Bitter Eden (6 page)

Now it was too late, and Ian was no longer here to do anything.

He had had his way, and kept his daughter innocent of the seamier inclinations of the laborers he had spent his life trying to defend. He did not pass on to her the means of protecting herself from them, for Ian never had any intention of letting Callie lead the kind of life he had led. As though Callie were part of a play, standing on a stage at a distance from the sweating audience, Ian had kept his plans for her separate from his work. Callie was raised to be trusting, to be gentle and ladylike, so that in the proper time Ian would see her married and loved by the right kind of man. That man would bear no resemblance to the laborers who frequented Ian's small study in search of help. But despite her father s good intentions, Callie was now left alone to fend for herself in a world of which she knew little.

Now she went to Mrs. Pettibone, trying to soothe the landlady. "I didn't know I shouldn't let them in," she said. Tm sorry I've upset you."

"You haven't the sense of a chicken," Mrs. Pettibone muttered.

"Please don't scold. I'm sorry, but they knew Papa. They liked him, Mrs. Pettibone. I can tell that they liked him. He will truly be missed by them."

Mrs. Pettibone sighed. She leaned back in her chair, patting Callie's soft young hand. "Lord, yes, child. He'll be missed, by none so much as you. He was a grand man in his way, but he didn't do well by you. Those people will eat you alive. You've not a thing left in your larder." She got up, took Callie's hand, and walked through the flat, looking into the cupboards and cabinets. Callie was stunned.

"What do you think you are going to eat?" Mrs. Pettibone said angrily. "This is not a dole house, and no

matter what your papa professed, he didn't run it like one.

"But I didn't see . . .*

"Nor would youl You ve entertained the lightest-fingered bunch of thieves and cutthroats this house has ever seen. Why do you think your papa never let them into this part of the flat?" she snapped, then looked at Callie and felt an uncustomary softening as the girl touched the spot where a small bronze horse had stood before the mourners had cleared it away.

"Why would they do that? They said they wanted to be near the place where Papa lived," Callie said sadly.

"In their way, Callie. In their own way they mourn him, but you . . ." She paused. "Ian was a canny man. He knew their ways, and they respected his knowledge, but you . . . they'll only rob you. You can't do your father's business, Callie. Keep your door closed to all but the few you know well enough to trust."

Callie promised to be careful, and she did turn many away. Three days later a woman came to the door.

"He was so kind to me in my need," she said, "the least I can do is see to his daughter."

Callie did not know her.

"Won't you open the door to me, child? Not that I'd blame you. The way things are, it's not an easy matter to tell who can be trusted. I'll not be offended if you'd rather keep me standing out here in the cold hall."

"Oh ... do come in, Mrs. . . . ?"

"Peach. The name is Peach. Surely you've heard your dear papa mention me." Her head was angled to one side as she watched Callie search her memory.

"I don't think so," Callie said hesitantly. "But I am forgetting my manners again. Wont you sit down, Mrs.

Peach? I was just about to have tea." Callie hurried to the pantry, wondering what she could put on the tray to make it look less meager.

As she came back to the sitting room, she noticed' that Mrs. Peach's hair was of a reddish tint. She wasn't nearly so old as Callie had first thought, in fact it was difficult to discern her age. She dressed like an old woman with her shapeless dress bagging loosely over her bosom. The color was drab, a dark nondescript gray. Mrs. Peach sat in the chair Callie offered, her head forward, her shoulders rounded almost to a hunch. Her skin and hair, however, did not match the rest of her. Her face was powdered, and her skin looked soft and cared for, not the skin of an old woman. And there was her hair, reddish but pale-perhaps from gray, but also possibly from many hours of brushing, washing, and tinting. As a final touch to all her contradictions of appearance, Mrs. Peach carried a handsome silver-tipped cane, which looked to be made of ebony, but probably was not. For how, Callie reasoned, could a woman who seemed so poor own a cane so obviously expensive?

"Did you know my father well?" Callie asked, watching the pleased expression on Mrs. Peach's face broaden. Perhaps Mrs. Peach was one of those who would want to talk about Ian. Callie hoped so. No matter how sensible she tried to be, she was miserably lonely without her father.

