In Need of a Good Wife (7 page)

Only one other time in her life had she received a letter with her name on the envelope. Elsa had no need for letters from her employer, as she lived under his roof, and nearly everyone else she had ever known was dead. Last year a girl, Lucia, who worked alongside her in the laundry room, took up with a brickworker named George and moved with him to Buffalo. She had written with news of her new life. Lucia had vowed to stay friends after she left—Elsa hadn’t even known that they
were
friends until Lucia said the word on her last day. Elsa didn’t talk much while she worked, but she supposed she had listened to Lucia’s continuous narration, about her mother, about her beau, about the merits of Buffalo over Manhattan City, with some interest and Lucia had appreciated that.

Well before dawn on the morning Lucia was to leave, Elsa went above stairs to the kitchen before the maids awoke. She felt a strong urge that she should make something for the woman to take on her journey, something warm and soft and filling. It had been a long time since Elsa called one of her grandmother’s recipes from her memory. But she found that the knowledge was still there, waiting patiently for her return. Quietly, carefully, Elsa added wood to the fire, then skimmed flour from the bin and heaped it in a mound on the board. She cracked eggs into a bowl and mixed them with butter and sugar, then folded them into the flour with her hands. Three fragrant plums, chopped into bits, studded the
Kuchen
and she slipped it into the range, praying that the sweet smell would not wake the house. When it cooled, just as the maids were filing in, she tied it in an old handkerchief and slipped it into her apron as she descended the stairs.

Lucia was glad to receive the gift, but then she had left. Elsa would have liked to have a friend, if she had known that was what Lucia had become, but the realization came too late. Lucia was gone now, her life changing and Elsa’s staying the same.

Just as Elsa unfolded the letter and smoothed the creases with her palm, she heard Mrs. Channing’s shoes clacking over the slate floor of the laundry room. The laundresses snapped to attention and Elsa stood from the bench, crouching quickly to slip the letter back in her boot and scurrying down the stairs to join the other workers.

“Ladies, I have come down to tell you myself,” Mrs. Channing said, full of false humility over her willingness to go below stairs, “how very important it is that everything be perfect for the party this evening. We expect the whole of society to be here. That means every inch of linen must be pressed twice over, every bit of lace starched. I am counting on you.”

She moved her eyes slowly along the line of women, nodding at each one as they said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Channing turned for the stairs but then paused, stepping back down. “There is one other thing. I have heard talk amongst some of the society ladies about this Clara Bixby and her proposal to take women to the West.”

A few of the girls, some, Elsa noted, whom she remembered seeing at the meeting above the tavern, looked down at the floor.

Mrs. Channing raised a crooked finger and pursed her lips. “I want you all to know that I disapprove profoundly of this woman and her scheme, on matters of propriety
and
safety. The western towns are full of criminals and wild men and Indians, and no respectable woman would volunteer to put her own life in jeopardy by traveling there. Just today, the
Times
warned that our city’s surplus of maidens will be ruined by this venture. I wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up in brothels.” The old woman was working herself into a lather. “Why, Manhattan City is full of perfectly good, hardworking men of all classes, and I should think your time would be better spent looking to make a match here.”

Elsa shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the stiff corner of the letter press into her ankle. She had only ever laid eyes on Mrs. Channing a handful of times, and each time she was struck by how little the matron resembled the women who worked for her. Even Mrs. Channing’s smooth, carefully pinned hair and alabaster skin seemed the characteristics of an entirely different species of woman, a woman who bore no marks of the world’s rubbing up against her: no calluses, no scars from childhood burns, no broken teeth or limp or deafness in one ear. The experience and significance of luxury was something Elsa had been able only to imagine, despite living right below it for the last twenty-nine years. When she saw Mrs. Channing, whose pristine tatted shawl hovered around her shoulders like spun sugar, whose collarbone was draped with three strings of garnets, Elsa felt as baffled by her as she might have felt seeing a zebra prance down Broadway. In truth, she felt only pity for the woman.
Woe unto you that are
rich, for ye have received your consolation.

