The Hired Girl (11 page)

My opinion of him rose even higher.

At first I waited on the pavement. Then I crept up to the porch. The windows of the house were open. There were no lights on in the front room, but it was dim rather than dark, because the room behind it was lit, and there was a big archway connecting them. I heard voices, and a woman exclaimed, “Oh, Solly! It used to be cats and dogs!” and then I heard
his
voice, hushing her.

That was when I knew I was safe. Because his mother — Mrs. Rosenbach — sounded like a
mother,
an exasperated mother. There’s something about the way a mother talks to her child. Listening, I felt kind of homesick.

After that, I couldn’t hear much. I can’t say I didn’t listen, but their voices were low and blurred. Then she came through the archway and a light came on. I didn’t know electric lights came on so suddenly. It wasn’t like gaslight; it was quicker and ten times brighter. I retreated to the top of the porch steps. The door opened, and Mrs. Rosenbach came out.

She stood silhouetted, with the light at her back. I was surprised by how small she was. The top of her head just clears my shoulder. But small or not, she was mistress of the situation. If she’d been a teacher and rapped on the desk with her ruler, everyone would have fallen silent.

“Come in,” she said briskly, and I went.

Once I was inside, I didn’t look around very much; my whole attention was fixed on Mrs. Rosenbach. But I was aware that the house was fine. There was wood paneling halfway up the wall, carved and dark and rich looking, and big paintings with gold frames. It was almost like a church, it was so fancy and solemn, and the ceiling was high above my head.

But I was watching
her,
trying to tell if she would be kind to me. What I noticed first was that she was elegant, more elegant even than Miss Chandler (though not more of a lady). She wore a shirtwaist dress, silk taffeta I think it was. The way the cloth was made, it gleamed like polished copper in the lamplight but was jet-black in the folds. There were pleats down the front, and the buttons went down one side, instead of being in the middle. She had a slender waist and dark hair — it was only a little gray — and keen eyes. And though it was a warm night, and she wore a high collar, she didn’t look flushed or creased, and she carried herself like a queen.

“What’s your name?”

“Janet Lovelace, ma’am.”

“My son tells me you ran away from home.” Her voice was courteous, but something else, too: maybe disdainful; maybe severe. “Wasn’t that a rash thing to do?”

“No, ma’am,” I said, as courteous as she. I surprised myself, answering her so readily, but something about her brought out my mettle. It was a queer thing: Mr. Solomon Rosenbach made me feel kind of frail and delicate, but
she
made me strong.

“You don’t think it was rash, to come to a strange city where you know no one, and have no place to spend the night?”

“If you put it like that, it sounds rash,” I admitted, “but I had to leave home. If I have to sleep on a park bench, I will. But I won’t go home.”

She took a step forward and looked at me, first as if I was a curiosity, and then more closely. She saw my bruises and winced at the sight of them. She said, almost under her breath, “No, you mustn’t go home,” and all at once, I realized what she was thinking. She’d gotten hold of the idea that someone at home had beaten me, and I tried to remember just what I’d said to her son. Of course I hadn’t mentioned Cressy; and I’d told him I couldn’t go home because of Father. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.

It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t lie.

But I didn’t confess, either. I don’t mean confess, exactly: I didn’t explain. I
should
have explained, but the Rosenbachs were looking as if they were sorry for me, and I wanted them to feel sorry for me, because I needed a place to spend the night. So I kept my mouth shut.

“I understand you want to be a hired girl.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you could help me find work, I’d be much obliged.”

“You have a character?”

I said hesitantly, “I think so, ma’am. Miss Chandler — my teacher at home — she thought I had a good character.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant references — a written testimonial to the effect that you are honest and clean and obedient. Have you anything of that kind?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You may find it difficult to find work without one. However”— she hesitated —“there may be a place here.” She took a step toward a small rocking chair and sat down in it. “Sit down. I should warn you that it’s unlikely you’ll stay here for long. I’ve dismissed three servants in the two past months.”

“I’d like to work here,” I said breathlessly. I meant it. I wanted nothing more than to work in this magnificent house. I could tell that the Rosenbachs were people of culture and refinement. At the same time, I wondered what the other servants had done to displease her.

Mrs. Rosenbach said unexpectedly, “Are you hungry? Have you dined?”

“No, but I had breakfast on the train, ma’am. It was a very large breakfast. I’m not hungry.”

