Doppelgänger (6 page)

He returned to the bedroom. In one hand was a glass oil lamp, probably the one from the hall table. In the other was the revolver. Julian set both on the table next to his side of the bed, and he sat down, facing away from Anine.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

“The same thing as last night. Footsteps outside the bedroom—the boards in the floor creaking under the carpet. Then someone giggling.”

His body was very still. He stared at the wall. At last he said, “Anine, there's no one here. The front door is locked. No one can get in.”

“I
heard
it, Julian. I know I did.”

After a long pause he leaned forward, pulled up the glass lamp cover, and blew out the wick. “You imagined it,” he declared, and swung into bed.

“No, I didn't. I'm sure I heard it.”

“You
thought
you heard it.”

“It was the same thing as last night. That means when I heard it last night it couldn't have been Mrs. O'Haney.”

“You imagined it last night too,” he sighed. Then he emitted a strange sound, kind of like a grunt. “I knew it.”

Within two minutes he was asleep. Anine lay there in the darkness, now feeling more terrified and bewildered than ever.

I didn't imagine it. I heard it. Not just tonight, but last night too.

The ticking of the clock was loud again, a cymbal crash every second.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

She didn't sleep. In the deathful silence between each deafening tick she waited in terror that she would again hear the creaking and the spectral giggling from behind the bedroom door.

Anine knew very little about the world of domestic servants but she observed very quickly that her surmise about it being difficult to hire a replacement for Mrs. O'Haney was correct. The notice began running in the
Times
two days after the Irishwoman's death. On that day only one potential applicant came to call at the house, a thoroughly unsuitable woman called Polly Mace with terrible manners and no references. The day after that no one came at all. Anine hated to heap extra duties upon Mrs. Hennessy but there was simply no choice. She bore up cheerfully, washing clothes and cleaning the water-closet, but on the second afternoon that no applicants answered the ad Mrs. Hennessy unwittingly confirmed what Anine suspected.

“Most of the Fifth Avenue maids have heard of the troubles in this house,” said the cook. “First the caretaker, then Mrs. O'Haney. They're scared. If you pardon me, ma'am, the only women you'll find to take the job are the coloreds.”

At dinner that night Anine asked Julian how he was progressing at finding a valet. He'd run a second notice in the
Times
advertising the position, but he was interviewing candidates at his office and they did not come to the house. “I've had quite a lot of applicants,” he said. “Of course, few of them have much experience in serving a gentleman.”

“Almost no one has come about the ladies' maid job. Mrs. Hennessey says it's because they're afraid of the house. I can't say I blame them.”

Julian grunted. “Naturally the women are a more superstitious lot. There should be a line around the block. Any domestic should be honored to work so close to Fifth Avenue.”

The coloreds
. Something about Mrs. Hennessey's remark bothered Anine and she wasn't sure what it was. In the morning Anine made a point to rise late, and she had not yet had her breakfast by the time Julian left the house for his office. As she hoped, his copy of the
Times
was still on the dining room table. While Mrs. Hennessey served breakfast Anine turned to the advertisements on the back pages. She quickly found the one Julian had placed:

SITUATION OFFERED. LADIES' MAID. Live-in. Must have good City references.

Experience essential. Apply in person, 11 West 38th Street,

Manhattan. WHITES ONLY.

After breakfast Anine took a card and a fountain pen and wrote out the text of the advertisement, omitting
Whites Only
. Then she put on one of her many new outfits, a blue strolling dress with a jersey bodice—it had a matching hat—and asked Mrs. Hennessey to call her a carriage. “I'm going uptown to the newspaper office,” she announced. “You are not to say a word of this to Mr. Atherton when he returns home.”

Mrs. Hennessey looked slightly taken aback, but she nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” She went outside to summon a carriage.

Over breakfast the next morning Anine was slightly apprehensive that Julian would notice the advertisement had been revised, but if he saw it he said nothing of it. His only comment on the
Times
was about politics. “The Republicans have sealed their own doom by nominating Garfield. Hancock will make short work of him in November. I trust Father will be at sixes and sevens with a Democrat back in the executive mansion, but he has to learn that it's not 1865 anymore. The war is behind us.”