Mrs. Peach obliged her longer than Mrs. Pettibone ever would. Whether the stories she told of Ian were true or made up, Callie did not know.

Mrs. Peach studied the girl as she spoke. The stories pleased the child, and that was all Mrs. Peach was interested in at the moment

"What a nice visit this has been, Callie. We must do it again. I hope you will have tea at my little house. I

like having young people about. It makes me feel young too." She gathered her shawl about her and picked up the impressive cane. "I must be getting home. The streets aren't safe for a lady after dark. You will come to see me soon, Callie?"

"I'd like that."

Mrs. Peach smiled. "You're no longer afraid of me?"

"Oh, no!" Callie blushed. "I wouldn't have been. It's just that Mrs. Pettibone says I'm to© trusting. I promised I'd be careful."

"One can't be too careful these terrible days. Things being what they are you can't blame a man for taking what he can get, but still it makes it hard for those of us who are honest. But you needn't worry about me. I'd not take a scrap of stale bread that was not mine for the taking."

Callie walked downstairs with Mrs. Peach and watched from the door as the woman walked down the street. She liked Mrs. Peach. Mrs. Peach liked her father. She was a warm-hearted, motherly old woman—just what Callie longed for. She told Mrs. Pettibone about her visitor.

"Mrs. Peach, you say? Can't say as I know the name. Said she knew your father well? Strange. ... I don't know the name at all. Well, I can't be expected to know everyone, but all the same. . . . Did you check your belongings? All in place?"

"Nothing was stolen. She was very nice. I'm invited to tea at her house tomorrow." Callie wanted to talk more, but Mrs. Pettibone was a busy woman and not given to patience with the young. Callie went back to her flat. She disliked being alone, but this night would not be as bad as others. She had something to look forward to the next day.

Cailie dressed carefully the next morning. She wore her best: a self-striped forest green bazeen gown with puffed and banded sleeves. She stopped momentarily before the mirror, admiring the simple fitted bodice and the straight soft line of the skirt Happy with her appearance, she confidently walked the maze of streets following Mrs. Peach's hastily spoken directions. She stopped before the house and hesitated for a moment, unsure. Mrs. Peach's home was a large one, far grander than Cailie had expected. It was just the sort of place to appeal to a girl of Callie's age who had been far more accustomed to austerity than comfort.

Callie's fascination with the house and Mrs. Peach increased with every step she took into the interior. Mrs. Peach had a distinct fondness for soft multicolored pillows, overstuffed couches, and red velvet She also seemed to like everything in abundance.

Mrs. Peach claimed she liked company. Cailie could take her at her word. This was a house made and decorated to make many people comfortable at one time. As it was, when Cailie entered there were several young women present. Some of them were no older than Cailie, though worldly enough to deserve the name woman, while Cailie was not.

Taking wide-eyed note of all the pretty girls, Cailie commented on them.

"I thought I mentioned to you that I enjoy the company of the young," Mrs. Peach replied. "Did you think I meant only to put you at ease?"

"No, but . . ." Cailie began, puzzled by the familiarity with which the young women treated the house and each other. "I am sure I could never feel so much at home and still be a guest," Cailie said with a good deal of admiration.

Mrs. Peach looked around her, her face growing

soft and concerned. "These young women are my everlasting fountain of youth. They keep me feeling young, so I give them what I can. We cannot take from life without needing to return like value, can we? Hasn't your father said something of the sort to you, Callie?"

"Many times!"

"I was sure of it. So you understand how I feel about my young ladies. For some this is the only home there is, poor dears. I fear there are many not so fortunate as you. They have no place to go but the home I provide them." She put down her teacup and leaned forward. "That was my true purpose in coming to see you yesterday. I got to thinking that you might not have anyone to provide for you. I thought perhaps you would be needing Mrs. Peach. I'm happy to see I was wrong. And naturally I would never dream of forcing myself on anyone. Not I, not Mrs. Peach. I've made it my life's work to look after those who are unable to do it themselves. It's my charity. All of us should have a charity, is my opinion."

