Emily's House

by Amy Belding Brown

  He was spilling stories soon enough. It didn’t take much to get Patrick Quinn talking. He talked about emigrating from Ireland and living in New York City. What a rank place it was but he liked the excitement of it. He said he’d signed up with the Union Army when the war came and marched all over creation to fight the rebels. He went back to New York when it was over but couldn’t find a respectable job. So he worked his way north through Connecticut and Massachusetts and Vermont and finally hired on to the tunnel crew. Learned a lot more than he bargained for, he said, but wouldn’t say what. It was a pleasant enough chat till he mentioned seeing a train full of strikebreakers roll into North Adams.

  “Four years ago, it was,” he said. “Gathered a great crowd, that train. The owners sent strikebreakers to take the place of union lads at the shoe factory, you see. The yelling and the raging was so bad police had to escort them to the factory.”

  I’d read in the papers about union strikes, and didn’t like the sound of it. Nobody I knew did. The Squire sputtered about strikes at least once a week. Tom and Mary had no use for unions at all, said they were a greedy, complaining lot. If a body worked hard, he’d get the wages he deserved, Tom said. Made no sense to claw at the hand feeding you.

  “You don’t support trade unions, surely,” I said.

  “I do indeed,” Patrick said. He was looking at me steady. “It’s evil to my way of thinking, denying lads the right to organize for decent wages and working conditions. That train came all the way from California, stuffed with lads from China. Like cattle, they were.”

  “California, was it?” I said, and felt my heart knocking with the old longing I thought was behind me.

  “Yes, California,” Patrick said. “All that way. Just to break the strike.”

  “My brothers are in California,” I said. “Been there for years, digging gold and silver out of the mines and getting rich.”

  “Are they, now?” said Patrick.

  I liked the way he was looking at me, like he wanted me to say more. “I was after making plans to go too. But I got typhoid instead.”

  His brow folded into a frown. “ ’Tis a rough place, California, so they say. Not for women such as yourself. ’Twas good you didn’t go.” His eyes held me steady.

  I felt a flush coming up on my cheeks. Patrick Quinn was a flirt. “I’ve always liked a bit of adventure,” I told him. “And Michael and Tommy write about how lovely it is. With roads and hotels and churches too.”

  Patrick was shaking his head. “I think they’re having fun with you, your brothers.”

  Didn’t like the tone he was taking. “They never wrote about any China folks,” I said. “Maybe you’re the one having fun.”

  “Nay, they’re all over the place out West,” Patrick said. “Work for pennies and save most of it to send back to China.”

  Sure, it reminded me of myself when I first came to America, saving my wages till I had enough to pay for Mam and Da’s crossing. “That’s naught to be blaming a body for,” I said. “Sending money home is the right thing to do, surely.”

  “It’s not themselves I’m blaming,” he said, sounding tetchy. “ ’Tis the bosses. Using themselves to break a strike when most of them can’t speak a word of English. It harmed both the strikers and the strikebreakers too. I was there—I watched the police marching them straight from the depot to the factory and they never came out till the strike broke. Nasty piece of work, it was.” He shook his head and finished his tea.

  I tried to picture Chinese lads marching in a long line like a sad parade. Once I saw a cartoon of Chinese men in the paper but they looked more like dolls than people—wearing long robes and flat hats bigger than skillets. In truth, I didn’t know what they really looked like.

  “Would you like some pie?” I didn’t wait for him to answer, just got up and took the leftover peach pie from the safe and cut two slices and served them up. He thanked me and dug in. But neither of us had taken more than a couple of bites when we heard the back door open and shut and in came Sue Dickinson.

  Gave me a start, it did. It was rare she came in through the washroom, for she didn’t favor mixing with servants. I figured it must be the rain brought her there. I jumped out of my chair. “Mrs. Dickinson, ma’am,” I said. “Would you be looking for Miss Emily?”

  “Is she in the conservatory?” Sue was giving Patrick an unfriendly look, her mouth pinched tight and her eyes hard as stones. He was the type of lad she had no use for. Tradesman, handyman, laborer—she didn’t want to see nor hear them till they were serving her.

