by Jane Peart
At the thought of Judson’s mother, Mindy checked her pendant watch and realized she should be on her way to the party. She took her finished column to the composing room and left it on the foreman’s spindle. Then, putting on her jacket and hat, she stopped by the editor’s desk.
“I’m leaving now, Mr. Jamison.”
He peered at her over his glasses. “This early?”
“I’m covering the Powells’ anniversary,” she reminded him.
He gave her a sharp glance. “Be sure you get all the names of the partygoers and spell their names right.”
Even though she knew Jamison was needling her, Mindy bristled. She wasn’t a rookie reporter, for heavens sake. She knew enough to cover a social event properly.
By the time Mindy reached the Powell’s impressive Queen Anne house, she was still irritated with Jamison. Someday, he would have to admit she was as good and as capable as any of the male reporters.
Quite a few carriages were parked along the road in front of the house. As Mindy approached, she saw several well-dressed couples walking up the drive and mounting the steps to the front door. Judson must have been on the lookout waiting for her because as soon as she opened the gate he came running out to meet her.
“You’re late. What kept you so long?” He sounded irritated. “Mother keeps asking—”
“I had to do my column and turn in my copy. I’m a working girl, don’t forget.”
“How could I? You never let me forget,” Judson said glumly. “You know you don’t have to work. It’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, Judson, let’s not fight,” Mindy begged. “Don’t spoil your mother’s party.”
“I’m not the one who’s spoiling it. She wanted us to announce our engagement today. It would be appropriate. Their anniversary; our engagement.”
“Judson, please—”
“Oh, all right,” he said, pouting. He took her arm and they went inside. He helped her off with her jacket. “Mother wants me to circulate. Will you be all right for a while?”
“Of course, I’ll be just fine,” Mindy assured him, looking around at the house full of people. She must be sure to get the names of the most prestigious ones, the ones who would be insulted if their names didn’t appear in the society page account. “You go along.”
“You’re sure?” he seemed doubtful. “These are mostly my parents’ friends. You won’t be bored?”
“No, silly, I’ll be fine.” No use telling Judson that she came prepared to work as well as enjoy herself. “You go on, I’ll go speak to your mother.”
Mrs. Powell was standing at the bottom of the ornate staircase receiving guests. She was a handsome woman, tall, with piles of silver-gold hair, a commanding carriage, beautifully groomed and gowned. Her eyes, however, were ice-blue, and Mindy often felt chilled by their penetrating gaze. Maybe it was because she felt Mrs. Powell did not approve of her. Mindy felt acutely of the disapprovel beneath her surface politeness.
Determined not to let it bother her, Mindy approached her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Powell. What a lovely party, everything looks beautiful.”
Mrs. Powell extended a hand that barely pressed Mindy’s fingers. “Nice you could make it, my dear. Judson was afraid something had come up at the newspaper to delay you and you might not come. We know how much your job means to you—so much more important than a mere party.”
Mindy gritted her teeth. The implied sarcasm in Mrs. Powell’s tone did not escape her. She forced herself to smile sweetly. “Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said. She was tempted to add, “I’m covering it for the paper,” but she resisted.
Mrs. Powell didn’t like her. She didn’t like Mindy’s job, and she didn’t like Mindy as her precious son’s choice. She sent that as clearly as a teletype message. Well, there was nothing she could do about it. Next was Mr. Powell, who was standing beside his wife in the receiving line. He pumped Mindy’s hand, greeting her with a heartiness that she guessed might be enhanced by frequent visits to the punchbowl.
After doing her duty, Mindy went into the large parlor to mingle. Two maids, uniformed in black with frilly white caps and aprons, moved through the rooms, carrying trays of canapés. For about fifteen minutes, Mindy walked around the clusters of people, recognizing most of them and surreptitiously jotting down names in the little notebook that she carried in her small beaded purse. She had become quite skilled at this sort of reporting, and she kept her pencil and pad handy. As she moved among the guests, she overheard bits and pieces of conversation. Most was banal, consisting mainly of complimentary remarks on the flowers and food. Perhaps it was her daily reading of real problems, trials, tribulations of the people who wrote to Dixie Dillon that made this banter seem so trivial. Contrary to the assurance she had given Judson, Mindy was soon bored.
