The House Girl (13 page)

U
PSTAIRS, STILL IN HER PAJAMAS
, Lina opened a search on her computer and typed: Lu Anne Bell; Josephine Bell; Virginia. Pages of information about Lu Anne appeared. Scholarly articles, reproduced images, art journal pieces, feminist theories on her life and work, fan websites, even a site apparently established by and for artistic, angst-ridden teenage girls. Finally Lina brought up the website for the Bell Center for Women and Art, a museum and artists’ retreat located at Lu Anne Bell’s former home in Lynnhurst, Virginia. Lina clicked through photos of Bell paintings and the Bell Creek grounds, biographical information about Lu Anne, and financial statements released by the Stanmore Foundation, the organization that funded and operated the Bell Center.

But in 2.7 billable hours of research, Lina found only a few passing references to Josephine Bell.

And one photograph.

Lina stopped her mouse and narrowed her eyes. The pixelated screen glowed silver. It was a black-and-white image, degraded as though covered in dust or viewed through a screen. The caption read
Lu Anne Bell and house slave Josephine, Bell Creek, 1852
. A dark-haired white woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch of a house. Her dress was pale with voluminous skirts folded around her, her hair parted in the middle and gathered up in an elaborate style, with a forward curling section on each side, covering her ears. Lu Anne Bell wore the barest of smiles. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Next to her stood a young black woman, her hair pulled completely away from her face, her brown skin clear, the face broad, with high cheekbones and full lips. Even in such a poor reproduction Lina could see the beauty there. The eyes had a lightness to them, as though colored blue or green, and a sense of movement. Josephine’s shoulders were straight and square, rigid with a sense of anticipation. Josephine did not smile; she looked levelly into the camera, her face inscrutable. The camera had been placed so that the entire front of the house fit within the photographic frame, and it seemed that it was the house, not the women, that the photographer had sought to capture. The women had been there, on the porch, they had stopped where they were, not with any enthusiasm but perhaps with a sense of duty, a wish to not be bothersome.
Yes, we will remain still. Yes, we will direct our gaze toward the camera
.

Lu Anne Bell died in 1852, the same year the photo was taken. According to the Calhoun Gallery, nothing more was known about Josephine after that date.

Had Josephine known then, standing on the porch beside Lu Anne, that her world was about to change? Josephine’s head was poised and erect, held carefully, perhaps at the request of the photographer or perhaps because she had reason to move through her days with care. Josephine’s hands were clasped before her, the fingers tensely intertwined as though one hand pulled the other from a turbulent sea. Her eyes were fogged as if in motion. Perhaps she had looked beyond the photographer. Perhaps she had contemplated the road ahead.

H
ot strong sun came through the bedroom windows as Missus Lu slept, the cut on her face still red and raw.

Dinner, thought Josephine. Mister would be coming in soon for his dinner and nothing yet prepared.
Today like any other day
. Josephine rose from the bed and started toward the door, but her eyes caught and she stopped. There beneath the half-opened wardrobe door, cast half in shadow, were Missus’ good boots, the ones she wore for trips to town, calling, church.

Josephine would need shoes. She had not worn them the first time and it had been an error she remembered for many weeks upon her return, hobbling on tender soles.

Josephine eased herself back into the room, to the wardrobe, and with a quick hand snatched up the boots. They were short, made of brown leather with pewter buttons that fastened off-center, a low heel, good for walking, the bottoms worn but not cracked. Missus had her house slippers, and soon enough she’d be wearing her winter boots, the ones lined in gray flannel. These others she would not miss, surely not for today. Josephine would keep Missus indoors for the afternoon, under Doctor’s advisement. Rest, frivolous things, perhaps they would read aloud together or Missus might sit with embroidery on her lap. Boots would not be missed.

Josephine glanced quickly at Missus, who sighed and turned from her back to her side and then was still.

The boots were too bulky to fit under Josephine’s apron or skirts so she carried them low with one hand, her arm straight, her eyes pegged to Missus’ sleeping form, as she left the room. She would ascend the creaking flight up to the attic. She would walk slowly, avoid the weak spots where the wood had gone soft and complaining, careful not to disturb Missus with the noise. Under her sleeping pallet, she would hide the boots for later.

