A Sense of Entitlement (17 page)

I dropped into the chair facing my typewriter and let out a long sigh of relief.

That was too close,
I thought, vowing to never eavesdrop again. I’d been lucky this time. Mrs. Crankshaw and James hadn’t been. I hadn’t been fond of Mrs. Crankshaw, but I was horrified that she’d been dismissed for merely having a conversation with Lester Sibley. Or was there more to her relationship with the labor man than I knew? Had her vehement rejection of the striking and the labor movement in general been a ruse? And what about James? Had he been involved with planning a strike or had he been a victim of Crankshaw’s attempt to keep her position? Or had Mr. Mayhew simply passed judgment on them both, regardless of the truth, because he could.

From now on, I thought, as I began to type up Mrs. Mayhew’s report, I would avoid Lester Sibley, avoid Gideon Mayhew, say no more and do no more than was necessary, and count the days until this Season in Newport was over.

D
ing, ding, ding, ding!

I returned from an early morning hike around Almy Pond, refreshed and satisfied to have gotten both an hour of fresh air and two more new specimens for my plant collection, American beachgrass and high-tide bush, before breakfast. I was confident, with the Whitwell business behind me, that I could tackle any task Mrs. Mayhew might ask of me today. Yet the moment I stepped back in the house from my hike I was overwhelmed by the frenzy of people skittering this way and that, the clattering of plates, pots, and pans, the overlapping of shouting voices, and the insistent ring of bells. And every person I passed gawked at me.

Why are they looking at me like that?

“Will someone go see what that’s all about,
s’il vous plaît?
” Monsieur Valbois, the cook, shouted. “How am I expected to cook lobster soufflé for a hundred people if those blasted bells keep ringing?”

“Hattie! You’re still here,” Sena said when I stepped into the kitchen. She stopped kneading the dough on the slab in front of her. Everyone stopped, for a brief moment, to look at me. What was going on?

“Of course I’m still here,” I said. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“Well . . . ,” Sena said, shrugging, “since you went up with Mrs. Crankshaw last night and no one had seen you since, we all thought . . . well . . . ?”

“Thought what?” I asked.

“That you too had been fired last night.”

“No, no,” I said, realizing why everyone had regarded me as if a ghost walked among them. “No, I was fortunate.”

She nodded. “We worried when Ethel came down with your untouched breakfast tray,” Sena said.

“I hadn’t realized I’d missed breakfast.” No wonder I was hungry, I thought.

“Here.” Sena handed me a freshly baked roll from a basket on the table.

“Who’s Ethel, by the way?” I said, relishing the hot bread. “Where’s Britta?”

“Britta didn’t come down for breakfast,” Sena said, putting her hand to the side of her mouth as if to prevent others from hearing. “But Ethel, she’s one of the upstairs chambermaids, said she passed Britta on the back stairs. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she’d been crying. Now what do you think she’s upset for?”

Ding, ding, ding, ding!
the bell chimed again.

“Je vous en prie,”
Valbois pleaded. “Will someone please go see what they want in the dining room?”

“I’ll go,” I said, taking the chance to escape having to explain the cause of Britta’s tears. After hearing them together, I had little doubt deep affection existed between James and Britta that no one else knew about.

“Merci, mademoiselle,”
the cook said, immediately returning to his soufflés.

I found my way to the dining room by following an endless line of footmen delivering tray after tray of silver, plates, and glasses.

Oh my goodness!
I thought as I nearly shielded my eyes from the brilliance. By far the gaudiest room I’d seen so far, the dining room was awash in light. I could almost see myself in the highly polished parquet wood floor as sunlight, from the windows that stretched up to the ceiling, bounced off the high pink marble walls, the solid bronze dining chairs, the tall gilded mirrors hung above the fireplaces, the silver and glass on the sideboard, and the myriad of gilded bronze capitals. At night, the reflection from three-foot silver candelabra on the dining table would easily light the enormous room. Yet in all the shining opulence I was instantly drawn to the dining-room table, a grand oak table that easily sat eighteen, devoid of anything but an enormous mound of white linen, ripped or cut into hundreds, maybe thousands, of pieces. Bits of lace and thread had flown about when the linen was cut and were scattered across the table and floor. I bent down and picked up a piece that had fallen near the doorway. Of the family crest only a bit of orange shield with part of the ram’s head was left.

Who would do such a thing?
I wondered as yet another footman shuffled past me into the room.

“Davish! Thank God!” Mrs. Mayhew said when she saw me. She pointed to the table. “What am I to do?”

“Ma’am?”