  “Likely she is,” I said. “I’ll fetch her if you want.”

  “No need. I know the way.” She gave Patrick another look and hurried out through the pantry, her skirts making the sound of dead leaves when winter’s coming on.

  Soon as she was out of sight, I turned on Patrick. “You’d best be off now. I’ll tell the Squire you called.” I was rushing, anxious to send him on his way. Emily didn’t like meeting folks she didn’t know. She trusted me to keep the house protected from outsiders. I didn’t know what Sue might be telling her. But there was not much in this world I hated more than upsetting Emily. She had that effect on folks.

  Patrick was doing his own frowning now, standing up slow. “You look like you just saw the Banshee,” he said. “Fear’s a bad habit and a stumbling block if you’re wanting your freedom.”

  I didn’t like being chided, especially by someone who didn’t know me. “Sure, I’m not fearing anything,” I said. “Just doing my job.” I reached across the table for his teacup but he picked it up first and mine along with it and carried both into the washroom to set beside the sink. Real gentleman-like.

  I felt a bolt of shame for directing him to the Amherst House and Northampton. One too costly and the other a long, long walk. “If you’re still wanting a place to stay the night,” I said, “you might go down the street to the railroad tracks. There’s a couple nice houses beyond the depot. The one with the gables sometimes takes in boarders. You could try there. Ask for Ellen Kelley and tell her Margaret Maher sent you.”

  Patrick plucked up his coat and shrugged himself into it. “Thank you,” he said, and smiled. It was as if the sun came out from behind the clouds—the room seemed that golden for a minute.

  I opened the door and was glad to see the rain had lightened some. “Good luck to you, then,” I said.

  “And to yourself.” He put on his hat. “Maybe we’ll meet again sometime, Margaret.” And as he stepped out, didn’t he give me a wink over his shoulder?

  For the life of me, I couldn’t help smiling.

  Chapter Ten

  Soon as I shut the door on Patrick, I came to my senses and scolded myself. I was a fool to let him in. What if Emily’d come into the kitchen while I was sitting there chinwagging with a stranger? She’d not like being surprised in her own kitchen by a face she didn’t know. And I didn’t want to be the cause of her vexation. She had troubles enough, with her bad eyes and melancholy spells.

  I was wiping down the table with my back to the pantry door, so I didn’t know she was there. “Maggie?” she said. I didn’t jump the way I used to, but the hairs rose on my neck. Emily was often catching me unawares. Not that she was sneaking about. It was just the way she moved through the house—quiet and smooth as the air itself.

  “Miss,” I said, turning.

  “Sue says you invited a vagrant into our kitchen,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was biting back a frown or a smile.

  “He’s gone,” I told her. “And Patrick Quinn’s not a vagrant. Just a lad with a message for your father.” Soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I was talking as if he was a friend, when all we did was chat an hour. I felt the color coming up in my face. Didn’t mean to mention Patrick’s name, but I was cross and didn’t like Emily slurring the lad’s character without ever laying eyes on him. It nettled me
the way Protestants talked about the Irish. Especially when most of us were doing our best to be American.

  “Besides,” I went on, “it’s raining buckets and the poor lad was soaked to the skin, so I let him sit by the stove and dry out. No harm done.” I went back to my scrubbing.

  “I hope not,” she said. “You know how I feel about intruders.”

  I nodded. I prided myself on taking precautions, mindful of Emily needing her privacy. No one was better at protecting her—she’d told me so herself.

  “Well, tell him to take his message to Father’s office,” Emily said. “He’ll likely be there Saturday morning.”

  “Tell him? How am I supposed to do that?” I stopped my scrubbing and bunched up the cloth. “Already sent him on his way, I did.”

  “More’s the pity,” she said, copying my accent. “Sure, if it wasn’t raining, I’d be sending you after him.” It always stung when she mocked me so. I knew she thought it comical, but it felt like a slap. Of course, a maid has to expect some buffeting by her mistress—it’s the nature of things. And Emily never scolded or shouted—that was a blessing, surely.