Callie agreed with her, but said nothing of her own predicament. Ian had left her little, and she didn't know if his monthly allowance from his father's estate would come to her or not. There was no one to look after her. She fit all the qualifications for Mrs. Peach's charity. As Callie looked into the kindly marshmallow softness of Mrs. Peach's face, she wished with all her heart that Mrs. Peach would ask the magical question that would enable Callie to say, "I'd like to come live with you."

Mrs. Peach did not ask it that day, nor the next time Callie came to tea. She didn't get around to it until a week later, when Callie had given up hope. Callie met her by accident. They both stood in a whipping winter wind as Mrs. Peach asked almost shyly if she'd be

out of place inviting Callie to join the other girls in her roomy house. "I find I have become very attached to you, child."

Callie's tongue tripped all over itself in her eagerness to accept. Her long blond hair was.blown loose by the time she ran home. "Mrs. Pettibone! Mrs. Petti-bone, where are you? Oh! Wait till you hear! Mrs. Pettibone?"

The entry hall had an air of emptiness that Callie would have noticed had she not been so excited. But she was excited. And she was in a hurry. If she didn't move quickly the invitation would vanish. She worried that Mrs. Peach would change her mind, or not want her after all. She longed to tell someone, to make it real. Everyone must know and be happy for her or perhaps it wouldn't come true at all.

"Mr. Jenks! Mr. Jenks!" She raced past the other tenants' flats, stopping in front of a single open door. "Mr. Jenks! I've a new home! A new, new home and someone who wants me. Oh! Mr. Jenks, say you are happy. Isn't it wonderful?" she shouted, her face beaming with a smile that made her normally somber blue eyes sparkle with inner lights. "I've a home, Mr. Jenks!"

Nearly deaf and feeble of leg, Mr. Jenks leaned precariously out of his door. "Good, good, child." Then he tottered back into his room, forgetting again to close his door.

"Good-bye, Mr. Jenks," Callie shouted at his back. "I'll come by some afternoon to see you. Would you like that?"

"Good, good, child."

She shut his door and hurried up to her own flat to write a note telling Mrs. Pettibone of her good fortune. "I will come by tomorrow for the rest of my things. I'll tell you all about it then." She folded the

paper neatly, took one valise, and rushed down the stairs. She slipped the note under Mrs. Pettibone's door. For one moment just before it disappeared from view, Callie felt unsure, and sad to be leaving the flat she had shared with her father. She considered waiting to ask Mrs. Pettibone's advice, but then she thought of the night. She'd be alone again and that was awful. She could imagine Mrs. Peach's kindly voice saying, "There's no sense to spending another lonely night, dear."

Mrs. Peach was waiting at the door, and Callie ran the last few steps and fell into her arms as though it were the most natural thing she could do.

The idea of living in a house with other girls was exciting. If they seemed to have secrets, and if they considered Callie green, well, that was an understandable attitude toward a newcomer. She sat down with them, smiling more from her inner satisfaction than any communication of friendship. Mostly she listened, impressed and mildly shocked at how often their conversations were about men. However, Mrs. Peach seemed in no way averse to the girls' talk. Frequently the conversation went so far along forbidden lines it was reduced to a quivering, unintelligible whisper punctuated with quickly drawn breaths and giggles. Losing her shyness, Callie dared to speak of her father and one or two of his friends she considered handsome. They were the only men she had ever known. In spite of the laughter that greeted her innocent comments, it was comfortable sitting there, feeling herself a part of this strange, makeshift family. A cheery fire burned on the hearth, and Mrs. Peach sat all the while like a proud brooding hen, smiling at them all. Her tapping cane made a pleasantly monotonous sound in the background.

Following the example of the other girls, Callie

went to her room at six o'clock to dress for dinner. She was once again shy and self-conscious when she entered the dining room. The others looked like grown women, While Callie, in spite of her efforts, looked no older than she should at fourteen.

"Isn't she a pretty thing?" one girl said as she came in.

"Fresh, you might say," another added.

"Pure."

"And all of you having a grand time making fun of her. She's going to have a hard time of it. Don't any of you remember . . ."

"Shut up, Margot!" the first girl warned. "Let our little daisy girl enjoy herself for as long as she can." She laughed. The other girls joined in less merrily, but agreeably covered up what Margot had started and Mrs. Peach had nearly heard.