Josephine stepped to the attic door and at that moment heard outside the rattling of a horse and wheels on dirt. No one was expected. Callers were rare at Bell Creek, and the peddler had passed already for the season, his cart loaded with wares for the winter, harness bits and wool, tallow candles, poultices, spices and sweets. Perhaps the doctor had returned? Or a slave from the Stanmores, sent to borrow a bucket or a scythe?

Gazing out the hall window, Josephine saw beside the barn a buggy she did not recognize and a woman’s figure descending from the bench, a dark dress and white petticoats hanging low as she angled herself down to the ground. The woman wore leather riding gloves that she removed, picking at each finger with strong little pulls and glancing all around her, at the barn, the gate, the row of fruited apple trees. The woman’s body was short and rounded in the chest, at the backside, and her waist was stout so that the cloth of her dress seemed to strain to contain the all of her. Josephine did not immediately recognize the caller, and she narrowed her eyes to better make out the face, but a bonnet cast the woman’s features in shadow.

The woman walked with purpose up the path to the front door and Josephine heard knocking and the woman’s voice, shrill and frilly, “Yoo hoo, it’s Melly Clayton, come to call.”

Josephine looked down at the shoes in her hand. She could not now go upstairs to her room—the caller might wake Missus with her shouts, or Josephine would with her hasty up-and-down the steep attic steps. Josephine placed the shoes just inside the studio door, unobtrusive, half-hidden in shadow. Later, she would pass this way and retrieve them.

Josephine hurried downstairs and opened the front door.

“Good day,” said Melly Clayton, looking beyond Josephine. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Bell. I passed the doctor on the road this morning and he said she was most unwell. Is she accepting visitors?”

Melly Clayton did not wait for an answer but stepped into the house. She untied her bonnet and handed it, limp with damp, to Josephine. Now Josephine could see her face well: rosy in the cheeks, blond hair darkened around the crown with sweat, not young but not yet old. Her round pale eyes were set too close together and gave her a cunning look, like a ferret or a stoat, and her chin sloped away at a lazy angle into the doughy flesh of her neck. No, Josephine decided, this Melly Clayton had not called before at Bell Creek. She watched as the woman’s too-close eyes roamed over all that could be seen in the entry: a portrait of brother Henry Bell done in dusky oils that hung at the foot of the stairs, the small chandelier missing dozens of its crystal pieces but still it glittered like a night sky, the umbrella stand, and beside it the small table with its single drawer.

“Mrs. Bell’s asleep upstairs,” Josephine said. “I’ll tell her that you called. Perhaps you can come again tomorrow?” She said these words with little hope that Melly Clayton would indeed leave. The woman had in her something sly and determined, a purpose that would not easily be put off.

“Oh, no, why don’t I wait. A midmorning nap never lasts more’n a few minutes. And I am very eager to express my condolences for her condition, and to see if there is anything that I can do to assist. Dr. Vickers instructed that I come here straightaway and I do not intend to cross him!” Melly gave a sharp, high laugh and wandered into the parlor. She turned and stared at Josephine. “Tea?” she said.

Josephine left the room. In the kitchen, she set the kettle on the hot coals for Melly Clayton’s tea and placed a cup and saucer on a painted wooden tray. In the cupboard there was a tin of store-bought biscuits that Mister had brought back from Richmond last Christmas. Missus Lu would present them to callers, arranged prettily on a plate, each in its own red wrapper with the ends twisted. Josephine had never tasted one but the discarded papers smelled of almond and butter and a faint bitterness, like the rind of an orange. She opened the tin and inhaled deeply as she always did, and this was almost enough, the smell so full and rich. Just a few remained and Josephine wondered, did Melly Clayton merit such attentions? No, not with her coarse manner, those plump hands and calculating eyes. Josephine replaced the biscuit tin in the cupboard and looked for a moment upon its half-filled shelves.