What would the years ahead be like if she were to marry Judson? How many dreadful social events like this one would she have to attend? It made her shudder. Suddenly smothered under the weight of that prospect, she resisted the wild urge to leave at once. Not only would it be rude and make Judson furious, but she was also a newspaper reporter who had a job to do. As Jamison had reminded her, get all the guests’ names and make sure they’re spelled right.
Mindy glanced into the dining room. She hadn’t taken time for lunch, so at least she could get something to eat. The food was plentiful and looked delicious. A lace cloth covered the long table, in the center of which was a silver epergne holding an elaborate centerpiece of flowers, surrounded by platters of sliced turkey and ham, jellied salads, a chafing dish of creamed shrimp, and a variety of fruits. On the sideboard were two cut glass punch bowls and matching cups, and, at either end, a coffee server, a silver teapot, and delicate china teacups.
Mindy helped herself generously to salmon mousse, several triangular sandwiches of cream cheese and watercress, and a glass of punch. She looked around for a quiet place to sit while she satisfied her hunger and mentally wrote a glowing description of this affair for the paper. She would try to write one that Mrs. Powell would be pleased to see published.
There was a bay windowed alcove adjoining the room where the Powells ate most of their meals when there was no company. Several times, especially this winter while her mother had been gone, Mindy had been invited to eat Sunday night supper with them—en famille, as Mrs. Powell was fond of saying. She enjoyed sprinkling French bon mots into ordinary conversation to impress people that she had been to Europe. Even though it had been twenty years ago, she never allowed anyone in Woodhaven to forget it.
Mindy, plate in hand, settled herself in the window seat, half-hidden by the drapery. It was there, just beside the swinging door into the pantry and kitchen, that she was handed her next big story.
Most of the guests were gathered in the parlor across the wide center hall. Mindy was relishing her food when she heard a crash, the splintering sound of breaking glass coming from the pantry. A horrified gasp was followed by an angry voice; “You idiot. Look what you’ve done. My best crystal,” Mindy, startled, recognized Judson’s mother’s voice. “You stupid Irish bogtrotter. Can’t you do anything right? I have a mind to fire you on the spot. Don’t think you’ll get a reference either. Were you raised in a pigsty? Get this swept up at once, you clumsy girl.”
Mindy couldn’t believe the viciousness of the tirade that continued. “And you there, Colleen. Don’t stand there gawking. Get this cleaned up, and get the other glasses out and don’t you dare drop a thing, you hear me?”
Mindy heard the sound of sobbing. She shrank back against the wall as the door swung open and Mrs. Powell swept out. Without seeing Mindy, she went into the hallway where more guests were arriving. Mrs. Powell quickly switch her tone, “Why, good afternoon, Mayor Bell and Loretta, dear. How nice to see you. Do come in.”
Mindy reacted with first outrage at the way Mrs. Powell had talked to her servants, then contempt for her hypocrisy.– Mrs. Powell’s manners were a very thin layer indeed, the refined façade ripped away by th
e slurs she had used toward servants. She treats her friends one way, but has an entirely different manner toward those who had no defense. Mindy’s fiery indignation turned to a cold fury. She put down her plate and pushed through the swinging door into the pantry where a uniformed maid leaned against the wall, her head on her bent arm, crying. Another maid, looking frightened, was getting out more glasses with a shaky hand and carefully placing them, one by one, on a tray. When she saw Mindy, her mouth dropped open. She flushed red, “Oh, miss.” She darted a glance at the sobbing girl as if to warn her.
“It’s all right,” Mindy said quickly. “I heard that whole thing.” She took out her handkerchief and handed it to the weeping girl. “Don’t worry, I’m a friend of Mr. Judson’s. His mother’s just upset. Big important party. I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said.”
