A Sense of Entitlement (7 page)

“Miss Davish,” Davies hissed. Startled out of my reverie, I realized the music had stopped and people were politely applauding. Everyone stood and formed little groups on the lawn.

“Thank you, Mr. Davies,” I said. “Seems I too was caught up in the music.” He nodded as I passed and made my way to Mrs. Mayhew’s side.

“You asked for me, ma’am?” I said.

“Davish, there are some ladies here who—”

“Hattie, dear!” Miss Lizzie cried. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks. My face flushed with embarrassment. I adored Miss Lizzie and was happy to see her, but such a display of affection wasn’t appropriate in front of Mrs. Mayhew. From her expression, Mrs. Mayhew was as surprised as I was.

“Oh, let the girl breathe, Lizzie,” Miss Lucy chided.

“We’re just so happy to see you,” Miss Lizzie said. “Aren’t we, Lucy?”

“You know each other?” Mrs. Mayhew asked.

“Oh, yes. Hattie discovered who killed our dear leader, Mother Trevelyan, last fall.” An awkward silence ensued. Murder wasn’t a polite topic of conversation at a garden party.

“Oh, ah, yes, well. I had heard about that. I didn’t realize that the secretary in question was my own Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said. She stole a quick glance at me, her expression unreadable, before turning back to the elderly sisters. “How awful for you ladies.”

“Yes, but Davish bore the brunt of it,” Miss Lucy said. She looked me up and down. “Still worn-out, I see. I’ve seen old boots on a military man look better. Don’t you ever sleep, Davish?” I smiled. They hadn’t changed a bit.

“We had no idea you would be here, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “But then I saw you standing over there in the doorway. Your last letter said you were still working with Arthur on his book.”

“As you can see, she’s working for me now,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I quite rely on her, you know.” The old ladies nodded their approval. I tried not to blush at the compliment, but inside I reveled in the praise. “Lady Phillippa is here if you’d like to inquire about Sir Arthur. I do believe he had to rush off to England on urgent business.”

“That would explain him giving you up, Davish,” Miss Lucy said. “Can’t think of any other reason.”

“You gave us a delightful surprise,” Miss Lizzie said. “Now we get to return the favor. Julia, dear, there’s someone we’d like you to meet.” This last comment was directed at the woman wearing the wide-brimmed hat with egret feathers who had been sitting with them. I coveted the older woman’s hat but not her attitude. The music and fine food had done nothing to relax her pinched mouth.

“Miss Hattie Davish, may I present you to Mrs. Julia Grice,” Miss Lizzie said. “Dr. Grice’s mother.” My heart raced, my breath became rapid and shallow, and my fingers began to tingle.

Is Walter here as well?

Without thinking, I glanced about me, looking for him, and was rewarded not by a sighting of Walter but with a frown from his mother. Of course he wasn’t here. I would’ve seen his name on the guest list. I returned my attention to the woman in front of me.

How extraordinary, I thought, to meet Walter’s mother not in Eureka Springs or St. Louis but in Newport. Quickly I grew self-conscious as the woman waited silently, staring at me. Was she expecting me to speak first? What should I say to Walter’s mother? First impressions were so important.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

“Hmm, yes, well,” Mrs. Grice said. There was no easy smile for me.

“I trust Dr. Grice is well?” I asked.

“Yes, Walter is quite well, thank you.”

I didn’t know what else to say. As on many occasions before, Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy saved me from my predicament.

“Mrs. Grice is our guest at Moffat Cottage, dear. We met this winter while she was visiting Dr. Grice in Eureka and we invited her to visit us this summer.”

“But don’t be looking over our shoulders for the good doctor,” Miss Lucy said perceptively. “Dr. Grice was too busy to join her.” I had to consciously not let my disappointment show.

“And how do you come to know my son?” Mrs. Grice said. It almost sounded like an accusation.