She stomped over to the table and picked up a few pieces of linen, letting them flutter back into the pile. “It’s all here, every last piece of linen in the house: the bed sheets, tablecloths, doilies, napkins, handkerchiefs, everything. Do you realize what this means? We have a ball tonight and have no table linens!”

“What happened?” I asked. Yet I knew before Mrs. Mayhew gave me the answer—Mrs. Crankshaw. As housekeeper, she was in charge of the linens of the house. In her anger over being dismissed, she must’ve spent a good portion of the night ripping, tearing, and cutting the linen, leaving it here for all to see.

“Mrs. Crankshaw, of course,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “But what are we going to do?” By now I’d grown accustomed to Mrs. Mayhew’s reliance on me in matters in which I had little or no experience, so why not add housekeeping to my ré-sumé?

“Could you buy more linen?” I suggested.

“You think I haven’t thought of that, Davish? You think I wouldn’t have already done that if enough linen could be bought in Newport?”
I’m only trying to help,
I thought. “And before you say it, we don’t have time to have it sent from New York or Boston.” I didn’t contradict her, but of course I knew it wouldn’t arrive in time from New York.

“Dix, neuf, huit . . .”
I began counting backward in French under my breath, calming my nerves and my mind, and had an idea. “What about borrowing table linens from Mrs. Whitwell?”

Mrs. Mayhew opened her mouth to voice an objection but stopped herself.

“She is in mourning, after all,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I know she has some good linen without her crest on it and she won’t be able to use her good linen for months. And she wouldn’t dare tell anyone, knowing what I know. Yes, Davish, it just may work.”

I immediately regretted making the suggestion. I’d thought they were friends; so why did I feel party to blackmail? Social climbing trumped friendship again. I’d never understand it, so I nodded and said without emotion, “I’ll tell Mr. Davies.”

“Good,” Mrs. Mayhew said, watching the footmen at their tasks. “And then come right back. I’ve got work for you to do.”

“This came for you, Miss Davish,” Mr. Davies said, handing me a letter, written in Miss Lizzie’s hand, as we all sat down to eat. With Mrs. Mayhew short staffed, I’d worked side by side with the others all day: stuffing hundreds of yellow zinnias into a wire mesh to create a wall of blossoms; folding hundreds of linens Mrs. Whitwell graciously provided; even helping to push back the carpets in the ballroom. Thus I’d forgone having tea by myself in my sitting room. And with Mrs. Crankshaw gone no one, not even Davies, protested. Not having my letter opener, I carefully tore the envelope by hand.

Expect a surprise! But don’t tell Lucy I told you.

That was it. That’s all it said. Why not tell me more? And why not tell Miss Lucy? Frustrated, I tossed the note onto the table and took a long sip of my coffee. The elderly Miss Shaw might have good intentions, but I hate surprises. Life is unpredictable enough without having others purposely spring the unexpected upon you. I was exhausted, my back hurt in places I’d never felt before, and now all I could do was worry about Miss Lizzie’s “surprise.” I picked the note up and read it again.

What could it possibly be?
I wondered. Thankfully, I didn’t have much time to wonder further. I was to present myself when tea was over. The clock on the mantel chimed five and I took one last gulp of coffee before heading back to work. What Mrs. Mayhew wanted of me now I could only guess.
I just hope it can be done sitting down,
I thought, putting my hand to my aching back. Issacson was putting the last flourishes to the lady’s hair with diamond-and-pearl-encrusted gold hairpins when I arrived.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” I said.

Mrs. Mayhew swiveled around in her chair, brandishing a card in her hand, almost hitting Issacson in the nose. “It came, Davish! It came!” She jumped out of her chair with more vigor than I would have thought possible, waving the card in the air. Was she dancing a jig?

“Ma’am?” I said, trying not to laugh. She thrust the card in my face, so close I could barely read the print,
Mrs. Astor, Newport
.

“She’s coming to the ball. I’m in, Davish. I’m in!”

“Congratulations, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting back down to let Issacson fix the hair that had loosened during her enthusiastic display. “And thank you for your help. You’ve done wonders. I knew I could rely on you!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said as Miss Issacson raised her eyebrows in question. Women usually told their lady’s maids everything. Had Mrs. Mayhew kept Jane Whitwell’s secret after all? I hoped so.

“I would like to reward you. I want you in the hall tonight. You can hand out the envelopes to the gentlemen and issue all the ladies their dance cards.”

“Ma’am?” I said, wishing after such a physically exhaustive day to be rewarded by a quiet evening alone in my room, not several more hours on my feet.

