The Woman in the Photo (11 page)

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Summer 1888

T
he thumping of Mother's footfalls up the stairs rattles the entire cottage. Nettie is rattled, too; her hands quiver as she rushes to remove my gown.

“Leave us, please,” Mother says when she sweeps into my room without so much as a tap on the door. Tucking her chin,
Nettie pivots and silently disappears, turning the knob all the way to the right to soundlessly give us privacy. With the back of my dress only half unbuttoned, I nonetheless take a deep breath and turn to face my punishment with my head held high. “I acted purposefully, Mother,” I say, attempting to camouflage my nerves in haughtiness. “My sanity, and my reputation, are intact.”

Mother says, “Here.” Brusquely, she spins me around to continue what Nettie had started. “You mustn't soil your gown. Whatever possessed you to bring it to the lake?”

Truthfully, I haven't a proper answer. The honest reply would be a single word:
love.

On my last trip to New York, traveling with Father, I'd seen the gown on a mannequin in a dressmaker's shop window along Sixth Avenue. At first sight, I lost my breath. Such fine detailing. What exquisite color combinations. Cream, blush, butter. The pleating, the rosettes. Perfection. Quite simply, it
called
to me.

“Father, I must loo—”

“Go,” he'd said. As the fates would have it, there was a cigar shop a few doors down with its own smoking room. Father had regarded it covetously as we strolled past. Brilliant location on the Ladies' Mile. How many other fashionable women had deposited their fathers and husbands there? My father was all too happy to escort me into the dress shop with the promise that he would return in half an hour or so. Smelling, no doubt, of Brazilian tobacco—his favorite.

Oh, what a joy that dress shop was. Running my hand over the silks was like stroking the belly of a kitten. The gown in
the window was French (of course), from the House of Worth. Charles Frederick Worth was expanding his ready-to-wear line beyond Paris. No stylish American lady could boast a proper wardrobe without at least one of his creations. Not that the dress in the window was factory-made. Heavens no. It was a Charles Worth
original,
intended to do exactly what it did: entice women into the shop.

“I see you in
bisque,
” one of the gentlemen on the sales floor cooed in my ear as he draped a swatch of sinfully luxurious lace over my shoulder. “See how it complements your raven hair?”

Clearly he believed I was older than my seventeen years. A fact that flattered me no end. I smiled regally as I noted the elegant way he wore his foppishly billowing ascot. Was that clear varnish on his nails?

“The proportions of your figure are exquisite, my dear,” he went on. “Mr. Worth would be honored to personally design a gown for you that would be the talk of New York.”

“I live in Pittsburgh,” I said, adding, “Upper St. Clair.”

“Even better. Have you any special events upcoming?”

Disclosing my debut the following year would reveal my youth. Plus, the gentleman would most certainly conclude that Father couldn't afford such a splendid couture dress if he believed I would purchase a debut gown a full year before the ball—one that wouldn't be the very
latest
style.

“Wouldn't wearing a Charles Worth original make
any
event special?” I asked with a twinkle in my voice, pleased at my quick wit.

Throwing his head back in a hearty laugh, the salesman
steered me over to the pier glass and said, “Let me fetch Miss Callaghan to take your measurements.”

I asked, “Might the dress in the
window
fit me?”

One brow cocked like a pixie's. “Let's see.”

How could I say no?

I could not. Though Father could. After Miss Callaghan took me into the dressing room to assist me into the gown, Father returned to the store to find that his daughter was passionately in love.

“It's divine,” I said, swooning, twirling so that the lace overlay fluttered like a butterfly's wings. “The only alterations needed are minor. The cuffs and the hem and perhaps the tiniest tuck in the waist.”

“Do you have any idea of the cost, Elizabeth?” he said quietly in my ear. It wasn't a question seeking an answer. More, it was a statement that I'd gone mad.

“Priceless, I should think,” I whispered in return. “I'll wear it at my debut. You'll have the most beautiful daughter in all of Pittsburgh.”

At that moment, it wasn't a complete untruth. In my mind I told myself that I
would
wear that stunning gown if I were able to resist showing it off before my coming-out ball.
If.
Dizzy amid so many fine textiles, how could I be blamed for lacking the clarity I needed to tell the absolute truth? Besides, Father would never remember what I promised a full year earlier. He wouldn't even remember Mother's birthday if our butler didn't prod him with the gift he bought for her. Using household funds, of course.

