Hannah: Daughters of the Sea #1 (7 page)

T
HE DAYS WERE BUSY
ones for Hannah, as the Hawleys had been away in Paris for a long time and were anxious to see their old friends in Boston. There were many dinner parties and teas, and when the Hawleys were not entertaining, they were attending parties in other people’s homes, or going to the symphony, or to events at their clubs and the various museums and societies that they belonged to. There was much work for the staff. The poor laundress was kept so busy that a helper had to be hired to deal with all the ironing, bleaching, and starching. Hannah struck a truce of sorts with Jade, who more or less ignored her when she came up with the pan of milk. Lila never spoke to her when
they encountered each other. The family, except for little Ettie, tended to peer right through Hannah when she came into the morning room to tend the fire. Hannah realized that she was becoming just what Mrs. Claremont’s book equated with success in terms of domestic service—invisible to her employers. “It is only the surly, clumsy, sloppy, and dishonest servant who attracts attention,” Mrs. Claremont had written. “The perfect servant becomes invisible to the masters of the house.”

The only threat to Hannah’s invisibility was Henrietta. Clarice, the middle Hawley daughter, was both beautiful and dreamy and could often be found with her nose stuck in a book. But it was nine-year-old Ettie who actually spoke to Hannah when she chanced upon her in one of the downstairs rooms.

One morning, as Hannah was laying kindling for a fire in the music room, Ettie came in with a small bouquet of flowers.

“Hi, Hannah, Mama said to put these in water right away and then set them on the little table.”

“Is there to be a party in here?”

“Sort of,” Ettie replied earnestly. She was a child who thought carefully about every word she said. Her hair was a dark chestnut brown. Her solemn gray eyes were set off by thick lashes. She had a little dimple that flashed playfully even when she said the most serious things. And despite Mrs. Claremont’s several admonishments against engaging in nonessential conversations, Hannah often found herself talking with Ettie.

“Now, what do you mean by ‘sort of,’ Ettie?”

“I think there’s supposed to be some musical performance.”

“Does anyone ever play the harp, Ettie?”

“Not really that much anymore. There used to be a lady in Maine who played it, but I think she died. We have an even nicer harp in Maine. But I think Aunt Alice is coming tonight and she sometimes plays the harp.”

“I’ve never heard one,” Hannah said.

“Never heard harp music?” Ettie opened her eyes in wide astonishment.

“No, never.”

“It’s lovely music, the music of angels they say. Although I think angels are sort of boring.”

Hannah laughed. “Is it to be a big party tonight?”

“I’m not sure. And I am considered too young to go. But I know Mr. Wheeler’s coming. So that means Lila is going to spend forever in the bathtub and Clarice shares that tub with her and will be really mad as it is her first grown-up party in Boston. But you know, Lila, she has a terrible crush on Mr. Wheeler, and oh, I nearly forgot! He starts painting us tomorrow and Mama said to be sure my pinafore dress is pressed. Lila wants to wear something that Mama says is much too daring for a girl her age.” A mischievous gleam came into the gray eyes. “You know what I mean, Hannah, very naked-looking. I think she wants to look almost naked for Mr. Wheeler!” She giggled.

“Oh, hush now, Ettie. That’s not a proper thing to say.”

“Maybe I’m not a very proper girl,” Ettie said. She smiled and the dimple flashed.

“I’m sure you’re very proper, Ettie.”

“No,” she said, suddenly serious. “I’m just nine. I think you can’t really judge if a person is proper or not until they get a little older.” Her forehead now creased and she looked at Hannah intently. “I mean it’s like when children do naughty things, that is just what it is—naughty, misbehaving. But you have to be older to be judged improper or proper. It’s as if there is this whole set of rules for older people, grown-up people, that are, in a way, harder to understand and if you break them, it’s not that you are simply bad, but you are not proper.”

Hannah stood up from the fireplace and put her hands on her hips. “Ettie, for a little girl, proper or improper, you do a lot of thinking, very complicated thinking.”

