Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  “Elsa,” said Hilda, and then stopped.

  “Ja?” said Elsa dreamily. She was thinking about Kris Olsson, who had smiled at her three times in church that morning. He was a very handsome boy…

  “Elsa, I will be at Tippecanoe Place tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Why? It is not my afternoon out, and I will not have time to talk. Some ladies are coming and I will have to help with the tea. Hilda, there is a new waitress again, and she is no use at all! She—”

  “I am one of the ladies.”

  Elsa sat with her mouth open as she worked out the implications. Then she laughed. “I hope I am in the room when you come. I want to see Mr. Williams have to welcome you as a guest!”

  Hilda was taken aback. She saw nothing funny in the situation. Awkward, humiliating perhaps, but not funny. But then, Elsa had always had the least imagination of the younger children. She couldn’t see Hilda’s deep embarrassment, only the ridiculous side of things.

  Hilda wished she were gifted with such a matter-of-fact outlook on life, but she could always see where pitfalls lay. Walking around them was becoming exhausting.

  Once Elsa had said good-bye and gone into the magnificent house, Hilda could speak her mind.

  “It is like walking in the chickens’ nests!” she exploded.

  “Walkin’ on eggs, I suppose you mean,” said Patrick lazily. He loved teasing her about her English.

  “Hah! You have maybe never tried to find eggs that the chickens have hidden, climbing over beams in the hay barn, wondering if you will fall off or crush the eggs. And I know you have never done that in skirts that twist around your ankles and trip you up. I said what I meant to say, so there!”

  Patrick kissed the tip of her nose. “And what is like walkin’ in the nests, then?”

  “Talking to my family today! I cannot say this, I must not say that, I must be careful always not to remind them we are richer than they are. And you may not show you are angry when they say bad things about the Irish or hint that you are idle and shiftless.”

  “But I’m not angry, darlin’ girl. I like them all, even your mama. She’s just repeatin’ what she’s heard everybody else say about the Irish, not really meanin’ it. And Sven wasn’t hintin’. He’s your big brother. He wants life to be good for you, and so do I. And Elsa, o’ course—she sees about as far as the end of her own nose. She wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it landed on that nose.”

  Hilda smiled, but went back to her grievance. “They do not like it when people talk about dumb Swedes. Why can they not see talking badly about the Irish is the same thing?”

  “Dunno, but lots are like them. Don’t want to be insulted themselves, but don’t care if they insult other folks.”

  “That is not Christian,” said Hilda firmly. “The Golden Rule—”

  “Don’t reckon they think about it that way. Don’t reckon they think about it atall. Do ye know nobody else whose mouth gets goin’ ahead of their mind?”

  “Mmm.” Hilda quieted. She could remember all too many times when her own tongue had hurried ahead of her better judgment.

  “And it’s gettin’ better. Your ma was laughin’ inside when I played the fool, I’ll swear, for all she sounded so stern. Don’t worry about it so much, me girl. Just be yourself and love them, and things will come right in the end.”

  “The end is a long time coming,” said Hilda tartly, but she pulled up his hand and laid it against her cheek.

  Their house was utterly quiet when they entered. The servants had Sundays off, and Hilda, more lenient than a butler, did not ask them to be back until eight o’clock. There was no sound from upstairs, either.

  “The baby must be asleep,” said Hilda, “but what about Norah and the nurse and Mrs. Murphy? Do you think something has—has happened?”

  A door opened quietly and soft footsteps sounded. Hilda started up the stairs.

  “Quiet, if you please, madam,” said a soft but firm voice. A white skirt came into view, crackling as it moved. “Mrs. O’Neill and the baby and Mrs. Murphy are all asleep.”

  “How is Mrs. O’Neill?” asked Hilda in a whisper.

  The nurse came around the corner and gestured downstairs. Hilda obeyed. The nurse was as forceful as any butler, if somewhat less heavy-handed in manner. If anyone could get Norah to eat and take her medicine, Hilda thought, it was Miss Pickerell.

