by L. K. Rigel
But again death robbed her of her happiness. Mrs. Grasmere’s health failed for the last time.
Miss Fiddyment’s Academy for Young Ladies
Winter’s bitter cold endured. Every fireplace at Grasmere House was lit round the clock, but Igraine took her writing desk down to the kitchen, the warmest room in the house. “Cook, will you mind if I write letters at the table?” The warmth came not only from Cook’s ovens, but from the women gathered there.
“Come in, Miss Fiddyment.” Cook brought her a cup of hot coffee from the pot always kept on the stove.
None of them were secure in their positions, but when Igraine had wondered aloud where she might go, Mrs. Fuller insisted she stay to manage the correspondence involved with Mrs. Grasmere’s death.
Mrs. Fuller had a novel open. Books were a prescriptive against the madness steals in on winter’s inactivity, and she’d been reading Waverly aloud to them all. While Old Kate plucked a chicken and Cook worked bread dough, Igraine took out paper and ink from the writing desk to compose responses to the many letters of sympathy that had arrived. Mrs. Fuller was right, someone had to do it. There had been no word from Solomon Grasmere.
“Mr. and Mrs. Grasmere had the happiest marriage I ever saw.” Mrs. Fuller picked up the previous conversation.
“And now they are together in heaven,” Old Kate said.
“If I were guaranteed a man as good as Mr. Grasmere, I wouldn’t mind being married myself,” Mrs. Fuller said. Igraine’s pen stopped, and Old Kate’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again though no sound came out. “I may as well confess,” Mrs. Fuller said. “There is no longer any reason to keep quiet. My name is not ‘Mrs. Fuller’ at all.”
“Wait,” Cook said. She beat the dough with stepped-up ferocity, deftly molded it, set the ball near the fire and covered it with a cloth. “Continue.”
“When I first came to Grasmere House,” said the woman who was not Mrs. Fuller, “Mr. Grasmere got it in his head that I was someone else, a Mrs. Fuller who was expected from New York to be the housekeeper. Well, I was from New York, but I was no Mrs. Fuller. I had come to Shermer Landing to look for work. It was in ‘89. General Washington had just become the first President of the United States, and anything seemed possible.
“I had learned Grasmere House wanted help. I came to the kitchen door, and she that was Cook before you, Cook, invited me in out of the cold. Mr. Grasmere saw me and, genial as you please, said ‘Mrs. Fuller, we are so glad you have arrived.’ He gave me a tour of the house himself, told me how sorry he was that I was widowed so young—I was only eighteen then—and how he hoped I’d be happy at Grasmere House.
“My mouth wouldn’t work to set him to rights. For days, and then weeks, I lived in terror of the real Mrs. Fuller showing up. I suppose I hoped to do well enough they would want me in another position, though in a just world they’d toss me for the liar I was. But Mrs. Fuller never came. And I found that I liked being a widow. I found that a woman is held in higher esteem having been married even briefly than never having been married at all.”
Cook gave everyone more coffee. Old Kate looked sideways at Igraine.
“Oh!” Mrs. Fuller’s face turned red. “Oh, dear. Miss Fiddyment, forgive me. I meant no—oh, dear.”
“Do not cause yourself any pain on my account,” Igraine said. “You’re right. An old maid is an object of disdain everywhere she goes.”
In that moment, Mrs. Fuller had her Grand Idea.
“But what is your real name?” Old Kate said. “What should we call you?”
“My name was Winifred Jones,” Mrs. Fuller smiled, the bubble of the Grand Idea taking on more solid form. “But I’ve been Mrs. Fuller far too long; it would feel unnatural to be called anything else.” The Grand Idea was now as clear as if it had stepped from behind a cloud. Mrs. Fuller nearly laughed.
It was so obvious what should happen now: Mr. Solomon Grasmere must return, and immediately, before Miss Fiddyment got away. He must fall in love with Miss Fiddyment and marry her and life could go on as always. And, Mrs. Fuller truly believed, Mr. Grasmere and Miss Fiddyment would both be happy in the bargain.