“I already have the most beautiful daughter in Pittsburgh,” Father said.

Extending my neck to kiss his cheek, I told him quite honestly, “I shall expire at this very moment if I cannot call a Charles Worth original my own.”

Silently, the salesman appeared behind us. Almost to himself he said, “Nothing makes a woman feel more prized than a touch of glimmer to bounce the light.”

How extraordinarily true.

How could Father say no?

He did not.

When we returned home to Pittsburgh on the evening train, with a large tissue-wrapped package, Father told Mother he'd been unable to resist. Mother sighed. “I knew it was dangerous leaving you alone with her.”

It took a few weeks for my grandfather's talented apprentice to fine-tune the alterations. By the time he was done, we were nearly set to summer at Lake Conemaugh. The mere thought of leaving such a masterpiece alone in an Upper St. Clair cupboard for three months was unbearable. I had to have it with me. To stroke it and admire it and try it on from time to time. So I brought an extra trunk.

Who knew I might need it so soon?

In my cottage bedroom, with Mother's help, I step out of the glorious gown. She also unfastens my petticoat and releases my rib cage from its corseted vise, carefully laying the items flat on my bed for Nettie. Then she turns to me—still in my underclothes—and says, “Sit.”

I sit. My earlier confidence has all but drained away. I feel tears approaching. My head dangles forward on my neck. A purple snapdragon tumbles onto my lap.

“Do you have any idea what you've done?” Mother says.

Lips trembling, I nod. “Discretion and propriety are as important to Father's practice as a proper diagnosis.” I echo Mother's frequent admonition. She sits beside me and takes my hands in her soft grip.

“My brilliant daughter,” she says.

“But, I—
pardon?
” Looking up, I can do little else but blink.

“Unless you do something irreversible in the coming year, you'll have your pick of Pittsburgh's
best
after your debut. Even the handsome Mr. Tottinger, if you want him. I saw the telltale expression in his eyes.”

“Expression?”

“Awe, my darling. That very rarest of emotions.”

Rising, Mother catches her reflection in my dressing-table mirror. She reaches her hands up to smooth her hair into shape. Before leaving me alone to my thoughts, she says, “We have much work to do. You are not to leave the cottage today. But tomorrow, wear the lavender cotton.”

OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS

Christmas Day

December 25, 1821

C
hristmas morning in eastern Massachusetts is stunning. Pristine snowfall blankets the fields like cake frosting; ice sheets slide down the French River. The morning Clara Barton came into the world was no different. Except, perhaps, for the scandal of her birth.

“Whatever was Sarah thinking?”

“Clearly there was no thought at all.” The ladies of the village snickered behind their gloved hands as they descended the church steps. Word had spread quickly that forty-year-old Sarah Barton had delivered a daughter that morning. But the women in town had been gossiping about it for months.

“I, for one, feel sorry for the poor dear. To be married to a husband with such an appetite. No wonder Sarah spends so much time cleaning her home. It's her only rest.”

After an eruption of laughter, the ladies of Oxford hurried into the warmth of the nearest home to resume the more decorous discussion of the proper baby gift for a child who was so clearly an accident.

Honestly, few women in town were close to Sarah Barton. All those eccentricities! Her family was well off, but she had been seen rummaging through produce bins in search of
spoiling
fruits and vegetables. It was said she preferred to buy unfresh goods only to cut away the darkened bits. Good heavens. And there was that furious housekeeping. Often, she scrubbed the stairs in her home so vigorously her knuckles bled. Once, she dismantled—piece by piece—the iron stove her husband gave her and threw it in the pond on their property. Its function was subpar, she exclaimed, her cheeks ruddy with fury. Her old fireplace oven worked more efficiently. How could she run an immaculate household with an inferior cookstove?

“It's not as if baby Clara can wear her sister's infant clothes or play with her baby toys,” one of the townswomen said. “Dorothea is
seventeen
.”

At the mention of Clara's troubled eldest sister, the women fell silent. Dorothea Barton was well known in town. A wild child from the start, she had grown more unmanageable as the years passed. At the most inopportune times, she would chatter nonstop. Other days, her mood was as dark as a thundercloud. Rousing her from bed was not for the faint of heart. Rebellious and disobedient as she was, it was feared Dorothea would never entice a suitable husband. Who would take on such a handful? The best the family could do was lock her in her room in an attempt to alter her nature. With solitary reflection, they prayed
she would remember that she was a
lady
and act accordingly: passive, compliant, dutiful, beholden to men.