“I like thinking,” Ettie replied gravely.

And I do, too
, thought Hannah. Proper for Hannah in this world of the Hawleys meant complete invisibility, clean uniforms, knowing how to pare a radish to Mrs. Bletchley’s specifications—tulip-shaped in spring, roses in summer, winter, and fall.

Suddenly Ettie’s face brightened and all the solemnity fled from her clear gray eyes. “Hannah!”

“Yes?”

“I’ve had a minor brainstorm!” She tapped her temple lightly with her finger.

“About manners and what is proper?”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing so boring. It’s my braids.”

“Your braids?”

“Yes, my braids.” She touched her two fat, glossy braids. “Miss Ardmore braids my hair every morning. She hates doing it and yanks so hard. She’s always angry, or I should say seems angry in case you haven’t noticed.” Hannah had noticed that Miss Ardmore, if not outright angry, did seem slightly vexed all the time. But it was not really pronounced at all and Hannah was yet again surprised by young Ettie for detecting such subtleties of behavior. “It’s as if these braids of mine were made as the perfect objects for her anger—I mean a vent for it. Hannah, I am going to ask Mother if you can braid my hair from now on! Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Ettie did not wait for an answer. She just ran from the room with her brilliant idea.

When Hannah went downstairs, Mr. Marston was discussing with Mrs. Bletchley that evening’s dinner menu. He then turned to Miss Horton and spoke about the china that was to be used. “And not the Georgian silver. Mrs. H feels it’s too heavy and ornate for this time of year, and the same for tomorrow night’s dinner party even though it will be slightly more formal—and—ah, Hannah, for tomorrow night Mrs. Hawley wants yellow tulips, French style. The florist on Pinckney has reserved masses of them. I can’t spare Willy to help you get them. So tomorrow it will take you two trips, I fear. Too bad they didn’t come in today with the roses that she ordered for this evening.”

“I don’t mind, Mr. Marston. I’ll be quick. Will I be helping with the table setting?” There was an awkward silence. Had she said something wrong? Hannah wondered.

“Oh, no, no, my dear!” Mr. Marston chuckled softly. “You’re not quite ready for that. Maybe someday when you’ve advanced, but setting the table is a very precise operation.” From a deep inside pocket of his waistcoat he drew out a ruler. “We measure everything,
don’t we, Florrie?” he said, nodding toward her and Daze.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Florrie replied. “Wineglass, two inches from water glass. Napkins one half inch from fork.”

“Excellent, Florrie!” He smiled quickly. “I think everything is going quite well. I must commend you all. The transition of the Hawleys’ return from Paris has gone quite smoothly and I think we are all settling in. It is a well-regulated household, as it should be and will continue to be even when we go to Maine.”

“And when will that be, Mr. Marston?” Florrie asked.

“I have no precise dates yet. But I would imagine that a small contingent of us shall be going up in early June to prepare Gladrock, as usual.”

Gladrock was the name of the Hawleys’ summerhouse in Bar Harbor, Maine. Hannah had seen a picture. It was an immense, sprawling shingle house. The first thing she had noticed was that it was close to the sea. The next thing that caught her attention was that there were so many chimneys poking up
she could not imagine how many fires she would be laying. But no matter; it was a small price to pay for living within sight of the sea.

Hannah was in the morning room, where Mr. and Mrs. Hawley often had a second cup of coffee after their breakfast to discuss the day’s activities. She was in her upstairs uniform, for she had been asked to go and polish the wall sconces. She was at the far end of the room and perhaps they had not even noticed her when they came in. But she heard a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob.

“Horace, what will we do? She’s been so good and now she insists on the cat.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s that bad, Edwina, I mean it’s better than her in that dress she wanted to wear. It’s a compromise. Compromises can be good.”

“But a cat in a Stannish Whitman Wheeler painting. I don’t know, it just seems wrong.”

“Does he mind?”

“I’m not sure. He didn’t say no. I think he realizes that she’s delicate.”