“I hope I have the kind of luck you did,” Igraine said. “This correspondence is nearly complete, and I must look for a position.”
“You can’t think of leaving us,” Cook said.
“Not before things are settled,” Mrs. Fuller agreed. “You must write to Mr. Grasmere and tell him he is needed here. Surely some ship out in Boston Harbor will meet up with The Sheepshank soon enough. Until he returns, you must see that Grasmere House will fall apart without you.”
Even crusty Old Kate, devastated by the loss of her good old lady, nodded.
Igraine considered that she had nowhere else to go. She said, “But I have no place here, no purpose now. I no longer earn my keep.” She suddenly felt very tired and sad.
“Titch,” Mrs. Fuller said. “Why not start that girls’ school you are always talking about? We have plenty of room. And the earnings can pay to run the household until Mr. Grasmere’s return.”
Mrs. Fuller was simply correct, and there was nothing more to say.
Igraine wrote to April to beg her to come teach at the Young Ladies Academy. They would share Igraine’s room. Cook moved in with Mrs. Fuller. No one dared ask Old Kate to double, or perhaps no one wanted to try to sleep any closer to her musical snores. At all events, she kept her room solo. The groom and the gardener already lived above the stables, so there were no males living in the main building.
Igraine went to The Post to place a notice of the school’s opening. On the day the advertisement first appeared, the newspaper ran an editorial in praise of the endeavor, a part of which read:
Our great pride in this magnificent land comes not from what we have accomplished but from the conviction that we will accomplish more. We live in the Age of Knowledge, and men of coming generations will continue to be measured not by birth rank but by individual virtue. Will excellent sons be raised by mediocre mothers?
Shermer Landing is most fortunate in Miss Igraine Fiddyment, a woman of impeccable character with whom I have had the pleasure to discuss the modern educational theories. I have every confidence that our daughters will learn from her all that is practical and moral by which to manifest the angel in the house. We must all wish for our young ladies the best preparation for that happy day when they themselves become wives and mothers. I know that, when the time comes, I shall with gratitude enroll my own daughter in Miss Igraine Fiddyment’s Academy.
She went straightaway to the newspaper to thank Mr. Singer.
“Miss Fiddyment, a pleasure.” He came out to meet her. She still felt nervous in his company, his perfection so near to her imperfection. He was married, and she desired nothing from him. She only wished she didn't find him so attractive.
“How are enrollments?” he asked.
“I am sure they will swell when your editorial is read. I came to thank—oh!” She had reached out to shake his hand, and he had done the same; but instead, he pushed her off the walkway into a puddle of water.
“Miss Fiddyment, I am an oaf,” he said. “Your feet are drenched. Come, we’ll take care of you.”
He led her inside. In no time, she was seated in front of a fire, and his hands were at her boot hooks.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fiddyment, but I must remove your shoes to dry them.” She thought she would die of embarrassment. Her heart raced. Several young men had come out to see what was going on. They smiled congenially as if nothing was at all amiss.
“Why, it is Miss Fiddyment.” Mayor Adams was there. “How pleasant.” He kept speaking while Mr. Singer removed her second waterlogged shoe. “I’ve just come with an article about the law school.”
“Law school, Mr. Adams?”
“This is your doing, Miss Fiddyment,” said Mr. Singer. “For years, the Education Committee has talked and met and harrumphed about establishing a law school in the town. Then you, a woman alone, up
and start a young ladies’ school. You’ve shamed the committee into action, madam.”
Igraine tried to keep breathing. His hands on her feet made her woozy. She wished she had got around to buying a new pair of shoes to replace these old, patched things.
“Sir.” One of the young men handed Leopold a piece of clean newsprint. He put the paper on the floor and pressed both Igraine’s bare wet feet onto it, then returned the sheet to the lad who hurried away with it. It was the oddest thing.