  “I’d look like a gombeen running after him all over Amherst now, wouldn’t I?” It wasn’t till then I saw her eyes glinting. “You’re having fun with me,” I said, feeling grumpy.

  “Gombeen.” Emily said it slow, like she was tasting it. “That’s a word to raise a flag to. But what does it mean?”

  I shook my head, feeling flustered. “Just somebody who’s acting the eejit.”

  She raised her eyebrows and out peeked her secret Emily smile. “I wager we’re all gombeens from time to time,” she said. “It’s good for the digestion.”

  I couldn’t think what she meant—it made no sense. But that’s how it was with Emily. She sometimes said things in a way made me think I should be writing down the words and saving them like gold coins. Other times she was outright unkind. She was especially fond of mocking my accent—trying it on like a new shawl. I never knew what to say. I did my best to act and sound American, but it seemed my tongue had its own ideas. Once she said I reminded her of one of Vinnie’s cats. “You look quite pleased with yourself,” she’d told me. “Like Drummy-doodles when he’s polished off a mouse-and-cream dinner or unspooled a ball of my yarn.” Drummy-doodles was Vinnie’s new favorite, and she spoiled him wickedly. It cut me, for who wants to be compared to a cat? I couldn’t think of what to say, so I just stood there like a dolt. I knew she was teasing. But teasing can be a clever mask for cruelty.

  Now Emily was trying to hide her smile, but I could see it anyway, looking like a tasty lump in her throat. She dipped her head and folded her hands together. “I didn’t mean to torment you. I came to tell you Sue and I would like coffee in the parlor.”

  “Thursday’s my afternoon off, miss,” I said.

  She nodded. “Of course it is. Never mind, Maggie. I’ll make it myself.” She smiled again—a true smile this time—and my hard feelings melted away.

  “Sure, it’s no trouble,” I told her. It was Emily asking, after all. “Would you be wanting some peach pie too?”

  “Thank you. You always wear the perfume of thoughtfulness.”

  “I’ll bring it in directly, miss,” I said, and listened to her feet whispering away.

  * * *

  It had stopped raining and the sun was peeking through wispy clouds by the time I popped off my apron and headed to Kelley Square for a chat with my sister. Mary wasn’t in her kitchen but I found Tom sitting at the table over a cup of tea. He gave me a cheery nod. “What are you up to, lass? Are things so quiet at the Dickinsons you’ve come looking for trouble here?”

  “Sure, that’s not the half of it,” I said. “The Homestead’s thick with airs and graces today.”

  A chuckle came out of him. “Sounds like Sue’s been visiting.”

  “She has indeed,” I said. “Is Mary about? I’m mad as spit and in need of my sister’s ear.”

  “She’s looking in on Maureen O’Donnell up on Irish Hill,” Tom said. “The poor woman’s due any day now and big as a washtub. At her wit’s end chasing those four young lads of hers.”

  My sister was the best midwife in Amherst. Fond of claiming she brought more babbies into the world than any doctor in town, and likely it was true. I could never depend on seeing her when I stopped by, for she might be called away any time of the day or night.

  I poured myself a cup of tea and sat in the chair across from Tom. “Sure, I’m sorry to miss her,” I said.

  He nodded. His big hand curled and uncurled around his cup. “What did Sue do got your back up so?”

  I shook my head. “ ’Twas nothing really. She came in through the kitchen looking for Emily when I was having a chat with a lad. It was clear as noon she didn’t approve.”

  “A lad, was it?” His eyebrows went up.

  “Nobody I knew. A tunnel worker looking for the Squire. I let him dry out before sending him on his way.” I was wishing I hadn’t said anything. Tom looked like he was going to make gossip of it. I drank some tea to settle myself. “He was needing a room for the night and I told him to talk to Ellen. So he might stop by here.”

  Tom shook his head. “Haven’t seen a soul.”

  “Well,” I said, finishing my tea, “if you see him tell him he can see the Squire Saturday morning in his law office. Name’s Patrick Quinn.”