“Heed my word, girls. I can’t stop any of you from pursuing this dangerous course. But you should know that, should you try and fail to find happiness in Nebraska, as you no doubt will, do not come back to the Channing residence looking for a position, for we shall not take you back. We have no use for your sort of women around here.”

Mrs. Channing was defensive now, though no one had challenged her right to speak her mind on matters of the management of her own home. She stomped out of the room in a huff and up the stairs.

So that would be it
,
then
, Elsa thought.
It may already be, if
any of these girls start whispering about who was at Miss Bixby’s
meeting.
It suddenly mattered very little to her what the letter in her boot contained. She was going to go to Nebraska, for Mrs. Channing’s disdainful speech had made plain what Elsa supposed she had known for a long time: There was nothing
for
her here.

She had come off the boat as a girl and lived in one cluttered room with her
Tante
, helping with the sewing Gretchen took in and washing dishes in the rooming house kitchen for their board, until the homesick woman died in her sleep. The landlady found Elsa hiding under the bed when they came to take the body out. She gripped the girl’s shoulder, stood her up and brushed the dust out of her hair, and said, “You’ll go to work for Mrs. Channing.”

Elsa was sixteen. Since then she had washed every article of clothing that the wealthy woman wore against her bare skin, and yet Mrs. Channing had not once called Elsa by name. For twenty-nine years, Elsa’s stunted life had played out in the basement of this mansion, and it had hardly occurred to her to feel something as presuming as dissatisfaction. This was the only life she had ever known; what other life could there be?

But something was changing in Elsa. Her age had begun to make her impatient. The previous winter she had contracted a fever that didn’t subside for a week, and though she finally did recover, she realized that she might not have so many years left. She didn’t care to spend them here. Mrs. Channing’s warning to the workers made Elsa feel something so unfamiliar it took her a moment to name it. Anger. The wealthy woman’s withered fingers were reaching just a little too far into the private sphere of Elsa’s imaginings of what her life
could
be. And Elsa saw now that she simply wouldn’t allow Mrs. Channing to do it.

Later, when the day’s work was done, Elsa closed the door of her chamber and moved quickly in her bedtime preparations: pulling on the wool slippers, smoothing the blanket on her lap, lighting the nub of candle on the bedside table. Finally, finally, she opened the letter, bracing herself for anything, repeating her resolution in her mind that she
would
go, no matter what.

The first line took her by surprise as she read,
As I believe
Miss Bixby explained to you, I am seeking a housekeeper-cook, not
a wife.
Miss Bixby had explained no such thing.

This was one thing Elsa hadn’t expected and she let it wash over her, considering what it meant. A blessing, she decided. There was no need to worry now over the matter of her appearance, her plump physique. Though at one time she had prayed earnestly for a husband, it was not to be, and many years ago she came to peace with her life as a spinster. It was a difficult path, being in the world alone, but Elsa couldn’t imagine it changing now. Knowing this man wanted something she was sure she could provide—competent housekeeping—was a comfort. Elsa read on.

I am an old man with
no time for foolishness. You need not be
pretty, for I don’t plan on looking much upon you. Rather you
should be the sort of woman who looks as if God made her for
something. I spend all day in the
field. You only must be hearty
enough for the winters on this farm. Oh, and if you are one of
those women who chatters like a hen, tell me now and save
yourself traveling all the way here only for me to send you back
to New York. I like a quiet, orderly house. I have worked hard
for what I have and I don’t believe in getting something for
nothing at all, the way the children seem to now. I am very
glad I never had any young ones myself. Children are nothing
but a vexation.