All the while the men made conversation as if this very strange sequence were not going on before their very eyes.
She was no less flustered when she felt her shoes being put back on again. She felt, more than watched, Mr. Singer close the hooks. She wished the feeling would go on forever. “I guess they were not so wet as we had supposed.” He pulled her to her feet. As she stood, her weight forced more liquid out of the shoes.
“Would you like a tour?”
“No, thank you.” She had to get out, back to reality, back to sanity. Her shoes squeaked and squished as she retreated.
“You must bring your young ladies some time to observe the making of a newspaper.”
“That is most kind.” Splish, squeak.
“Not at all. I have a personal interest in your success, you know, on two accounts.”
“Mr. Singer?”
“I have a daughter who will want to come to you eventually.”
“Of course. I shall be delighted.” Would he not stop talking?
“And I like to see Grasmere House prosperous.”
“Mmm?” Did he have to touch her elbow?
“You know, of course, that I bought The Post from Mrs. Grasmere when Mr. Grasmere died.”
“I must go. Good day, Mr. Singer.”
“Good day, Miss Fiddyment.”
“Good day, Miss Fiddyment,” the others called. “Very nice to see you!”
She finally made it out the door and sploshed back to Grasmere House.
-oOo-
On opening day a month later, thanks largely to The Post editorial, the Academy had enrolled twelve students between ages eleven and seventeen, eight of whom lodged. Parents and students gathered in what was once the ballroom.
“This came for you,” Old Kate set a large box on the table in the kitchen where Igraine, April, and Mrs. Fuller were going over last-minute details of Igraine’s welcoming speech. The box contained a pair of boots and a pair of shoes that looked as if they had been made by the gods. The soft low-heeled shoes were feminine, pale pink leather and decorated with carved daffodils.
And the boots! The women gasped when Igraine lifted them from the package. They were blackest black, with rust-red heels. A rust-red dragon was carved on each boot, winding around, brandishing claws, mouth open and spouting flames onto the toes. The boots were fantastical objects, works of art.
“Beautiful,” April barely whispered.
“There is a note,” said Mrs. Fuller. April snatched it up and read aloud:
Dear Miss Fiddyment:
You must have guessed something was up by the way I accosted your feet when you came to the newspaper office.
“Oh, do not ask. Please!”
It was the only way I could think to take your measure and still surprise you with these humble gifts. As you can guess, Mayor Adams and my men were in on the conspiracy. You might know that my hobby is working with leather.
Please accept these as tokens of appreciation from a grateful citizen of Shermer Landing for the contribution you make by opening your Academy.
Yours, &tc.,
Leopold Augustin Singer
“Well,” said Old Kate. She opened her mouth to say more, but no more came out.
“Think of that, Miss Fiddyment,” said Mrs. Fuller. “A gift of leather from Mr. Leopold Singer is a coveted honor in this town.”
The Letter
For three months all went well, until one day Igraine and April came down from lessons to find a pale Mrs. Fuller in the study now used for the Academy office.
“A letter,” Mrs. Fuller said. “From him.”
The three women shared a stricken look, each suddenly aware how much they did not want to lose the Academy. Solomon Grasmere had written, and the letter had reached them—so soon! Igraine read aloud:
Dear Miss Fiddyment,
Your letter has arrived which tells me my mother is dead. I am sorry for that. Please receive my gratitude for all you have done. I approve of your proposal to open a school for girls at Grasmere. Mother would have liked that. I will return when I can. Till then, I remain,
Your servant.,
Solomon Grasmere.
“This is no help at all!”
“What is wrong?” Mrs. Fuller said. “It’s what I’d hoped for.”
Everything was wrong with it. “Mr. Grasmere shows no compassion for his poor mother. His manner is terse and ungracious. And—no small matter—he says nothing as to whether his approval extends to material support.”
“You must not suppose he has no feelings, Miss Fiddyment.”
“I must not suppose...”
