The Callender Papers (2 page)

“I suspect that the only time Mr. Thiel meets people is when he comes to Boston, to put his pictures into the hands of a dealer and to dine with us.”

“No wonder he is such an awkward guest,” I said.

“No wonder.”

“Mrs. Bywall is the housekeeper?” I asked. “Why was she sent to prison?”

“She had stolen something—spoons or a brooch, something of that sort—from the house where she was employed as a maid. It came out that she had a brother who was mortally ill and needed medicines, which the family could not afford. But still, she had stolen. So she was sent to prison for ten years.”

“How did Mr. Thiel become involved with her?”

“The house in which she was employed was that of his brother-in-law, Enoch Callender.”

I sat quietly and thought, carefully. “It sounds a most unfortunate household into which I am invited.”

“Yes,” Aunt Constance said. “Certainly not an easy one to work in.”

“Yet you believe I could do it.”

“I believe you could do the work,” she said. “It is the people who trouble me.”

With Aunt Constance's consent and, I thought, approval, I decided to go. I knew immediately that I would do so, but I followed Aunt Constance's advice and thought about it. Or, rather, I tried to think about it because I knew Aunt Constance believed I would do so. She had taught me to think carefully, but I do not know if she did so because she guessed how hasty and willful my nature was. I always tried to comply with her wishes. Orphaned herself at a young age, raised by distant relatives and possessed of only a small inheritance with which to support and educate herself, Aunt Constance had a strength I could only wish to emulate. Her early sorrows had given her a sympathetic heart and a rare quality of wisdom. So that night I sat at my desk trying to consider the offer Mr. Thiel had made. But I must admit that the chance to try my hand at real
work—to earn a sum that might be put aside to defray the cost of my education—occupied more of my thoughts than it should have. The worst of it would be, I thought, the solitude. Yet, accustomed as I was to Aunt Constance's company, I still believed that I could keep my own company tolerably well.

It was agreed that I would work for Mr. Thiel during the months of July and August. Mr. Thiel offered me forty dollars, to be paid at the end of the summer, less whatever small sums I might need during the time.

Aunt Constance called in her dressmaker. We ordered two light and simple blue dresses, with plain white collars and cuffs, made of sturdy garbardine. The dresses arrived shortly before I was to leave. There was a surprise in the box with the plain dresses: a lightweight, delicate dress, rosy pink with little flowers printed all over it. I was speechless.

“You like it,” Aunt Constance observed, with one of her warm smiles.

“Very much,” I told her truthfully. “Thank you. But why?”

“You may need it. You may not, after all; but if you do need such a dress I thought this fabric would do admirably. Also, because I shall miss you. We have never parted for long.”

I understood her. I had, naturally, had more misgivings about the employment, the closer the actual day of departure came. It often happens that way. When a daring idea first crosses one's mind, if it is to be realized in the future it is often appealing. Then, as the time for its execution comes nearer, one begins to dread that which had once been anticipated. I told myself this was mere human nature. However, I was finding human nature a little uncomfortable, easier to name than to overcome. At our last breakfast I was afraid I might cry. I had trouble eating my egg and toast with my usual appetite.

“You will write to me?” Aunt Constance asked. Like me, she was eating little. “I will be interested to hear how the work goes. And I admit to a certain curiosity about your responses to these people. It has been many years since I visited the Berkshires. Many years. It is very beautiful country. Do you remember the name of the station at which you are to debark?”

“North Adams,” I said. “Mr. Thiel will meet me. If for any reason he cannot be there I am to go to the Grand Chisholm Hotel, where they will expect me. The hotel is directly across the street from the railway station.”

“You do understand that Mr. Thiel and I will be
sympathetic if, for any reason, you want to return home before the time is up,” Aunt Constance said.

I nodded. And I held my tongue.

“You are young,” Aunt Constance said. “I begin to wonder if we are wise to do this.”

I sounded as cheerful as I could: “We can but try. How often have you told me that women must learn that they are as brave as men?”

“Men can be foolhardy.”

“Well, we will not fall into that trap, will we? I am not helpless, you know.”

She laughed. “To think that you are comforting me. No, you are not helpless. You are strong, healthy, able to amuse yourself, and you have a bold mind. Forgive me, my dear, for the megrims. Men, and women too, are unpredictable creatures. You have seen little of this. I wonder now if your innocence is enough protection for you.”

Aunt Constance accompanied me into Boston and helped me find a seat in the railway coach of the Boston and Maine Railroad. My one portmanteau and the basket that held my lunch were placed on the seat next to me.

“I shall think of you,” I told Aunt Constance.

“You will do well,” she assured me.

Despite the grime of the locomotive and the steam rising along its sides, I leaned out the window and looked back to her, waving, until she had dwindled out of sight. Then I sat back, to attempt to think cheerfully. The journey, more than a hundred miles, was longer than any I had ever taken, and I hoped I would enjoy it. I determined to forget about my destination and what awaited me there.

The train made its noisy way through the outskirts of Boston, then through the farmlands much like those I had always known. Gradually, the towns grew farther apart. In the early afternoon, the landscape became hilly. Trees were in full foliage. The rivers we crossed, the lakes we chugged beside, sparkled in sunlight. Often farmers' children would stand at the side of the tracks to watch the train go by, their eyes staring into the coaches.

We arrived at North Adams as the sun set. Twilight shadows made the air chilly. I disembarked with as much confidence as I could muster. I had reason not to be concerned, should Mr. Thiel not be there. I knew what I was to do—I would cross over to the hotel and sleep the night there. Were he not to come at all, I would merely return to Cambridge the next day.

No such difficulty faced me. He stood waiting in a shadow, a wide hat hiding his eyes. He let me stand before him for a moment before he reached down to take my portmanteau.