“Aren’t you glad, Davish?” she said, pouting. I’d obviously not kept my disappointment from showing on my face. “I’m breaking protocol for you. I normally have the first footman do it. You will get to see all the excitement. You’ll get to see all the beautiful gowns everyone will be wearing. You’ll get to see my moment of triumph.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s kind of you.”

Appeased, she smiled. “And Davish, if you don’t have something appropriate to wear, I’ll have Mr. Morris at the House of Redfern bring a few dresses over that you can choose from.”

House of Redfern?
I’d only dreamt of wearing such a dress. My exhaustion evaporated instantly at the idea. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous of you. Thank you so much.”

“I’ll call them, shall I?” Miss Issacson offered, knowing of Mrs. Mayhew’s occasional lapses in memory. I nodded gratefully to the lady’s maid.

“Can’t have you looking anything but your best when Mrs. Astor appears, now can we?” Mrs. Mayhew said, smiling and obviously pleased with herself. I smiled right back.

W
e made a curious line as guests arrived. Mr. Davies opened the door, Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew, in their finest, greeted their guests, and I, stationed not far away, issued the necessities of the ball: to each gentleman the envelope containing the name of the lady he would escort to dinner and to each lady her monogrammed dance case and card. Mrs. Mayhew had been right. I delighted in seeing the ladies’ finery I only knew from magazines. I handed dance cards to women in China silk dresses of every color and pattern adorned with pearls, beads, ecru lace, ribbons, silk flowers, and the occasional extravagantly large puffed sleeves. And all were wearing jewels: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds that glittered under the glow of the electric chandelier, draped around their necks, dangling from their ears, encircling their fingers, and protruding from their hair. I relished being part of it, wearing my own Redfern silk dress of delicate fawn strewn with tiny rosebuds. I felt confident and presentable, and with soft, smooth silk against my skin I’d never been so comfortable in a dress.

Good thing too!
I thought. For people I’d only read about in newspapers took a card or envelope from my hand. People with names such as Vanderbilt, Belmont, Bennett, Oelrichs, as well as the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia and French author Paul Bourget attended Mrs. Mayhew’s ball. Even Mrs. Caroline Astor, nearly dripping with diamonds from head to waist and whose presence marked a new societal height for Mrs. Mayhew, acknowledged me with a slight tip of her head.

When I wasn’t handing a card or envelope to some grand lady or duke, I stole glances into the ballroom, tapped my foot to the music, and watched the dancing. It reminded me of last Christmas when Walter and I danced at the Christmas entertainment in Galena.

Ah, Walter,
I thought.
I wonder where you are now?

I was snapped out of my reverie by the gasps of several ladies standing nearby. I followed their gaze and laid my eyes on Nicholas Whitwell. He was supposed to be in mourning. He shouldn’t be here. The whispers of gossiping ladies surrounded me.

“What is he doing here?”

“Shouldn’t he be home with his mother and sister?”

“I heard he hasn’t stepped a foot in Glen Park since the murder.”

“At least Eugenie has some sense of propriety. She’s been properly closeted in her room for days.”

“I’ve never known someone to be so blatantly defiant of good manners.”

“He’s young and carefree. How can we expect him to seclude himself?”

“At least he’s wearing the proper mourning clothes.”

Mr. Mayhew frowned but shook his hand. Mrs. Mayhew avoided acknowledging the young man and searched the room for someone or something to rescue her from committing a faux pas. Her rescuer came in the form of Cora, her daughter and Nicholas Whitwell’s fiancée.

“Nick!” Cora said, taking his arm and pulling him to the side. They stood only a few feet away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You too, Cora?” Nick said, slightly slurring his words. A strong aroma of fruity liquor emanated from the young man. “My mother may insist on deep mourning, but I’m not going to miss the ball of the summer because my father’s dead.”

“You’ve been drinking, Nick,” Cora said.

“Hey now, where’s your dance card? I want a waltz.”

“I don’t have one.”

Nick’s eyes suddenly darted toward me. He sneered as if I were the source of his problems. “You! You little bitch! Why didn’t you give Cora her card?” he demanded. Except for the loud inhalation of gasps around me, the room went quiet. I was stunned. I’d never been spoken to like that before.

“Nick!” Cora cried.

Throwing off Cora’s hold, he stumbled toward me, his eyes bloodshot and spittle collecting in the corner of his mouth. I stepped back, recoiling from him, as Cora grasped his arm. He didn’t stop. Instead, as she clung to his arm he pulled her toward me, her ballroom slippers sliding along the polished marble floor.

“Stop! It’s not her fault, Nick. Stop!” Several men, mostly in navy dress uniforms, rushed to Cora’s aid, restraining her fiancé’s advance. One even mumbled an apology to me.