“Who knows, he might let her pose with it and then paint it out in the end if he doesn’t feel it’s right,” Mr. Hawley said. “Remember how he changed the color of Bettina Lattimore’s dress and painted out the bowl of orchids, prize orchids from her own hothouse? He has a mind of his own. But I think he generally gives people what they want. He doesn’t want her looking grouchy in the painting.”

“Certainly not. But do you really think he’ll be that flexible? He did want us to move the vases into the music room.”

“I know, and I put my foot down on that idea. But I’m not in the painting. So I won’t look grouchy, and I can be a grouch, as you well know, my dear! I want the girls posed in the drawing room. This painting has to look like Boston. Not a Paris salon. This is Boston. We are Bostonians, despite spending so much time abroad.”

“Well, what will a cat in the painting make us look like?”

“The cat is technically a Bostonian.”

With this Edwina Hawley burst into fits of laughter.
“Oh, Horace, darling, you are a dear, funny man.” It was at this point that Hannah made her escape through a rear door. If they had noticed she was in the room, they said nothing or didn’t care. She had become invisible. She had two conflicting emotions. On the one hand it was a great boon not to be noticed. But she was like a piece of their furniture. There but inanimate, unfeeling.
I am nothing!
she thought.
Absolutely nothing! Was I not made for something more?
Hannah felt almost as bereft as she had on the train heading for Salina, Kansas.

When Hannah came back into the kitchen to change her apron for the downstairs chores, she saw Mrs. Bletchley going over a list with Mr. Marston pertaining to the evening’s entertainment. Mrs. Bletchley was seldom without a list—either a grocery list, or a menu, or a list of tasks that must be completed for a meal preparation, or a schedule. She squinted at the paper and then slid her arm back and forth as if she were playing a trombone. “Susie, where are my specs?” A large part of Susie’s job was keeping track of Mrs. Bletchley’s
specs, which she refused to wear on a chain around her neck for she felt it interfered when she was cooking.

“Here they are, Mrs. Bletchley.”

“You’re a dear, Susie,” Mrs. Bletchley said, putting on the spectacles but still squinting at the list.

“All righty, now, Hannah, tonight you’ll have to serve dinner in the nursery for Miss Ardmore and Ettie. I’m trying to have something nice for them because you know how Ettie gets her little nose so out of joint when she misses a big people’s party.”

“Oh, forgive me for interrupting, Mrs. Bletchley,” Mr. Marston said. “But I forgot to tell Hannah that there is a slight change in duties. Mrs. Hawley has requested that you come up each morning after you have finished your downstairs duties to braid Ettie’s hair. I believe it was Ettie’s request, actually.” From the corner of her eye Hannah saw Mr. Marston raise an eyebrow and give a slight nod toward Mrs. Bletchley, which seemed to suggest a hint of amusement mixed with approval. He then added, “What Miss Ettie wants she usually gets.”

But Hannah wondered, would Mr. Marston approve if he knew that Ettie wanted to have “little chats” while she braided her hair? Would such chats be considered unnecessary conversation and confuse the borders that governed the worlds of the upstairs and the downstairs?

T
HE DAY SEEMED ENDLESS
to Hannah. It was just six thirty in the evening and she was far from finished as she walked up the back stairs. She had just put the “nursery dinner,” as it was called, on the dumbwaiter. As she opened the dumbwaiter door on the third floor, she could hear voices coming from the various rooms.

“Daze,” Mrs. Hawley was saying. “Tell Lila that she has to get out of that tub now or there won’t be time for Clarice to bathe.”

Florrie rounded the corner, nearly obscured behind a pile of turquoise silk ruffles. “What’s that?” Hannah asked.

“Miss Lila’s dress. A Charles Worth original. Her first.”

“Who’s Charles Worth?”

“Just the most famous house of fashion in Paris,” Florrie said.

Daze now came dashing back from where she had tried to pry Lila from the tub. “This is proving impossible. That girl!” she muttered.