What could I say? That I’d met him during a saloon smashing? That he’d carried me through the streets of Eureka Springs when I’d been unconscious after a fall? That he left her side at Christmastime and traveled across the country when he thought I needed him? That he was joining me for an early morning rendezvous when we discovered a dead man? That every letter he’d ever sent was preciously preserved in a locked box that traveled with me everywhere? What could I say but, “We met in Eureka Springs. At the same time as I met Miss Shaw and Mrs. Fry.”

“And he was sweet on her too, wasn’t he, dear?” Miss Lizzie said.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Mrs. Grice’s eyes flared open and she pursed her lips even tighter.

“I don’t think so. A servant?” Mrs. Grice declared indignantly.

“But Julia, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, confusion registering on her face.

“Lovely party, Charlotte,” Miss Lucy said, suddenly changing the subject.

Mrs. Mayhew looked at Julia Grice and then at me. Mrs. Mayhew’s countenance was tranquil, all but her lower lip, which she was biting again, a sure sign of her indignation.

“Thank you, Miss Lucy, but I would have Mrs. Grice know that Miss Davish is not a simple servant. She is an extremely capable social secretary who comes highly recommended. She has worked in the best of households and I can say with confidence that only the best work for me.” Whether she was simply defending her choice in staff or whether she actually believed what she was saying, I silently thanked Mrs. Mayhew for her confidence in me. I could see now why Mr. Davies and Mrs. Crankshaw would not hear a negative word about their mistress. She’d earned their loyalty. I only hoped I could live up to her ideal. “And I believe she could easily find many an eligible bachelor who could be sweet on her. Even my own Cora’s fiancé, Nicholas, mentioned her charms.”

I shivered at the thought of Nick Whitwell talking of me to his future mother-in-law. Which charms had he mentioned? My callused fingers? My helplessness? My fear? He was not one I’d considered eligible for anything but being a drunken brute.

“I meant no disrespect to you, Mrs. Mayhew,” Mrs. Grice said, smiling. How lovely her face was when she smiled.
Just like Walter,
I thought. She glanced my way, hesitating, wanting to say something to me, but instead frowned slightly, then added, “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.” Mrs. Mayhew nodded.

“Yes, lovely party, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, nervously picking up three bonbons in the candy basket on the table next to her. She popped one into her mouth. “And such a beautiful house. I do so love the peacocks.”

“Thank you. You’re excused, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, nodding my farewells to the other women. I was relieved to be able to return to the house and the typing I had to do. As I retreated toward the house, the women continued chatting mindlessly about the delightful view, the ingenious colored gelatin molds the ice cream was served in, the lovely weather.

“Wherever did you find so many hollyhocks?” I heard Mrs. Grice ask.

Could my first meeting with Walter’s mother have gone worse? I didn’t think so. I’d warned Walter from the start that we were unevenly matched. How I wished he were here! When I reached the house, I looked back. The cluster of women I’d left had broken up. Mrs. Mayhew was mingling with the other guests; Mrs. Grice had moved on and was speaking with Mrs. Jane Whitwell while a rotund naval captain in full dress uniform had captured Miss Lizzie’s and Miss Lucy’s attention. Miss Lucy caught my eye. I gave her my bravest smile and she winked. I went to my work with a lighter heart and a pledge to write Walter that night.

“C
ome with us, Hattie,” Britta said.

With dinner over, I was typing at the large desk in my sitting room making progress on Sir Arthur’s manuscript when Britta, Sena the kitchen maid, and James the footman interrupted me.

“Mrs. Mayhew has given permission for some of us to have a few hours off tonight, since we missed our time off this afternoon. We’re going to the Forty Steps.”

I’d read about the Forty Steps but hadn’t had the opportunity to see them yet. In my efforts to acquaint myself with my new surroundings, beyond the atlas and city directory, I’d read a tourist guidebook,
In and Around Newport 1892
, I found among the books in my room. It mentioned the Forty Steps as a “well-known” place that had recently been improved for seeing the “rocks below.” With no other description, I’d been intrigued. With a possible way down from the cliffs to the rocks and their associated plant species beckoning, I couldn’t resist.