Barely an hour after Julian departed for his office on Broad Street the knocker on the front door sounded and Anine opened it onto a black woman, about forty, in a plain black dress and carrying a single rumpled carpetbag. Her eyes were very dark and her face had a careworn quality about it.

“I'm here about the ladies' maid job,” said the woman bluntly. “Is it still open?”

Chapter Five

The Spöke

Anine showed the woman into the parlor. The place was much different now than it had been on the terrible day they moved in. The velvet drapes were deep forest green, matching the carpet; the surface of the piano, a brand-new Chickering imported from Boston, shimmered like a mirror. The painting of Mrs. Quain had been replaced by a streetscape depicting St. James's Park. On her honeymoon Anine saw the picture hanging in a gallery in London and bought it on the spot. Only the bookshelves were bare; Anine hadn't yet gotten around to ordering books.

“I'm Mrs. Atherton,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Please forgive the empty shelves in this room. We just moved in not long ago.”

“My name is Clea Wicks.” The woman thrust an envelope into Anine's hand. “My references.”

“Do sit down, Mrs. Wicks.”

“It's
Miss
Wicks. I never been married.”

“Well, please sit down, Miss Wicks. Would you like some tea?” Anine pulled the bell cord.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

Clea Wicks sat bolt upright on one of the Queen Anne chairs, her shoulders not touching the back of the chair. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. After Mrs. Hennessy appeared—“Tea for Miss Wicks and myself, please, Mrs. Hennessy”—Anine opened the envelope and read Wicks's references. She had worked for a long time in the employ of a family called Carter. Anine noticed the address was on Fifth Avenue.
“Miss Wicks is well-behaved, clean and obedient enough for a Negress,”
said the letter.
“In the 11 years she worked here she never stole anything.”
That was all the letter said. Anine sensed there was something the Carters had deliberately reserved.

“This is your only reference?” Anine asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Why did you leave the employ of the Carters?”

Wicks shrugged. “They didn't want me anymore.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

Anine sipped from her cup of tea.
We're not starting out very well
. “I'm likely to be doing some entertaining, social entertaining. If you worked on Fifth Avenue I assume you've handled that sort of thing before?”

“Yes, ma'am. I know all about dressing society ladies.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, ma'am. I learned when I first came to New York.”

“Do you work well with other servants? We have a cook, Mrs. Hennessey, and my husband is in the process of hiring a valet.” Without thinking about it she added, “They're white.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Miss Wicks reached for her teacup. After a sip she said, “Can I ask you a question, ma'am?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Where are you from?”

Anine smiled self-consciously. “You noticed my accent. I was born in Sweden. I met my husband when he was there on a diplomatic job. I've only been in America a short time.” She sipped tea. “Where are
you
from, Miss Wicks?”

“Georgia. I got sold to Louisiana”—she pronounced it
Loozy-anna
—“when I was sixteen. Came to New York after the war ended.”

So she was a slave
, Anine realized. This fascinated her. She'd read about American slavery but it seemed so distant in time and experience, the dusty stuff of history books. Now it was suddenly more real to her—as was this woman herself.

“You must have found New York overwhelming at first,” said Anine. “I certainly have.”

“Sweden's farther from New York than Louisiana,” Wicks replied, in a deadpan tone and with a curiously knowing stare.

After this exchange the conversation abruptly died. Anine guessed that was to be expected. A good ladies' maid didn't chat much.
And now I have to tell her
, she thought. Already she found herself hoping against hope that Miss Wicks wouldn't decline the job when she heard what had happened to her predecessors. It was only in this thought that Anine realized she'd already decided to offer it to her.

“Miss Wicks, there's something I must tell you.” Anine set her teacup and saucer down. “Perhaps you've heard about this house. The, uh…
white
ladies already seem to know.”

She looked up. Clea Wicks's face was as blank and immobile as stone.