  “I don’t like to talk about a patient where she can hear,” said the nurse when they reached the front hall, “even if I think she’s asleep. She is somewhat better. Mr. O’Neill went to church and brought the priest back with him. I left them alone, of course, but I believe he said a few prayers with her, and baptized that little lamb of a child. If she were my only patient, I’d have nothing to do! Sweetest, quietest baby I’ve ever seen. But Mrs. O’Neill…” The nurse shook her head. “She ate a good supper and took her tonic, though her mother fussed about it as usual. But she makes no effort, even when her husband talks to her. Just lies there and cries. We’ll start doing something about that soon,” said Miss Pickerell confidently.

  “Yes,” said Hilda, hoping it was true. “And Sean? Is he also asleep?”

  “Mr. O’Neill has gone home. He must work tomorrow, and Mrs. O’Neill is too tired even to talk to him.”

  “Miss Pickerell, what is wrong with Norah? The doctor says only that she is run down.”

  “Well, of course I’m not a doctor. But there is something called anemia—something to do with the blood. No one knows much about it, but I’ve done enough nursing to know that poor people, who don’t eat enough meat, seem to have it more than rich ones, and women more than men. And of course Mrs. O’Neill’s just had a baby, so it’s natural that she’s tired. She’ll pull out of it in time, if I have anything to say about it. Mrs. Cavanaugh, don’t you worry. keep Mrs. O’Neill cheerful, keep giving her good food, and she’ll be fine. She just needs a firm hand.”

  And Miss Pickerell crackled away, her starched skirts emphasizing the firm treatment Norah was going to receive, whether she liked it or not.

  Highest Award is Given to the Starr

  Piano Co. at the World’s Fair

  —Elbel Bros. Music Store ad

  South Bend Tribune

  December 1904

  14

  THAT EVENING after a little cold supper, Hilda and Patrick sat in the parlor, grateful for a glowing fire and a glass of wine, and most of all for peace and quiet. The past few days had demanded much of them.

  “I am glad the nurse is here,” said Hilda. “I feel now there is not so much for me to do for Norah and the baby.”

  “You never did have to do anything much,” said Patrick. “Been a whole pack o’ women about the place to do what was needed.”

  “I know, but Norah is my friend. I wanted to help. Patrick, I do not know what is to become of them. If Sean loses his job—or if he goes to jail—”

  “Between us, darlin’, we’ll see he doesn’t go to jail. As for his job, that’s a worry for certain.”

  “Patrick, did you mean what you said to Sven today? That your job is safe? or were you only pretending, so we would not worry?”

  “I’m a partner in Malloy’s, darlin’. Half the business is mine. As long as there is a business, I have a job, and a fine one it is. And Malloy’s is sound. Uncle Dan’s built the store up graduallike and kept it runnin’ with cash.”

  Hilda frowned. “I do not understand. Money is what runs every business. Not?”

  Patrick smiled. “There’s money and money. I’ve been learnin’ a lot about business these past few months. Y’see, a lot of people, startin’ out, will borrow money to get things movin’. Say it’s dry goods, like Uncle Dan. Well, you have to have money to buy the things you’re goin’ to sell, and if you start big, sellin’ lots o’ goods, you have to have lots of money. And that’s not all. You rent a building, you hire people to work, you have insurance—oh, there’s no end to what you need before you ever earn a penny. So you borrow from a bank. And if ever
ything goes right, you can make enough money to pay your rent and pay the people who work for you and pay back the bank, a bit at a time, and still have enough left over to buy more goods to sell, and even some to live on. If things don’t go so well, you don’t live so well. If things get really bad, maybe the bank decides it wants its money back. So it calls in the loan, and there you are with no money left to pay anything, and you’re ruined.”

  “But—but that is frightening! Patrick, are you sure—we have this house, and servants, and food, and everything is very expensive—”

  “Don’t be getting in a stew, Hilda me love. I told you Malloy’s is sound. That’s because Uncle Dan never borrowed a penny to start the store. He worked for other people for years, and he and Molly saved every cent they could put away. Then when he had enough to go off on his own, he started small. Had a ittybitty store, sellin’ linens an’ dress goods. He and Molly did all the work, so they didn’t have to pay anybody else, and hard work it was, too. You’ll have to get Molly to tell you about it sometime. She’s a small woman, but blessed saints, the energy she has! And they didn’t live in that fine house, neither. Lived above the store, and happy as a pair o’ larks, to hear her tell it. And they saved more, and when they had a bit put by, they built up their stock, little by little, till they had to find a bigger place to put it all. And that’s how Dan got where he is now, workin’ hard, and doin’ it all with his own money. He’s got a lot saved, too, so if there’s a slump in business, he has enough to keep goin’ for a long time, and without anybody losing a job, neither. That’s what I meant by doin’ business with cash.