“Thank you, Britta,” I said, slipping my rubber overshoes into a bag along with a few specimen jars and my plant press. “I’d love to join you.”

We were joined downstairs by a few more maids I’d barely met and one of the groomsmen. As we walked, Sena, a girl of sixteen with fuzzy brown hair, small green eyes, and a bulbous nose, who until this moment had spoken but a few words to me, suddenly began emulating Mrs. Crankshaw by talking fast and asking me questions. Sena skipped along as she did.

“What is that contraption you’re carrying? And why do you leave the house so early in the morning? I heard you’re not from New York or Newport. Where do you live? Where did you get that smart-looking hat? Why are you carrying rubber overshoes? Do you plan to go down on the rocks? I heard that you found a dead body.”

With that last comment, the entire company halted in their tracks and stared at Sena.

“Sena!” Britta said.

“Hush, girl,” the groomsman said.

“What?” Sena said. “I overheard some ladies talking today at the party and they said that Hattie had found a dead body. I only wanted to know if it was true.”

“It’s not polite to ask so many questions, Sena,” James, the footman, said.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I think by now even Mrs. Mayhew knows.” As everyone seemed to know about Mrs. Trevelyan, being the public figure that she was, I told a simple version of my misadventures in Eureka Springs. To Sena’s delight, I retold how I found my murdered employer in a trunk and became involved in investigating the death of the late hatchet-wielding temperance leader, as we walked toward the Forty Steps. However, I kept the other incidences to myself. No one needed to know, and I didn’t want reminding, that Mrs. Trevelyan was the first of three dead bodies I’d found.

And then we were there, the Forty Steps, a broad section of the Cliff Walk at the end of Narragansett Avenue from which a steep wooden staircase jutted out from the cliff and descended exactly forty steps down to the crashing waves and rocks below. We heard the conviviality before we saw the dozens of others we joined in the fresh evening air. Someone was strumming a banjo and voices were raised in laughter and the occasional song. Judging by the older, simpler style of hats and dresses, the crowd consisted mostly of servants on their night off. The conversations I overheard as I parted from Britta and the others and wove my way toward the steps confirmed it.

“Your missus does what?” one woman in her thirties asked her younger companion.

“She dons an apron, snaps on white gloves, and follows me around all day.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Flagg must say to that?”

“Oh, she’s quite put out. The missus acts like we don’t even have a housekeeper.”

“Well, if I were Mrs. Flagg, I wouldn’t stay there. They’re not the only high-society family in Newport.”

“Mrs. Flagg nothing,” the younger girl said. “Us maids have had our fill too. It ain’t right, a rich lady like that checking floors and mantelpieces with her gloved finger.” I wondered who the controlling mistress was but moved on.

“Ah, Mr. Whitwell’s all right,” a footman, judging by his height and handsome face, was saying to a group of maids. “He even offered me one of those Cuban cigars when my sister’s boy was born. But the missus, what’s with the flouncy collars?” The maids giggled.

“I think Mrs. Whitwell is trying to stay young,” one of the maids suggested. “But she does look rather silly.”

“I like her dresses,” the youngest of the group said.

“You would, Biddy. You’re only fifteen.”

“She’s certainly rich enough to wear whatever she wants,” another said. All heads nodded in agreement.

“Did you hear about Nick Whitwell?” the footman said, whispering behind his hand. The girls leaned forward. “I heard from Clara, our kitchen maid, who has a brother who works there, that Mr. Nick got expelled from the Reading Room.”

“Really?” one of the maids said. “Why?”

The footman took a few steps toward the girls, so that I could barely hear him. “Because he was caught, eh . . . taking a bit of fresh air, if you catch my meaning, and aiming it right off the porch!” The girls squealed with delight at this shocking bit of gossip.