“We've had two recent tragedies in this house, both involving servants. My husband hired a caretaker to look after the place while we were on our honeymoon in Europe. The gentleman, er…he ended his own life, for reasons we don't understand. Then, just last week, your predecessor in this position—Mrs. O'Haney—she died in the servant's room upstairs in the garret. She was old and it was entirely natural. She had only been on the job for a day or so. Naturally these two events have caused…
rumors
.”

Miss Wicks responded in a curious way. After taking a sip of tea she set down her cup and said, as bluntly as she said everything else, “Are you scared of ghosts, ma'am?”

I like this woman. She's got—
tapperhet
.
The Swedish word Anine thought of had a shade of meaning that didn't translate literally into English. It was somewhere between
fortitude
and
bravery
, but whatever it was, she recognized it in Wicks.

“No.” She smiled. She reached for her teacup. “If after hearing what I've had to say you'd still like to join this house, Miss Wicks, I would be very grateful to have you.”

Wicks calmly finished her tea. Then she stood up, reached under the chair and picked up her carpetbag. “Thank you, ma'am.” Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. “What do you need done first?”

“Unacceptable!” Julian cried. “Completely
unacceptable
! You will dismiss her immediately!
Now!
Tonight! She will not spend one night inside this house, is that perfectly clear?”

They were standing in the second parlor, the one across the entryway from Anine's parlor. In her head she had already begun to call her own room the Green Parlor. The décor there was entirely her own, but Julian wanted to reserve the second parlor for himself. It was more red than green, with burgundy leather chairs, the reddish-brown spines of law tomes and the ginger hair of Thomas Jefferson—Julian's idol—in the painting above the fireplace. Anine could swear that the gas lights in here glowed slightly red too, at least as compared to elsewhere in the house. This, therefore, was the Red Parlor. Right now its tone seemed to match his emotion.

She stood impassively before him. She'd expected Julian wouldn't be thrilled at the discovery that she'd employed Miss Wicks when he returned home from the office, but she hadn't anticipated a full-scale volcanic tantrum. Julian shouted so loud that there was no question everyone in the house—especially Miss Wicks—had heard him. He now stood, jaw quivering with rage, waiting for Anine's acquiescence.

She didn't offer it. “I want her. She's worked on Fifth Avenue for years. She says she knows society ladies. And she speaks plainly. I like that.”

“You
like
that.” Julian made the same sort of phlegmatic grunting sound with which he had dismissed her report of hearing laughter in the hallway. He paced, hands on his hips, and then finally turned toward the wheeled tea-cart in the corner. Its surface was laid with goblets and decanters of spirits. As he began fixing himself a drink he said, “I don't give a hoot in hell, Anine, whether she can speak ancient Greek while standing on her head. She's a Negress. There will be no Negroes or Negresses employed in this house. That is
final.
”

“What does it matter whether she's a Negress? Besides, we haven't many other choices. I told you what Mrs. Hennessey said about women being afraid—”

“Mrs. Hennessey can go to the devil. You deceived me. You changed the notice without my approval and without my knowledge.”

“If I hadn't I would have no ladies' maid at all.”

“Then perhaps you should get used to doing things for yourself,” he said, before taking a belt of brandy. Wrinkling his nose, in a sneering tone he added, “But of course, we can't have
that
! You're a little Swedish princess used to having her own way. You wouldn't know how to wipe your own ass if you didn't have a maid to do it for you.”

She was stung by his sudden bitterness. “You plan to employ a valet.”

“Yes, I do. A
white
valet. Just as you are going to have a
white
maid. Everyone in this goddamned house is going to be white.” With his hand holding the brandy glass he pointed at the door. “Now you go dismiss her right now.
Right this minute
.”

An acerbic reply swam to Anine's lips.
Your older brother was killed fighting for the Union
, she wanted to say.
He died for that woman's freedom, and you won't even employ her as a maid?
But she held her tongue. She unclasped her hands, then walked to the doorway of the Red Parlor—it was closed off by a set of mahogany pocket doors—slid them open and stepped out into the hall.