  “But that’s not the way of it with everybody these days, more’s the pity. This outfit Sean works for…” Patrick shook his head. “His brothers and his cousins, we all tried to tell him not to leave Birdsell’s. He had a good job there. They maybe don’t pay the highest wages in town, but they’re dependable, and they make a good product. As long as farmers raise clover for feed, they’ll need clover-hullers, and Birdsell makes the best in this part o’ the country. But no, Sean said he had a wife now, and a baby comin’, and he could get higher wages at the new bicycle factory. now I’m not sayin’ Black’s isn’t a good place to work, because it is. Sam Black’s a decent man, from what I hear, and he treats his men right. But he’s thinkin’ about gettin’ into motorcars, and he’s borrowed money left and right, and there’s talk he won’t be able to pay it back if a bank calls in the loan.”

  Hilda felt cold. “And it might do that?”

  “Farmer’s Bank’s only been around two, three years, and it’s owned by a new man in town, name of Townsend. They don’t only lend to farmers, though that’s their main business. If Black borrowed money from them—well, the word is, Farmer’s isn’t doin’ too good. If they fail, a lot of people could be in big trouble.”

  “People like Sean,” said Hilda. “The little people. The people who work hard and do not borrow money they cannot pay back, the people who earn their wages. It is always the little people who are hurt!” She stood up and began to stride up and down the room, her sense of peace gone. “You say Mr. Black is a good man. He is not a good man if he is so foolish in business that he lets his workers starve.”

  “Nobody’s right all the time, love. You own a business, you’ve got to make decisions. Sometimes you’ve got to take risks. If you guess right, you get rich, and your workers along with you. If you guess wrong, everybody gets hurt.”

  “Hah! This Mr. Black, he will not get hurt, I bet you. He will sit—what do you say, when someone leaves a wreck without harm?”

  “‘High and dry,’ I guess. Or ‘sitting pretty.’”

  “Yes. He will be sitting pretty.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I happen to know his house is mortgaged, because I overheard some men talking about it. He’ll lose everything, right along with his men. Come here, darlin’.” He stretched out his arms, and Hilda came and sat next to him on the settee. She leaned back into the curve of his arm, but she was still stiff with indignation.

  “It is not right!” she muttered stubbornly.

  “No, darlin’. It’s not. Lots o’ things in this life aren’t right. We’re all born to trouble, like the Good Book says. But the good Lord made us tough, us Irish, and the Swedes, too. We can stand up to trouble.” He stroked her cheek. “You and me, we’ll help Sean and Norah if they need it. They’ll do well enough.”

  Hilda was silent. Patrick looked down at her. Her eyes were very bright.

  “You—you are a good man, Patrick Cavanaugh,” she said in a very low voice.

  Upstairs a faint cry sounded. Hilda sat up, sniffed, and touched her handkerchief to her eyes. “Fiona is awake. I will go up and see her. And then let us go to bed. Tomorrow there will be much to do.”

  Patrick turned off the gas brackets, checked to make sure the doors were locked, and then followed her up the stairs.

  Sunday’s bright, cold weather was only a memory come Monday morning. Hilda awoke to find Patrick gone and his side of the bed cold, and wondered where he was, since it was still dark outside. The room was warm, though. Why would Eileen have lit the fire in the middle of the night?

  When Hilda went to the window she saw. Snow was falling, heavy, thick snow that obscured the light from the sun. She shook her head at the variability of Indiana winter weather. In Sweden, they had known what to expect in winter—snow and more snow. She lit the gas and looked at the bedside clock. Eightthirty.