The maid’s face reddened more. “Oh, yes, she did, miss. She hates us Irish. We come cheap . . . that’s the only reason she hires us.” Her tone was bitter. “We have to stay, take her abuse—we ain’t got nowheres else to go.”
The skinny one who had been scolded so viciously turned timidly to look at Mindy. Her eyes widened. Tears had swollen them and her face was blotched.
“You’re both new here, aren’t you? Where’s Emma?” Mindy asked. Emma was the Powell’s housekeeper who Mindy had known for years.
“Yes, miss, we’ve only just come. Emma’s been trainin’ us, but we mostly work in the kitchen and do the cleanin’ and laundry. Today was special, it was. So many people and all—”
Mindy decided to take a chance and break the secrecy about her identity. She took a deep breath and blurted out. “Look, I’m Dixie Dillon from the newspaper. If you two tell me the truth about what it’s like to be employed here, I’ll write it up in the newspaper—and things will change, I promise you.”
She knew she was taking a huge risk, but this could be the story she had been hoping to find. This one could surpass “What’s a Girl to Do?”
Forty minutes later she hurried down the dark rear stairs, back to the warmth, the glowing lights, the sound of voices and laughter, and the clink of glasses. She pushed through the swinging door and into the Powell’s bright, candlelit dining room. She blinked. She had hardly time to regain her composure when Judson appeared in the archway from the hall.
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking all over for you? What’s the matter?”
Mindy gathered herself together and leaped upon what he’d suggested. “I’m not feeling very well, Judson. I think I might be coming down with something. I better leave.” Judson was all concern. “You do look pale. I’ll take you. Sit down, wait here for a moment, until I tell Mother.”
Mindy sat down on a chair actually feeling shaky. Tears stung the back of her eyes, her throat felt sore with distress. She had seen a part of life she couldn’t have imagined. But she had her story.
Chapter 8
When Judson brought her back to Aunt Jen’s house, Mindy, impatient to get started on her story, tried to bid him a quick goodnight, but Judson wanted to linger. At the door, he drew her into his arms.
“I missed you tonight. Where’d you wander off to anyway? I kept looking for you but kept getting trapped into conversation with Mother’s friends when all I wanted was to be with you. You know what a lot of people kept asking me? When you and I were going to tie the knot? So when are we, Mindy?”
“Oh, Judson, it’s too late to discuss this tonight. Judson, I told you, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day.”
He held her a moment longer, then reluctantly released her, “Oh, well, all right. But I want to know too. I’m tired of saying goodnight. I want us to be married, Mindy. Why can’t we set a date?”
Judson sighed then bent down ready to kiss her. Instinctively, Mindy pulled away not sure exactly why. “Better not, Judson, I think I may be getting a cold and—”
“You’ve always got some excuse.” Judson sounded offended. “Sometimes, I wonder if—”
She put her fingers on his lips cutting off his protest. “Judson, please. A lot has happened to me this year, I’m just not ready to make any decisions now.”
He started to say something else then changed his mind. “All right.” Reluctantly he released her. “But, Mindy, soon we’re going to have talk about it. I love you. I don’t want to wait much longer.”
Mindy was contrite. “I know, Judson. Tonight’s just not a good time to discuss things.” She reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m just too tired. It’s been a long day.” She knew he had been looking forward to having some time alone with her after the party and was disappointed.
He would have been even more disappointed if he had seen what happened once Mindy shut the door. Her usual energy returned. She hurried into the room she shared with Aunt Jen’s sewing machine, fabric and remnants of material. She flung off her jacket, hat and gloves, then lit the lamp on the small table that served as her desk wedged between her aunt’s dress form and the window and went to work. Sitting down with pen in hand, she began to retrace the entire episode at the Powell’s party.
The maid who had been scolded was named Caitlin, the other one had told her. They had come over from Ireland by steerage three years before. They had been in an orphanage until they reached the age of fifteen when they were turned out to fend for themselves. An employment agency had placed them as domestics.
“Where do you sleep?” Mindy asked .