No such blessing. When confined, Dorothea only went mad. So furiously did she pitch back and forth in her rocking chair her father was eventually forced to saw off its legs.

“Did you hear?” One bleak morning, whispers circulated around the village square like wasps over the honeypot. “Dorothea Barton got out.”

“Out?”

“Climbed through her bedroom window.”

“Dear me, no.”

“Her father found her in the backwoods at midnight. Muddy, incoherent. Her hair untended and full of brambles.”

“Is she bound for the asylum?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Mr. Barton has now installed
bars
on her window. They are at their wits' end.”

Such was the chaos into which Clara Barton was born. A bipolar sister, obsessive-compulsive mother, and, later, a suicidal brother who scandalized the family by succeeding in taking his own life. Clara, herself, would battle bouts of melancholy, occasionally suffering so severely she found it impossible to pull herself out of bed.

From childhood, Clara Barton learned to navigate the bedlam in her family by steering clear of her tempestuous mother, attempting to calm Dorothea's manic tirades, and doing her best to fit into a family of adults. All the while fighting a crippling shyness that often rendered her unable to speak.

As Lee Parker discovered that afternoon in the tawny sunlight of the Beverly Hills Library, Clara Barton spent much of
her childhood feeling lost and lonely. As if her mere presence were an inconvenience. As though she were always in the
way
.

Until one late afternoon in 1833 when everything changed.

It was a typically striking day in New England. Maple and birch trees were ablaze in flaming orange. In preparation for winter, the Bartons were raising a new barn. As was customary, several men from the village were there to assist. It didn't matter that the Bartons were odd. When a fellow farmer needed help building a new barn, all able men were on hand to help. Such was the New England way.

The rafters were already up. The long wood slats of the sides had been nailed together on the ground. All that was left to do was raise the sides and affix them to the sturdy frame.

Suddenly eleven-year-old Clara heard shouting through the open window of her bedroom in the house.

“Summon the doctor!” Panic was clear in the baritone voice. Like spatter from a puddle, the family scattered. Mr. Barton raced to the village for the town physician, his wife ran to the cabinet where she kept rudimentary medical supplies. Dorothea pounded her fists against her locked bedroom door. Little Clara dashed outside to the barn. There, she saw a sight she would never forget: the twisted, bloody body of her twenty-five-year-old brother, David. He lay on the ground, writhing in pain.

“He fell from the rafters. One moment he was straddling the center beam, the next . . .” The man's voice trailed off in despair. Clara dove to her brother's side.

A throng of men huddled around the injured David Barton. Several tried to shield young Clara from the awful sight of her brother's broken body, but she refused to leave him until the
doctor arrived. Not even when her mother scuttled through the crowd with clean bandages and wringing hands. Only when professional help appeared did Clara stand and melt into the crush of neighbors. Yet, she remained and watched. She saw the doctor calmly assess the damage, gently squeezing the bones in David's legs and arms. The doctor's relaxed breathing was a soothing tonic, soon quieting her brother's moans. Clara noticed the way the doctor firmly hushed everyone when he pressed the ear trumpet to her brother's chest for auscultation. She saw him take a fold of clean gauze from her mother's hand and press it to the bloody wound on David's forehead. Utterly composed. Completely in control. Calling for a stretcher, the physician directed the men to lift David onto the transport so gently the motion would not injure him further. Clara insisted on joining her parents on their way to the hospital. For the first time in her life, she felt unconcerned about herself and her shyness. Her brother's well-being was all that mattered.

That awful day altered the trajectory of Clara Barton's life. Her brother would survive, but his injuries would disable him for two years. During that time, he needed around-the-clock care. Little Clara volunteered. Her parents refused. But their young daughter was not to be dissuaded. With care and calm beyond her years, she proved that she was up to the challenge. At
eleven,
she changed soiled bandages, administered medicine, even applied and removed leeches when doctors suggested “bleeding” David to health. She demonstrated that she could care for her brother as well as any professional nurse. No longer would she be in the way. Clara Barton had found a purpose. At last, she felt
useful
.