Quickly, she took out three short biscuits, an apple, ashcake, salted pork, a half-loaf of bread. She pulled a tea towel from a drawer and spread the cloth on the long, low cutting table built from oak planks taller than a man, the table she had used for husking corn, cutting meat, skinning fish and rabbits, opening oysters, cracking eggs, kneading bread. And now, here, food for her journey. She folded the checked square end-over-end, knotted the corners together, the food inside. The kettle began to rush with steam, and Josephine plucked it from the coals and poured the tea. And what to do now with the bundle? She surveyed the kitchen she knew so well, every pocket and corner, but each hiding place seemed only to trumpet her theft. Then her eyes settled on a spot. By the back door was a table, a nest of gourd bowls upon it, a place easy to pass by unnoticed, where later she might pause for a moment, reach out a hand, then glide silently out the door. Josephine placed the bundle there, behind the bowls.

She smoothed her skirts and the frizz of hair around her face that had escaped from the tie and then carried the tea tray into the parlor.

“Ma’am?” said Josephine. She stood in the doorway of an empty room.

“Yes, I’m here.” The voice came from below and Josephine dropped her gaze. Melly was in a corner, on her hands and knees, the edge of the rug flipped up. She appeared to be examining its underside. Josephine caught a hint of its smell—of distant lands, a spiciness, pepper and smoke—as Melly flipped the rug over right-ways, displacing a sudden plume of dust that hung brief and radiant in a shelf of sunlight.

Melly scrambled to her feet, her pink cheeks shading pinker. Without a word, she sat on the brown sofa, the same spot where only hours before Dr. Vickers had been. Josephine placed the tray on the table in front of Melly, who immediately picked up the teacup, a line of black grit visible under each of her fingernails. Her eyes again roamed the room, seeming to appraise each item as a merchant might. A long time ago Josephine had learned to watch without watching, to dislike without any evidence of it showing on her face. What to do with this Melly Clayton? How to persuade her to leave?

But a bell rang then, the large brass handbell with a hickory handle that Missus used to summon Josephine when her voice was too tired to call.

“Ah, is that Mrs. Bell?” Melly asked.

“Yes,” said Josephine. “Just a moment,” and she left the room. With a sinking dismay, she realized that Melly Clayton would stay for a morning visit, then Mister would come in from the fields for dinner, then a quiet activity for Missus, reading to or embroidery. Or again in the studio? The elements of the day stretched before Josephine, all in upheaval due to Melly Clayton’s visit, minutes knocked against minutes, task against task. Soap making, canning the blackberries, washing and mending the torn, bloodstained sheets. Retrieval of the food and shoes stretched far from her reach. And what if Missus saw the shoes there? Or Mister? Shoes were precious things. They did not sit in the low shadows of doorways.

Josephine entered Missus’ room to find her sitting up in bed, still in her slip, pushing the dark mass of her hair into some approximation of an upsweep, but without pins it kept releasing from itself and falling back onto her shoulders.

“Josephine, who is here? I heard a woman’s voice. Who is it?”

“Miss Melly Clayton,” Josephine said evenly.

“Melly Clayton?” Missus’ eyes narrowed, her face pinched up as though she were straining to push the memory forward with the same force applied to a physical thing, a stuck window or a stubborn cow. “Melly Clayton. The schoolteacher? Whyever is she here?”

“She said Dr. Vickers told her to call, to offer her assistance to you. And her condolences.”

“Condolences?” Missus let her hands drop from her hair.

“That’s what she said, Missus.”

“Condolences. My word, I am not dead yet. Josephine, help me get dressed.”

M
ELLY ROSE AS
M
ISSUS
L
U
entered the room, Josephine walking behind. “Oh my dear Lu Anne, look at you!” Melly’s eyes went straight to Missus Lu’s cut cheek, but she said nothing. “You look healthy as a spring calf, shame on Dr. Vickers for telling me different.”

Missus smiled and looked to the empty teacup and saucer on the table. “You are too kind, my dear. What a lovely surprise to see you! Please sit. Would you like more tea? I have some lovely store-bought biscuits and we still have some of that molasses cake, don’t we, Josephine?”

The two clasped hands and sat. Melly began recounting the details of meeting Dr. Vickers by chance on the road, his concern for Mrs. Bell, his admonition to Melly that she must call at once.

In the kitchen, Josephine fixed the tea and placed the last remaining biscuits on a plate. When she returned, Missus said, “See how well she takes care of me?” as Josephine placed the tray on the table, and the words were spoken as though Josephine’s caregiving had been the subject of discussion.