She sighed. “Solly,” she said to Mr. Rosenbach, “go downstairs and fix the girl a sandwich. And a glass of milk, I think.”

Her son got to his feet and left the room. He was going downstairs, this wealthy, grown-up, well-dressed man, to
fix me a sandwich.
Luke would have called him a sissy. I thought he was manly and gallant.

Mrs. Rosenbach rocked in her chair. It’s funny — sitting in a rocking chair is kind of a homely thing to do, but the way she did it, with her wrists resting so lightly on the arms of the chair, and just the tip of one shoe showing — why, it wasn’t homely at all. A queen might rock that way, if she had a throne with rockers on it.

She said, “Malka is in bed. She’s tired out after the Sabbath.”

I wondered who Malka was. It struck me that Mrs. Rosenbach had the day wrong, because it was Saturday, but I didn’t say so.

“Malka is our housekeeper. She was my husband’s nursemaid when he was a child. Mr. Rosenbach is devoted to her, and when I came to this house as a bride, it was Malka who showed me how to run the household.” She corrected herself. “Malka and her sister, that is. Malka is twelve years older than her sister, Minna. My husband and I never wanted a large staff. We value our privacy, and we do what we can to make it easy to run the house. We have hot and cold running water, a gas range, and central heating. The laundry is sent out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, because I felt I ought to say something. I kept a straight face, but inside I was thinking,
Good, no laundry.

“Malka’s over seventy, and she’s no longer strong. Until last year, Minna did most of the heavy work. But last year, Minna received an unexpected proposal of marriage — a widower, a man she knew when she was young. We’ve tried to replace her, but Malka”— she made an irritable clucking noise —“Malka has very strict standards of housekeeping, and none of the young women have been able to please her. She says young women nowadays don’t know what it is to work.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you accustomed to work, Miss Lovelace?”

Miss Lovelace.
It sounded so pretty, even better than I’d expected. I answered her by throwing out my hands, showing first the palms and then the backs. I never thought I should be glad of my rough, work-scarred, big-knuckled hands. “Oh, I can work,” I assured her. “I grew up on a farm.”

“What can you do?”

I took a deep breath. “I can cook and scrub and sweep and dust. I can sew, of course, and mend and darn. And I can kill a chicken, and dress it, and plant a garden and put food by, and make sausage, and blacklead the stove and keep the fires going. I don’t guess it matters, if you send the laundry out, but I can wash and starch and iron. And I can whitewash, and tend chickens, and churn, and take up the carpets and beat them, and —”

Mrs. Rosenbach lifted her hand. I stopped talking.

“Are you tactful?”

I had to think about that one. “I couldn’t say, ma’am. I didn’t have to be too tactful on the farm.” Then I rallied. “But Miss Chandler said I showed signs of a refined nature. I think I could be tactful, if I set my mind to it.”

“You’ll need to set your mind to it,” Mrs. Rosenbach said drily. “What we are looking for is someone who can shoulder the heavy work without making Malka feel that she’s an old woman. She’s touchy,” she added, in a way that made me wonder how much she liked Malka.

I heard footsteps, and young Mr. Rosenbach came in with my sandwich. He’d cut it in triangles and put it on a plate, instead of carrying it around in his hand, the way Luke does. He’d remembered the glass of milk, and he’d put sugar cookies on the side of the plate where the sandwich wasn’t. He even handed me a napkin. I never met such a man in my life.

Once I smelled food, I was hungry. But I didn’t gobble. I took a small sip of milk to show my refined nature and daintily nibbled my sandwich, which was cheese.

Mr. Rosenbach said, “Is it settled?” and his mother raised her head and gave him a look.

“Nothing is settled. I’m telling her about Malka.”

“She needs a place to spend the night,” Mr. Rosenbach persisted, in such a mild tone of voice that it didn’t seem like nagging. “It’s getting late.”

I glanced at the clock. It was past ten.

“She may stay here tonight,” Mrs. Rosenbach conceded. “If Malka doesn’t make too great a fuss, she may stay a few days.” She turned back to me. “If you do your work well, I will provide you with a written character, which will help you in your search for employment.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, but I felt a little disheartened, because she didn’t seem to think I’d be working for her. “I think I can help your housekeeper without hurting her feelings. And you’ll find me very willing.”

She tilted her head. There was something about the way she did it that reminded me of that word
satirical.
It isn’t a word I think about much, but it flashed through my head just then. “Willing to work in a Jewish household?” she said, and when I didn’t answer right away, she added, “You, I think, are not Jewish.”