“So. You came,” he said. He was taller than I had remembered.

“Yes,” I said. I could think of nothing else to say.

“I thought you might change your mind at the last minute.”

“As you can see, sir, I did not, for here I am.”

“Yes,” he agreed. We stood thus a long moment. “I have in mind to go straight to Marlborough.” He did not ask me if I were too tired for a journey of several hours nor if I would prefer to rest the night at the hotel before going on.

“I can make the journey,” I said. He turned and led the way to an open carriage that stood before the station. He placed my portmanteau in it, helped me into a seat and then climbed up to the driver's seat.

Then he turned around and spoke to me out of the darkness. “Have you dined?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“You should have spoken up,” he grumbled.

We ate at the hotel; or, more truthfully, I ate and he watched me. He had, he told me, eaten while waiting
for the train. It is not easy to eat while you are being closely watched by a silent and impatient stranger. I felt awkward and hurried. I declined the dessert I wanted for the sake of his impatience.

“You shouldn't do that,” he remarked as we walked back to the carriage along the dark and silent street.

“Do what?”

“Go without something you want for somebody else's convenience.”

“I'm sorry,” I apologized without thinking. Then I grew angry. “It was obvious that you were eager to be on your way,” I pointed out to him.

“I am, of course,” he said. “But that should make no difference to you. Your Aunt Constance wouldn't have done it.”

“Perhaps not,” I agreed. “However, she might have. If it had been she, she would have contrived it so cleverly that you would not have noticed it.”

“True,” he agreed. He said no more to me.

At the start of that dark ride, I could see only the back of the man as he kept the horses to a comfortable trot. In the darkness he could have been anyone, taking me anywhere, the devil himself, hurrying me to some dismal destination. He made no sound, neither
talked nor whistled. I, too, said nothing. I felt oddly helpless, a feeling new to me. Fortunately, I also felt a little angry still, and it was this that kept back the tears so near the surface. What, after all, was I doing here, with this unfriendly and forbidding man? As my eyes grew accustomed, I could pick out the shapes of trees passing along beside us, growing thick overhead, and even the back of the horse steadily pulling the carriage down the dark road. The sound of the horse's hooves on the packed road was steady, monotonous. At last, exhausted by the long day, I fell asleep.

If you have ever awakened in a room that was not familiar, you can imagine how I felt. For a moment, looking around the plain room, with its one window facing east (the sun on my face had woken me), its whitewashed walls, its narrow dresser, its one chair and writing table beside the empty stone fireplace, I was sure I was still asleep and that when the dream was finished I would find myself in my own accustomed room. I closed my eyes to await that second awakening and only then noticed that I was still fully clothed, except for my shoes. I began to remember where I might be. Someone—Mr. Thiel himself—must have carried me in and put me to bed.

It is a fearful thing to realize you are alone in a strange place, among strangers.

I got out of bed and went to the window. I could see a red barn, with a carriage standing before it. Beyond that, to one side, was another, smaller outbuilding. What was probably a vegetable garden was also visible. My bedroom must be at the back of the house, I thought. All around, as far as I could tell, were trees, and hills tall enough to be called mountains.

While I unpacked my suitcase, changed into fresh clothes, and washed my face and hands at the basin on the dresser, I considered what to do next. I opened the door and listened. I could hear nothing.

The hallway was narrow and only dimly lit. It seemed to lead toward the front of the house. I passed a few closed doors and came to an intersection of hall and stairs. There, a tall window looked out over the lawns and driveway to more forest and hills. The house seemed to be set at the top of one of the smaller hills. I could see the green commons and some rooftops of a town, set some distance below the house. There should, I remember, be at least one other house quite near here, the house Josiah Callender had built for his son. There was no sign of it. I descended the staircase.

All the floors were deeply polished wood, and the stair boards creaked under my feet. I hoped somebody would hear me and come forward, but nobody did. On the main floor I looked through large open double doors to the dining room and saw that the long table had one place set at it. I would have preferred to go out onto the porch, which stretched along the front of the house and thence onto the lawn, but I decided it was necessary to first find whoever was in the house. So I crossed the dining room to enter what I thought must be the kitchen.

There I saw a woman sitting at a table drinking from a cup and reading a periodical. She was engrossed in her reading. Her arms, with the sleeves of her dress rolled up, showed heavy. Her face was round and pale. She wore an apron. Her colorless hair was simply done, pulled back to the top of her head, to be out of the way, I thought. Her face was expressionless as she read, her lips moved forming the words silently.

“Excuse me,” I said. She started and looked up at me. She struggled clumsily to her feet.

“You must be Mrs. Bywall,” I said, walking up to her and holding out my hand. She wiped hers on her stained apron and shook mine firmly. Mrs. Bywall
was a short, stout body. She looked both hardy and strong.

“I am Jean Wainwright,” I said.

“I know that. I was listening for you. But I didn't hear you. You're a quiet thing.”

“I hope I didn't frighten you.”

“It would take more than a child to do that,” she said. Then she closed her pale lips over whatever else she might have wanted to say and waited, considering me, for a long moment before she spoke again. When she did, the words came hastily stumbling out. “You must be hungry. Mr. Thiel said I wasn't to waken you. I said as how it might be easier on you, in this strange place, to breakfast with him, but he said no, you were to sleep. I don't argue with him. Now he's gone off to his studio and won't be in until lunch. He's not to be interrupted when he's working.” Again she paused, again resumed speech: “He said you were to eat and then to walk about the place. What will you like for your breakfast? Mr. Thiel said I was to sit with you.” The pale lips closed. There was no expression on her face or in her eyes as she spoke, as if she were a child rehearsing a set piece.