he would not go back to school. He is very sad and angry about his teacher, Hilda.”
Again she nodded.
“Of course Mama said he must go to school. She says Erik was very naughty, then, and talked back to her, and refused to go back to school, ever. She explained why he must, but he became more and more angry.”
Hilda could well imagine. Sven was, of course, relating only Mama’s side of the story, but Hilda could almost hear the shouts. Mama’s “explaining” had probably not been phrased in terms of cool reason, and Erik—well, all the Johanssons had more than their share of Swedish stubbornness, but Erik was the worst. “Yes,” she said. “They fought. What happened then?”
“Erik refused to say he would go to school, and at last he lost his temper completely and said he would run away. Mama sent him to his room then, without his supper, and she locked him in.”
Hilda groaned. “And he got out the window.”
“He did. When Mama went to see him later, and give him something to eat—for you know, Hilda, that Mama can be strict, but she is loving, too—when she went to his room and unlocked the door, he was not there, and the window was wide open, letting in the snow.”