I smiled at their innocence and waved when I saw Miss Kyler, Lady Phillippa’s maid, near the top of the steps.
Maybe she can tell me something about Sir Arthur,
I thought, making my way toward her. Before I reached her, someone shouted above the din of the waves mixed with the music, the call of seagulls, and the hum of dozens of voices.

“We will uphold the dignity of labor! We will uphold the dignity of labor!”

The music stopped. The crowd hushed as I turned to see who had called out. There, in the middle of the merrymakers, standing on a small boulder, was Sibley, the man I’d seen standing outside the Newport Casino arguing with Mr. Whitwell some days before. Sibley was now addressing his fellow workers.

“Listen, fellow laborers. Remember ‘an injury to one is the concern of all!’ ” he said. “It’s us or them and if it were up to them I wouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“Then shut up!” someone yelled.

“Then they would win. No, sir, I won’t rest until you have your rights.”

“Then don’t. But the rest of us would all like to relax right now.” We all looked to see who had shouted back. It was James, familiarly putting his arm around Britta’s shoulders. She was smiling and relaxed into his embrace. “I’ll agree we work too much. But do we have to talk about how we work too much as well?”

“That’s my point,” Sibley said. “Talking about working too much isn’t enough. We must join together and do something about it.”

“And what would that be?” another man asked.

“Strike!” Sibley said, smashing his fist into the palm of his other hand. Several people laughed or dismissed him with a wave of their hands. Most turned their backs and went back to talking with their friends. The banjo player began another tune. But a few people, including Sena, the groomsman, and several others, stayed listening.

“Like the telegraph operators?” a young woman asked.

“Exactly,” Sibley said.

“But they’re striking against a company, not a family,” Sena said. “Isn’t it disloyal and ungrateful for household staff to even think about striking? Working for the Mayhews is a desirable position. I’m the envy of many a maid. Why would I put my position and future at risk for a few extra hours off a week?”

“It’s not disloyal to want a full day off a week. It’s immoral of your ‘family’ to deny you. But you’re right. You work for some of the richest people in this country. You do have a prestigious position. So think of the message you would be sending to other maids if you demanded your rights! You could do so much good for your fellow workers. If you stood up to your ‘family’ it would give courage to the more unfortunate to do the same.”

From the number of people who’d turned their backs on him, Sibley’s impassioned speech was falling mostly on deaf ears. But then why had Mrs. Mayhew asked me about discontent in her own staff? What had prompted the rumors? Perhaps more people were listening and sympathetic to his cause than was apparent. Certainly the maid with the controlling mistress had voiced grievances.

“No, thank you, sir,” Sena said. “I worked hard to get where I am and I’m not about to jeopardize my position.” With that she spun away, pulling the two other maids and the groomsman with her. Someone had brought out an accordion and now joined the banjo player. Before long, everyone had moved away from the labor man but me. I wondered why I was still there. I too started to walk away.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said, stopping my retreat, “at the Newport Casino a few days ago.”

I was startled that he remembered. “Yes, you and Mr. Whitwell were having words.”

The man laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.” He shoved out his hand. “Lester Sibley, at your service.”

“Hattie Davish,” I said, taking his hand before realizing it might not be a good idea to be seen fraternizing with him.

“I like you, Hattie Davish.”

“You just met me, Mr. Sibley,” I said, now suspicious of his intent.

“Doesn’t matter. I can tell an honest laborer when I see one. What line of work are you in, Hattie Davish?”

“I’m Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew’s social secretary.”

“So are you treated fairly, Hattie Davish? Or do you work at all hours, always at the beck and call of Mrs. Mayhew?”

“Long and unusual hours are the nature of the job, Mr. Sibley,” I said.

“Are cramped, cold, dreary living quarters part of the nature of the job too?”

“I have a spacious suite of rooms, Mr. Sibley.”

“And what about your private life, Hattie Davish? Can you do as you like, even in the little time you do have off?”

“Yes, I believe I can.” I was tiring of this line of questioning. Like Sena, I had worked hard to attain my position. I was respected, well treated, and enjoyed challenging, satisfying work. What more could I ask for? I was content. Why shouldn’t he be? But Mr. Sibley wasn’t about to give up.