  “That I will.” His smile was the knowing kind. Made me feel squirmy inside.

  “Have you heard the students at the College are burning books from their hard courses again?” I said to change the subject.

  Tom grunted and shook his head, and we chatted awhile about how pampered the lads are, till I remembered my promise to meet Molly Ryan and her cousin for a supper picnic. “I’d best be going along,” I said. “Send one of your young ones up in the morning for what’s left of yesterday’s pie.” I pushed away my memory of Patrick eating his slice. “The Squire’s due home tomorrow, so Emily and myself will be baking.”

  “I’ll tell Mary you stopped by,” Tom said. “And I’ll keep an eye out for your Patrick Quinn.” And didn’t he give me a wink, bold as a promise and sending the blood rushing into my face?

  * * *

  The sun was just rising but Emily was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs the next morning. “Good morning, miss,” I said on my way to light the fire under the washroom kettle.

  I never knew how it would be with Emily from one day to the next. Sometimes she spoke to me right off, cheery as a robin in spring. Sometimes she didn’t say anything, just kept herself to herself. I learned to know which by the look of her and I could see today was a talking morning. Her apron was on and she was humming a tune and setting out her baking things—the big yellow bowl and glass measuring cup and silver stirring spoon. She had her own shelf in the pantry where she kept them. Didn’t use ordinary wood and tin like myself. Vinnie told me it’s what made Emily’s bread so tasty it won prizes at the Cattle Show. I wasn’t convinced, but who wants to be prying into another’s cooking secrets? We all have our own ways to shine. I never told a soul the mysteries of my butter making. It was a skill I brought from Tipperary.

  I started the fire and filled the kettle. When I came back into the kitchen, Emily was measuring her flour at the far end of the table. I banged open the cooker firebox and laid the kindling. The coals were still hot enough to catch shavings and newspaper scraps. “What is it you’re making this morning, miss?” I asked.

  “Rye and Indian bread—Father’s favorite.” She didn’t look up from her mixing. “While it’s rising, I may make a coconut cake, if the heat isn’t unbearable.” Sure, I wasn’t surprised. She doted on the Squire almost as much as he doted on herself.

  “He’ll be pleased.” I took my apron from its peg behind the pantry door and pinned it on. It was plain the Squire was partial to his eldest daughte
r. Proud as he was of Austin, and admiring of Vinnie’s beauty and industry, it was Emily he favored. She was the only Dickinson who’d stand up to him—I’d seen it with my own eyes. Whenever he declared some new rule for the family, she’d commence tormenting him. “When were you elected king?” she’d say, and laugh and pat his arm. It annoyed him some, but not for long. Soon he’d be smiling and planting a kiss atop her head. Sometimes his tender ways with her set me remembering my own da, and more than once brought a tear to my eye.

  But there were other times the two of them set me on edge. It felt like the air would spark between them—and their eyes fasten on each other in a fierce way. There was a wild force around them made me want to leave the room.

  I filled a pan with kitchen scraps and went out to feed the chickens and collect eggs for breakfast. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t cooled the air any. Even the breeze was slippery on my skin. But the roses ribboning the garden path were blooming and casting their sweetness across the yard. I could even smell them in the henhouse.

  The chickens were happy to see me, coming off their roosts and fluttering around my skirts. I shooed them outside and scattered the scraps so they’d keep busy while I gathered eggs. When I went back in the kitchen, Emily was scribbling on an envelope. I don’t think she even knew I was there. She’d finished kneading—her bowl was on the windowsill with a dish towel over it. I got busy slicing ham and potatoes and chopping onions so breakfast would be ready when Vinnie and Mother Dickinson came down.

  Pretty soon I heard Austin come in, clomping through the washroom and into the kitchen. He was smiling and rubbing his hands. “It smells appetizing,” he said.

  Emily looked up from her writing. “You’re early.” Her voice was raspy. It was never the same from one hour to the next. Like music, it was—sometimes soft as a lullaby, other times stern as a march.