The two girls looked at each other then Colleen asked shyly, “Want to see?”
Mindy followed the two up to the second floor, along a softly carpeted hallway. As they passed Mrs. Powell’s half-open bedroom door, Mindy stopped to peek into it. It was all rose and cream, with ruffled curtains, a chaise lounge scattered with embroidered pillows. A mirrored dressing table reflected rows of crystal perfume bottles and a silver set of brush, comb, and hairpin box.
Down the hall, Mindy stopped again to peer into another room whose door had been left wide open. The furniture was rich mahogany, with a comfortable leather chair before a fireplace and hunting prints on the wall. It must be Judson’s.
Colleen held a door open at the end of the hall. “This way miss.”
Mindy looked through to a dark stairway leading up. Each worn, narrow step creaked as they went up. At the top she paused, surveying the low-ceilinged attic. The servants’ quarters. What a contrast!
The room the two young girls shared held an iron bedstead with a bare ticking mattress, a small bureau, some hooks along the walls, one straight chair. A tiny crucifix probably brought with them hung over the bed,—Mindy knew the Powells were Presbyterians. Mindy glanced around, feeling heartsick. This bleak space was where they escaped to from the drudgery of their day.
Mindy began to write with passionate speed. As she wrote, tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto the pages of lined paper. If this didn’t touch the hardest of hearts she would lose faith altogether in the human capacity to sympathize with someone else’s situation.
It was nearly one o’clock when she finally finished her first draft. She flexed her fingers, stiff from gripping her pen. Her neck ached, and she arched her back and stretched. She was drained from the hours of writing. But she had the feeling this was the best she’d ever written. In her mind, she dared Jamison not to print it. She still had to compose the letter, supposedly written by one of these Irish maids, to Dixie Dillon. She would do that tomorrow. Mindy yawned. Her column was due on Wednesday, the day before publication.
She crawled into her own bed and drew the warm quilt over her. Before she closed her weary eyes she thought of Colleen and Caitlin huddled together on that narrow cot in their attic room and knew she would never take anything for granted again.
The Woodhaven Courier
Dixie Dillon
Dear Miss Dillon,
I am writin’ this to you because I’m scared, and I’m thinkin’ you mebbe could help. Me and my friend are in service in one of the big houses in this town. I try to do
me best and do what the missus wants done, but she yells at us so that it makes me nervous, and then I’m clumsy and break things. That do make it worse. She gets real angry. She says if I don’t do better, I’ll have to leave with no reference. I think I done better since I first came, but if she throws me out with no reference, where can I go? Who will hire me? I don’t have no family, just an old Granny back home in Ireland. I was put in an orphanage by my Pa after me Ma died. But the sisters don’t keep us girls after we’re fifteen. I don’t know what to do. Can you help me?
Signed,
Colleen O’Casey
Mindy nearly wept over the letter she had composed. While she had written it she had felt every word. How could it not soften the stoniest heart? Dixie’s answer followed.
A Long Way from Home
Imagine yourself awakened by the sound of the wind whistling through a broken window pane partially covered with a piece of cardboard. It is still dark outside. It is 4:30 in the morning—time for the maid, a fifteen-year-old immigrant girl from Ireland, to get up. The residents of the comfortable, three-story house, in the best residential section of our town, are still asleep in their beds under eiderdown quilts. When they finally do awaken, their bedrooms will be cozy with cheery fires in the grate laid and started. The girl gets out of her narrow iron bed with its hard mattress, shivering. She puts her bare feet on the cold carpetless floor. Her day has begun.
That day is a round of endless tasks. First one is to stoke the kitchen stove so breakfast can be cooked. Then water needs to be pumped and heated on the stove, and then heavy pails of it must be carried up two flights of stairs to each bedroom. Kitchen chores, under the direction of a sometimes irritable cook, follow. If it is a laundry day, all the beds must be stripped of linen; towels must be collected, as well as napkins, and tablecloths must be washed. These are then loaded into vats to be boiled, then washed, and hung up to dry.