“Did you know that one dinner party at Marble House or Rose Mont costs over a thousand dollars? One dinner party. What do you make in a year, Hattie Davish?”

“That, Mr. Sibley, is none of your concern,” I said, doing nothing to hide my irritation. “I understand there are people in need of a voice such as yours, but I am not one of them.”

“Whether you know it or not, Hattie Davish, you are one of them. My voice, my message, my cause, is fair rights for all, and that includes maids, butlers, clerks, and social secretaries.”

“I’m grateful for my position, Mr. Sibley. I have been poor and I have been lonely.”

After my father died, I was an orphan with no siblings, no close living relatives, and less than twenty dollars at my disposal. The doctors who attended, though I would say “killed,” my father had taken almost all we had. I was no longer able to live in my childhood home, and all I could afford was a tiny basement room at Mrs. Coombs’ Boardinghouse that flooded during spring rainstorms. Luckily, my father had paid my tuition at Mrs. Chaplin’s school in full. I never wanted to imagine where I would be now if not for my typewriter, my training, and the opportunities given to me by the likes of Sir Arthur and Mrs. Mayhew.

“So,” I said, “despite the limitations or demands placed upon me, I prefer my current full and interesting life. Once I could never have imagined standing on the top of a cliff, looking out over the ocean, listening to banjo and accordion music while discussing labor strife with a man such as yourself.”

Lester Sibley nodded his head. “If only I could persuade you that you could have even more. Here, at least take this.” He reached into his pocket. “Damn, I forgot.”

“Forgot what, Mr. Sibley?”

“Excuse my language, but I forgot that all my pamphlets are lying on the bottom of the ocean. Don’t you see, Hattie Davish, that they don’t want you to realize you deserve more? And they’ll stop at nothing to prevent it.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but his comments about his pamphlets called up the image of the steamer trunk bobbing in the water before it disappeared beneath the waves.

“Were you in a shipwreck, sir?” I asked.

“No, no, kind lady,” Lester Sibley said, smiling crookedly. “No, on the trip over from New York my travel trunk, containing all of my literature, was stolen from my room. As it was nowhere to be found when we arrived, I can only assume someone sent it overboard. Like I said, ‘they’ will stop at nothing to keep me from spreading the word. Did I say something funny?”

I had involuntarily laughed out loud in my relief and embarrassment. Here I had been imagining the worst, a trunk hiding a dead body, whereas the only thing Mr. Mayhew and the Pinkerton detective were guilty of was ridding the world of more labor propaganda pamphlets. Although I still didn’t approve of Mr. Mayhew stooping to theft in the night, I felt foolish for assigning to him such evil doings. But how did I explain my reaction to the poor man’s misfortune? I looked about me quickly. People were dancing, laughing, drinking from bottles and flasks, tapping their toes, and clapping their hands to the rapid beat of the music. The accordion player had a monkey on his shoulder clapping tiny cymbals together. The animal even wore a little fez.

“No, no, I apologize, Mr. Sibley. I merely caught a glimpse of the monkey. He’s quite amusing.”

“Yes, of course,” Sibley said, not appearing to understand at all. “Back to what I was saying, Miss Davish. Our movement seeks to—” The last thing I wanted was for him to return to the previous conversation.

“It’s been interesting talking to you, Mr. Sibley, but if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t been down the steps yet.” I took several steps away, hoping he wouldn’t follow me.

“Of course,” he said, realizing I wasn’t going to be swayed to his cause tonight. I gratefully headed toward the cliff-side staircase as he headed to a group of people congregated around the accordion player.

Relieved to be free of the labor man’s attention, I grabbed the railing at the top of the stairs and walked several steps down. And then I froze. I’d made the mistake of looking down through the empty space between the steps. Beneath my feet, at least twenty feet below, was nothing but slimy, black rock and swirling water.