I am glad that you are Bavarian too, for I will expect you
to cook our sort of food. I am glad to see you are neither a
Catholic, nor a Methodist, which I have come to believe is
even worse. I don’t see how it’s any business of the Reverend’s
what I take to drink with
my meals. If you go in for all that
bombast in a revival tent, don’t set toe on that train, is all I
can tell you.

I am not a rich man but I can promise that you won’t
want for anything here. I can
offer
room and board and a
small wage. Quite small, mind you, but around here there isn’t
much to spend it on. You will have the second
floor all to
yourself, including your own sitting room, as I keep to the
first-floor bedroom because of my rusted-up knees. I have a
cow, two horses, and a chicken coop, along with
100 acres of
wheat and barley, and my neighbor keeps pigs and barters. I
also have 3 ewes and a spinning wheel around here
somewhere. It belonged to my late wife. She was the best
knitter in Dodge County, and you won’t hear that only from
subjective parties such as myself.

My understanding is that the other women are going to
apply for land before they marry. If that is what you want to
do you’ll need to
find another gentleman, for my farm is
already too big for me to handle and I
figure I’ve got about ten
years before I keel over in the
field one day. I could just as
easily ride over to Omaha and
find a housekeeper there, but
the fools in this town can’t stop talking about Miss Bixby’s
belles, so I thought I would throw my hat in the ring. I came to
Nebraska from Manhattan City too, and I suppose I like the
idea of helping someone from home. As I said, I never had any
children, so you’ll only have to worry about me. I don’t believe
I am too much trouble.

As you can see, my English is very good, no accent to speak
of, and I expect that yours will be too. We’ll see when you
write back. Tell me if you are interested in this scheme and
what sort of household supplies you need. It has been a long
time since I had a woman in the house. Most days I eat canned
beans for dinner, and they are awful. I await your reply. Until
then, I am

Yours sincerely,
Mr. Leopold Schreier

Elsa closed her eyes in an attempt to slow her mind, which was racing ahead to paint a picture of what could be. She saw the farmhouse on a plot of land so flat you could flick a marble across it and it would roll on forever without stopping. She saw rows and rows of wheat bending in the wind like a woman stretching this way and that before rising from bed, saw a cow and heard the low clank of its bell as it ambled over the clover. A room—rooms!—of her own, not in the bowels of the house but
upstairs
, with, perhaps, a window or two through which she could watch the sun rise as it smeared the sky with color. Though she now spoke English well, Elsa retained a foreigner’s insight into the language, the ability to see words from the outside, and she thought now that even the name of the place suggested plenty:
Nebraska
sounded like
basket
, something you might fill with food.

But, still, Elsa hesitated. To allow herself to want a thing, even a thing so small as a housekeeping position on a western farm, was dangerous. Because in wanting, Elsa had come to believe, one separated herself from the Lord. Longing revealed a lack of trust, posed an impertinent question: Had the Lord thought of everything, or had he forgotten to account in his plan for this particular servant? Who was Elsa to suggest to God what he might do for her?

She wrote back to Mr. Schreier on the blank back side of his letter. In tiny, careful script she thanked him for his offer and asked for a broom, two washtubs, five cakes of soap, and a good wire brush. Her pen hovered over the page as she thought about what else to say. He wanted to know that she spoke English well and she wanted to show him. So she continued by writing,

I came to America in 1833 with
my mother’s sister, after the
death
of my parents. Our ship was held because of fear of
cholera (though it was never found on board) for six weeks in
Quebec.
This delay would have been unbearable but for an
Englishman on board who brought with
him a trunk full of,
not linens or clothing, but books.
This man was very kind to
the children. I believe he was a teacher or minister of some
kind, and he organized a little classroom for those people who
wanted to learn English. I hope you will not think it prideful
of me to say that learning came easily to me, for I believe glory
for all that is good in the old and new worlds belongs to our
Lord. By the time the ship
finally arrived in New York Harbor
I could write very well and speak a little. My teacher presented
me with
an English Bible as a gift when we disembarked, and
I keep it with
me always.