She found Miss Wicks standing there, carpetbag in hand. She didn't look offended or disappointed. Indeed her face was as blank and stony as ever. “I'll be leaving now,” she said. “You don't need to pay me for today. Let's just forget about it.”

Anine stopped in front of her. “Don't be ridiculous. I'd like to change my dress before dinner. There's a white tea gown in the closet. Would you lay it out for me, please?”

Wicks studied her. Anine felt herself very much on the spot, not a place she found comfortable, but she knew that if she showed the slightest hint that Julian had intimidated her Wicks would never respect her. That was part of it, but there was more.
If she goes, it'll mean another night here in this house, alone with Julian
.
If she stays at least someone else might hear the creaks in the night
.

“Yes, ma'am,” answered the maid. She turned and started up the stairs.

Julian was so furious with her that he slept in one of the guest rooms on the third floor that night. In his rage he grumbled things like
this isn't over
and
I'll take care of her in the morning
, but Anine wondered if she hadn't already won the dispute over Clea Wicks. They'd had minor disagreements before but this was the first time she'd driven him to open shouting and recriminations. The unpleasantness of the affair hung over her like a pall as she prepared for bed. Miss Wicks's presence was comforting. The maid brought a pitcher of water and a glass on a silver tray and laid out Anine's dress for the morning.

“I'll be turning out the gas,” said Wicks as she left the bedroom for the last time. A small oil lamp still burned on Anine's dressing table. “You need anything else, ma'am?”

“No, Miss Wicks. Thank you, and good night.”

“Thank
you
, ma'am.” This was as close as Wicks got to mentioning the incident. A moment later she turned down the gas and the bedroom became a den of leaping orange shadows.

Anine read Walter Scott's
The Bride of Lammermoor
for another half hour before she closed the book and reached over to blow out the lamp. It was strange being in the bedroom without Julian. Even though she was glad of Wicks's presence in the house she felt dreadfully alone. Nighttime brought terrors. When she slept she had the nightmare of Ola; when she was awake she thought she heard the creaking and muffled laughter behind the door. Lately she wasn't sure which was worse.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

To keep her mind off the fear she tried to take a trip in her head. She thought of Gamla stan, the old city of Stockholm. It existed as a physical place in her mind and she tried to envision every building as she last saw it. She pictured herself standing at one end of Prästgatan, one of the crooked streets that lurched and wound around between the ancient brick and stucco-faced buildings. She recalled particularly an orange-colored house that she remembered seeing in her early childhood. It was just before the intersection of one of the other streets—she knew all their names, but she couldn't quite recall which street crossed at the corner with the orange house. There was a tavern just a stone's throw away, which she had never been in, of course, but—

Creak!

She sat upright in bed.
Was that it? Was that the spöke?
She was surprised at herself that she'd used this word
spöke
in her mind. It meant
ghost
, but when she thought in English about the frightening sounds she usually called it
the creak
.

She listened for the laughter. Usually it was very soft and sounded like it was moving, often coming from the right-hand end of the hallway. But she didn't hear it now. The ticking of the clock seemed to drown out every other sound. At last she willed her body to relax and she lay back down.

Back to Gamla stan
, she thought. She closed her eyes and envisioned it, the orange house, the tavern beyond—

Creeeeeeak!

This one was much louder. It sounded like it was just behind the door.

She reached for the oil lamp on the bedside table. There was a box of matches there too, but fumbling in the dark she couldn't find it.

BANG!

A moment later the bedroom door burst open. In the darkness the figure rushing toward her was impossible to see as anything other than a blur. Anine screamed. The terror was seizing her now. Her nightmare had come true. The thing lunging at her was Ola Bergenhjelm, returned from the grave.

“No! Please! Forgive me!”
Two powerful hands, feeling more human than the cold grasp of Ola's vengeful corpse, grabbed her wrists. She realized suddenly the monster was alive and human, not dead and ghoulish, but her fear was just the same. One of the warm crushing hands let go of her wrist. A moment later it began hauling her sleeping-gown over her head. In the dim light from the hallway she saw a sudden glimpse of freckles on the back of the hand clutching at her.