“You fool! I’m not dancing, out of respect for you and your family, Nick. Now I think you should go.”

“Go? I just got here,” he said, shoving his way out of the circle of men that had surrounded him. “I want to dance.” Cora followed on his heels and the two disappeared into the crowd. I was catching my breath, not knowing what I felt more of, humiliation or indignation, when Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy arrived, with their surprise.

Oh, no, not now!
I thought.

“And Gideon, dear,” I heard Miss Lizzie say, “may I present Mrs. Julia Grice of St. Louis, who is staying with us for the summer.” I handed yet another woman her dance card before turning to look at the newest arrivals. Mrs. Grice was beaming. “And may I present her son,” Miss Lizzie said, “Dr. Walter Grice, who is visiting us for a short while from Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

Walter!

My heart soared. He was here, in Newport, and looking more handsome than any other man I’d ever laid eyes on. I wanted to drop the tray of dance cards and envelopes and throw myself into his arms. And then my heart sank. With his mother’s arm in his, Walter no longer looked like the gentleman doctor from a small town in Arkansas. Here was a true gentleman, a man who looked comfortable among the richest of Newport, a man who belonged among the best of Mrs. Mayhew’s guests, not one who should be wasting his time with the girl handing out dance cards, no matter how fashionable her dress. I suddenly dreaded the impending meeting. Although they hadn’t seen me yet, the party was only a few yards away. I resisted every urge in my body to run.

“Davish?” Miss Lucy said, spying me. She had walked away from the group and had been peeking into the ballroom. “What on earth are you doing passing out dance cards? Charlotte said you would be joining the party, not holding the tray. I know she lost her housekeeper, but my word! That’s like preparing a ten-course dinner only to eat nothing of it but the crumbs others brushed to the floor. Did I tell you we’re losing our butler? He’s gone and joined the navy!” I barely listened to Miss Lucy as I watched Walter across the room. He was chatting with Gideon Mayhew.

At the sound of my name Walter stopped listening to his host and looked around. He must not have seen me, for he went right back to his conversation. But Miss Lizzie saw whom her sister was talking to.

“Hattie, dear!” Miss Lizzie said, coming toward me with outstretched arms. More than a few guests gaped at us when she kissed my cheek. She pointed down the hall. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes, Miss Lizzie,” I said, handing a dance case and card to a debutante dressed in yellow and pink, with wide, unblinking eyes. She timidly took the card from my hand and then quickly stepped away. “I’m . . . stunned. Does Dr. Grice know I’m here?”

“No,” Miss Lizzie said gleefully, “and I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he does! And you’re in such a lovely dress too!”

What will he think, seeing me like this? Seeing me for the servant I am?
I wondered. I’d told him once that we had no future together, but he’d made me believe otherwise.
Will I now have to face reality? Will he?
Unlike Miss Lizzie, I’d give anything not to see the look on his face when he saw me. I feared that my doubts would be reflected in his eyes. I didn’t have to guess what Mrs. Grice’s countenance would hold.

“Walter, dear,” Miss Lizzie called. “There’s someone here whom I’d like you to see.”

Walter nodded, excused himself from the Mayhews, and with his mother on his arm turned toward me. “Hattie?” he said. Surprise, delight and confusion all flashed across his face. “I mean, Miss Davish. I didn’t know you would be in Newport. You look . . . lovely.” His eyes sparkled and he was beaming at me. I could tell he wanted to reach out and take my hand, but his mother’s arm restrained him. Maybe it could work between us after all, I thought. I smiled back. “What brings you here?”

Before I could answer, Mrs. Grice interrupted. “She works for the Mayhews, Walter. What other reason would bring a servant girl to Newport?”

“Mother, she’s not—” Walter said.

“I’d like to see the dancing, Walter,” his mother said, stopping Walter from defending me. “Please escort me to the ballroom.”

“Julia,” Miss Lucy chided under her breath. “I know from Lady Phillippa that Davish came to Newport with Sir Arthur Windom-Greene and is Mrs. Mayhew’s social secretary, not a simple servant.”

“Can you deny, Lucinda, that she is a working girl nonetheless?” Miss Lucy hesitated. “Of course you can’t deny it. That’s all I’m saying,” Mrs. Grice said, her words implying a great deal more than she said.

“What I can tell you,” Miss Lucy said cryptically, “is that Davish here is more than she seems. Much more.” Miss Lizzie was nodding furiously.

“Oh?”

“Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Davish has solved murders.”

Miss Lucy glared at her sister for stealing her thunder. “She’s currently investigating Harland Whitwell’s death,” Miss Lucy declared.