  She clicked her tongue. A comfortable life was already making her lazy. Never, from her childhood on the farm in Sweden through her years under the butler’s authority at Tippecanoe Place, had she risen later than five-thirty except in cases of dire illness. now she could often sleep as late as she pleased, and as a result, she realized with a grimace, she had a headache. Or perhaps it was that glass of wine last night. She hadn’t so much as raised one eyelid when Patrick had risen early for his usual Monday morning meeting with Uncle Dan and the other senior employees at the store.

  She rang for Eileen, who brought coffee without being asked and helped Hilda dress. “How is Norah?” was Hilda’s first question as soon as the coffee had brought full wakefulness and eased her headache a bit.

  “Not so good, ma’am. She’s like—like a doll or somethin’. All limp an’ floppy.”

  “A puppet?” suggested Hilda.

  Eileen looked doubtful. “Like Punch and Judy? But she’s not funny, ma’am, just sad-like. Does as she’s told, but don’t take no interest in nothin’.”

  “Does not take interest in anything,” Hilda corrected automatically.

  “Yes, ma’am. Will you wear the pink velvet dress this mornin’, ma’am?”

  “No, I am not going out until this afternoon. Just something comfortable. The old black skirt will do, with a plain waist. Is Norah eating well, and taking her tonic?”

  “She does what that nurse tells her.” Eileen made a face behind Hilda’s back, but Hilda was looking in the mirror.

  “You do not like Miss Pickerell? She seems good at her job.” “She’s bossy.”

  “A good nurse must be bossy with a patient like Norah,” said Hilda firmly. “We must be bossy, too, I think. Norah must begin to—to have some starch, like the nurse’s skirts.”

  “And the nurse’s nose,” said Eileen, but so quietly that Hilda thought she could ignore it.

  “Has Mr. Cavanaugh left for the store?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s been snowin’ that hard, he doesn’t think the horses could get through. Hardly anythin’s gettin’ through, by the look of the streets. Mr. Cavanaugh, he called Mr. Malloy up on the telephone, and Mr. Malloy said he’s not openin’ the store till the snow stops. He went round himself, Mr. Malloy did, walkin’ in all that storm early this mornin’, puttin’ a sign on the door and stoppin’ at houses and boardin’ houses to tell the clerks—most of ’em ain’t got no telephone.”

  “Do not have a telephone. That was kind of Mr. Malloy, but very foolish. He is n
ot a young man, and might have fallen in the snow. He should have sent Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  “That’s what Mr. Cavanaugh told him, ma’am. Right sharp with him on the telephone, he was.”

  Hilda wasn’t sure who was sharp with whom, but both, she imagined. Uncle Dan and Patrick were as close as father and son, but like father and son they often shouted at one another.

  “There, that’s your hair done,” said Eileen, pushing the last pin carefully into the coronet braids with a little sigh. “I wish you’d let me do it up in a Gibson Girl. You’d look beautiful with little curls down just here, and here, and the rest piled on top of your head so.” She gestured with one hand, building an imaginary mound of hair above Hilda’s eyes. “I mean, you look beautiful now, ma’am, but don’t you want to be fashionable, now you’re rich and all?”

  Hilda laughed. “I will wear fashionable clothes when I must, even though it means I must also wear a corset, but I like my hair the way I have always worn it. It suits me, I think. It is the Swedish way, and it means I do not look like everyone else. This afternoon I must wear something ‘fashionable,’ though. I must go to a meeting at Tippecanoe Place.”

  “Ooh, ma’am, how excitin’! Goin’ back to where you used to be a maid, and goin’ as a fine lady!” Then her face clouded. “If you can go. The way it’s snowin’, ye might not get out.”

  Eileen, too, was unable to imagine the strain of such a visit, thought Hilda. Perhaps she was making too much of it. Perhaps it would be all right. Or perhaps, if she prayed hard to the old Norse gods (more likely, Hilda thought, to know about winter weather than the temperate Christian God), the snow would continue and she wouldn’t have to go.

  But capricious Indiana weather paid little heed, apparently, to Thor or Odin or whoever might hurl snow down upon the hapless earth. By midmorning the snow had tapered to a light flurry, by noon it had stopped, and when lunch was over the sun was shining brightly, blindingly, on a world blanketed in white. Mr. O’Rourke was out helping other neighborhood servants clear their drives and the street, and soon carriages and sleighs were moving briskly along Colfax.