“Mr. Solomon was never a talker, not like you.” Mrs. Fuller was gentle, but insistent.
“Yes, Igraine.” April added her good sense. “Mr. Grasmere isn’t accustomed to think of practicalities regarding Grasmere House. He’s never cared for it himself.”
“I hope I’ve done him a disservice. I see you like him, Mrs. Fuller, which counts for much.” Igraine searched the letter again. “He approves of the school. We can be grateful for that. We must be diligent in our accounts. He gives no authority to use Grasmere’s resources. The school must pay for everything. Our salaries, expenses. Everything.”
April left to teach a class, and Mrs. Fuller had business elsewhere in the house. Igraine looked out the study window, the letter still in her hand, hardly thinking at all. On Hamilton Street, Leopold Singer walked by with the mayor.
Lovely Leopold Singer! His hands flew about as if to illustrate his conversation. Surely this was the man God had made her for. Why had she been born in a time and place that separated her from him? She stretched her toes inside her beautiful boots.
She hated as much as she loved Leopold Singer’s gift. He had no right to give it. Every day, the flawless fit and the welcome comfort was a reminder of that perfection in male form which she could admire only in silence. And she had to wear them; not to would be an insult.
When he contrived to expose her feet, however innocent his intentions, Igraine had felt violated, confused, and humiliated by her aroused response to his warm hands on her cold bare feet. It was unbearable to think of him, intelligent, handsome, active, thoughtful—and married. He had no right to touch her feet and send her presents.
She wasn’t a pillar of the community. She wasn’t a masterful organizer and savior of the household. She wasn’t a loving and generous teacher. Igraine Fiddyment was a woman alone who cared for other women’s children, kept another man’s house, and improved someone else’s town. She was also a woman who didn’t wallow. She put away Solomon Grasmere’s letter and went up to her room to write a story about a pirate, a princess disguised as a lady’s maid, and the boots of Spanish leather which brought them together.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Fuller reported to Cook that all was going according to plan. Surely Mr. Solomon would return soon to form a most favorable impression of their Miss Fiddyment.
The Academy was a success. Igraine was able to pay wages to everyone but herself and keep Grasmere properly maintained. They ate well. April oversaw the expansion of the garden. Igraine bought another dairy cow, and they kept chickens.
Igraine was aware Bronson Alcott fed his students only vegetables, but it was a discipline she could not abide. She’d never forget the near starvation Mr. Mark inflicted upon his unfortunate charges. Her girls had plenty of chicken with their vegetables and bread with butter and jam, and Cook made beef stew once a week. All who lived under Grasmere’s roof thought themselves p
rosperous and content.
The contentment was real. The prosperity tenuous.
They made it through the summer, but Igraine used every penny of tuition. At their rate of consumption, they were slipping behind. There were fewer chickens in the coop, and it was time to re-order wool for the spinning and weaving classes. The cold weather was not far off, and there was nothing extra in the event of disaster or nonpayment. In one horrible moment, Igraine actually considered asking Cook to take frugality measures.
She wished there were someone she could turn to for advice. April was a great friend, but it would be nice to talk with someone whose shoulders bore similar responsibilities, someone like Leopold Singer. Unfortunately, Igraine was stuck in the lie that she was personally connected to Mrs. Grasmere. If she turned to Mr. Singer, she’d have to admit the truth: that she was merely an orphan and paid companion. The school would be disgraced. She’d let down everyone who depended on her. She had put herself in this position, and she would find a way out of it.
Pigs in Boston
Marta was surprised when Leopold resisted sending Eleanor to Miss Fiddyment. “Do you want her to be an ignorant young lady a good man can’t bear?”
Leopold said, “I think Jonnie Zehetner likes our daughter just as she is.”
Marta couldn’t hide the tell-tale blush on her throat.
“I see,” Leopold said. “You want to separate them.”
“A while longer.”
“I supported Miss Fiddyment partly so there would be a proper school near home when the time came. I just did not think...”