“So I’ve heard,” the lady said, unimpressed. “Does Mrs. Mayhew know her secretary is snooping around in other people’s business? I’d dismiss her immediately for such impertinence.”

“She’s doing her mistress’s bidding,” Miss Lucy said, satisfied with the look of disbelief on Mrs. Grice’s face.

“It makes no difference. Walter, I’d like to go in now.”

During this entire exchange I’d been spoken of as if I weren’t standing among them. It didn’t matter. During the entire exchange, I couldn’t take my eyes from Walter. I exalted to see the unchanged affection in those beautiful blue eyes, but his increasingly grave countenance, as he listened to his mother dismiss me, stifled my joy.

“Yes, of course, Mother. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Davish,” he said to me, bowing slightly. His mother smiled up at Walter and never gave me a second glance.

“Of course, Dr. Grice,” I said, my heart breaking as he walked away. “You should join them,” I said to the elder sisters.

“Trying to get rid of us, Davish?” Miss Lucy said. “You still have some news you promised to tell us.”

“Not here and now, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “We’ll have Hattie over tomorrow and we’ll invite Walter.”

“Is he not staying with you?” I asked, trying to avoid promising to tell them something I was honor bound not to reveal.

“No, the young man insisted on staying at the Ocean House. Julia was quite put out by it. Maybe that would explain her coolness tonight. She’s normally quite a pleasant companion.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell Miss Lizzie that Mrs. Grice’s disposition had nothing to do with Walter’s choice of residence. Simply put, Mrs. Grice had plans for her son and she wanted there to be no mistake that they didn’t include me.

“Well, let’s go, Lizzie. I see Gwendolyn Kirkland and I’m dying to hear what happened between her daughter and the Count.”

I watched as the elder sisters entered the fray of guests, an amalgam of people dancing, drinking, laughing, lounging, flirting, and gossiping. I handed over my last dance card and lingered by the doorway, hoping for one more glance of Walter, but I couldn’t find him in the crowded room. I did see Mrs. Grice, though, and did nothing to stop tears from welling up in my eyes as Walter’s mother, with a smile on her face, scrutinized every eligible girl who passed nearby. I was right. Mrs. Grice had brought her son to Newport not to oblige his romantic whims with his secretary sweetheart but to marry him into one of the hundreds of respectable families summering here. She knew her son was a treasure, a welcome addition to any Newport family. If it were up to her, I’d never see Walter again.

“Eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what we will!”

Someone was shouting, almost screaming, to be heard over the music and raised voices. Suddenly many voices were shouting, but the labor slogan repeating over and over was all that was coherent.

“What is going on?” Mrs. Mayhew said, looking around the hall for answers. She looked at me and then to her husband. “Gideon?” He was already on his way toward the door.

“Sibley!” Mr. Mayhew swore as he passed me and disappeared into the ballroom. Mrs. Mayhew followed and I suddenly found myself alone in the entrance hall. The music stopped, the musicians peering down from their balcony to see what the commotion was all about. I dared to get closer, entering the room and inching slowly along the wall. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the middle of the room where Lester Sibley had made his way. People had instinctively given him a wide berth, so that he stood alone in a wide circle. He held his hat in one hand and raised his other in a fist in the air.

“Eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what we will!” he said, quiet and deliberate. “What do you say to that, ladies and gentlemen of Newport?”

As I wondered where Mr. Mayhew had gone, Nick Whitwell dashed into the circle.

“You killed my father!” he shouted, lunging for the labor man. Lester Sibley, taken aback by the sudden violence, was stunned as he and Nick crashed to the floor. Nick, despite his intoxication, landed several blows until he was hauled off Sibley by several men. Cora flittered around them as they dragged Nick by the arms and plopped him into a gilded bronze chair against the far wall.

Lester Sibley sat up, swaying slightly, blood streaming from his nose, again. “I didn’t have anything to do with your father’s death!” he shouted. “I only want what’s right.”

“And what’s right?” someone asked from the crowd. “Anarchy?”

Sibley ignored the jeer and searched the crowd for sympathetic faces. “You all here are enjoying yourselves only because others have done all the work for you.”

“But they get paid to do so,” someone else said.

“Yes, but do they have time to enjoy the fruits of their labors? Like Hattie there,” he said, pointing to me.

I cowered against the wall, horrified that suddenly all eyes were on me. Why had I entered the room in the first place? Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with hearing what was going on from a distance? Satisfying my curiosity was becoming hazardous. If I could’ve run from the room, I would have, but the congregation of chairs against the wall and the crush of people nearby prevented an easy retreat. Instead I dropped my eyes and stared at the floor. I couldn’t bear the expressions on everyone’s faces. I couldn’t bear to see Walter’s face right now.