“No, ma’am,” I said. I was as taken aback as if she’d asked me if I was an Indian. It seemed to me — I mean, it doesn’t
now,
but it did then — as though Jewish people were like Indians: people from long ago; people in books. I know there still
are
Indians out West, but they’re civilized now, and wear ordinary clothes. In the same way, I guess I knew there were still Jews, but I never expected to meet any.

“It’s just as I said, Solly,” said Mrs. Rosenbach, “she has no idea.” She seemed both irritated and amused. “Have you ever met a Jew before, Miss Lovelace?”

“No — no, ma’am,” I stammered, “but I’ve read about them in the Bible. And in
Ivanhoe,
Rebecca was a Jewess, and she’s my favorite character in the whole book.”

It was her turn to look surprised. “You’ve read
Ivanhoe
?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I saw that she’d been thinking I was an ignorant girl. That piqued me, but I didn’t waste time worrying over it, because I was racking my brain, trying to remember everything I knew about Jews. Most of the characters in
Ivanhoe
were horrid to Rebecca and Isaac, because they were Jews. But Ivanhoe was good to them, and Ivanhoe’s the hero. And Rebecca — why, Rebecca’s the heroine, and a hundred times more interesting than Rowena, who’s mostly just beautiful. I added, “
Ivanhoe
’s a really good book, Mrs. Rosenbach.”

She surprised me by laughing. “Rebecca is my favorite, too.” She exchanged glances with her son. “At any rate, she doesn’t seem to have learned much in the way of —” Then she used a word I haven’t heard before. It began with “aunty” and ended with “ism,” and from her tone of voice, I didn’t know whether I was supposed to have learned it or not.

I took a stab in the dark. I wasn’t going to let this job slip through my fingers. “I could learn,” I offered. “If it would make me a better hired girl, I could learn it.”

Mrs. Rosenbach shook her head. Her smile was rueful. I was pretty sure I’d said the wrong thing, but she didn’t like me any the worse for it. “You’re right, Solly. She is utterly without guile. And as you say, she’s a stranger in a strange land. I wouldn’t want Anna or Mimi wandering the streets at night.” She stood up. “I’ll show you to a room where you can sleep.”

When I began this entry, I thought I’d write the whole story of that night. I meant to describe the house and relate how Mrs. Rosenbach helped me put clean sheets on the bed, almost as if I was a guest. I wanted to write how my heart swelled with gratitude when I realized I’d found a safe harbor, and how I knelt by my bed and thanked Our Lord for guiding my footsteps.

I meant to write all that. But my candle is burning low and my hand is just about
falling off.
And I’m sleepy. I daren’t risk oversleeping, because Malka is fussy about getting up early — though I am learning to like Malka. In fact, I like everyone here, and Mr. Rosenbach best of all.

I don’t mean that I’ve fallen in love with Mr. Rosenbach, because that would be silly. He’s too old for me — though of course Mr. Rochester was older than Jane Eyre. But I
revere
Mr. Rosenbach, and I’ve made up my mind to be grateful to him as long as I live, and always to mention him in my prayers.

Thursday, July the sixth, 1911

Malka was tired from shopping for the Sabbath, so she let me do the dishes tonight. Of course she watched me like a hawk, so I couldn’t have made a mistake if I’d wanted to. But I was very careful, keeping my mind on
kashrut
all the time. I never went near the wrong sink.

That’s how I began here — using the wrong sink — and it was nearly fatal. When I awoke that first morning, I thought how important it would be to please Mrs. Rosenbach and her Malka. I vowed I would leave no stone unturned. But I was afraid to go down to the kitchen first thing, because Malka wouldn’t know who I was. I got dressed and held myself in readiness. When Mrs. Rosenbach knocked on my door, she seemed pleased that I was up and about.

She led me down the front stairs, but she pointed out the back stairs and said I’d be using them most of the time. I said, “Yes, ma’am, thank you,” though I couldn’t help regretting the main staircase. Floating down those wide, shallow stairs made me feel like a swan, or maybe a sylph. The back stairs are steep and narrow and mean looking. This house seems to have
hundreds
of stairs — I guess because the ceilings are so high. When I come from the basement to my third-floor room, it’s four double flights, and by the time I reach the top, I’m out of breath. I’m grateful I don’t have to carry bathwater up those stairs. There are two beautiful bathrooms, one on the first floor and one on the second. I’m allowed to use the one on the second floor.