Then Clarice came stomping out of her bedroom in her dressing gown and headed for her mother’s dressing room. “Mother!” she said in a tone that was seldom heard from Clarice, who was normally quite complacent. “She says that she’ll get out of the tub if you let her wear the emeralds.”

“That’s simply ridiculous. Emeralds are too old for a girl her age. She’ll look like an old lady.”

“I’ll take care of this, madam,” Roseanne said as she charged out of the dressing room. She emanated an air of authority that tolerated no nonsense, especially when it concerned her mistress, to whom she was very devoted. Hannah and Daze stood watching her in awe as she sailed down the hallway. With her wide hips swaying and her skirts swishing, she could have been a square-rigger running downwind with a
robust breeze on her stern. Within one minute, Lila was out of the tub and Clarice was in it.

Roseanne came back down the hall, passing Hannah, who had come back with the second tray for the nursery. She gave Hannah a hot glance. “Emeralds, my arse!” Then she turned into Mrs. Hawley’s room and in the refined voice of a ladies’ maid said, “All in order now, Mrs. Hawley. Never you mind. She’ll look lovely in that Worth gown, and Clarice’s in the tub.”

“Ettie! What are you doing?” Hannah whispered as she glimpsed the little girl peeking around the corner.

Her gray eyes sparkled. “Did you hear Roseanne?”

“Yes,” Hannah answered.

“I just love it when Roseanne gets after Lila.”

Hannah went into the nursery with the second tray of the nursery dinner.

Although the room had long since ceased to be a real nursery, it still had a few remnants from its previous life. There was, of course, the dollhouse, along with several of Ettie’s stuffed animals, which
she played with more than the dollhouse. A rocking horse and a shelf full of painting and drawing materials sat in one corner. “I think Mrs. Bletchley has a special treat for your dessert,” Hannah said as she arranged the food on the table.

“Oh, how kind of her,” Miss Ardmore said. “She always tries to make something special for you, doesn’t she, when there is a grown-up party?”

“What would be special,” Ettie said, “is if Mummy would let me come to the party.”

“When you’re older, dear,” Miss Ardmore replied.

“Hannah must be my spy,” said Ettie.

“Spy? Whatever are you talking about, Ettie?” Hannah asked.

“Spy…spying! I want to know if Lila makes eyes at Mr. Wheeler.”

“Ettie!” Miss Ardmore exclaimed. “That’s very vulgar.”

“Vulgar for me to say or Lila to do?”

Hannah nearly dropped the tray.
This child!

Miss Ardmore sputtered, “Ettie, I don’t want you talking like that.”

“Fine,” Ettie said, and slid her eyes toward Hannah with a look that showed clearly what she expected from Hannah.

“Ettie,” Hannah said. “You know I don’t even serve in the dining room. I’m just in the kitchen. I won’t see anything. And Miss Ardmore is right. Spying isn’t nice.”

Miss Ardmore nodded primly at Hannah as if to thank her. Of course she wouldn’t actually thank her. Miss Ardmore rarely spoke to those servants who were not official upstairs maids. She clung fiercely to her unique status in this household; as a governess, she did not belong to the serving class. She indeed was quite thankful when Mrs. Hawley had relieved her of the onerous task of braiding Ettie’s hair. She viewed it as a promotion of sorts but at the same time was slightly offended that she was being replaced by a scullery maid. She had offered to supervise Hannah for the first few mornings but Mrs. Hawley thought that was entirely unnecessary.

Miss Ardmore did not wield the power of a butler like Mr. Marston, nor did she possess the intimate
knowledge of her mistress that Roseanne guarded like a miser. Though her wages were not as high as Miss Horton’s or Mr. Marston’s, she set herself above them. When she placed the advertisement in the
Boston Herald
offering her services, she wrote, “Competent to teach reading, writing. Proficient in French, piano, singing, and drawing. Able to assist the lady in domestic affairs on occasion. Willing to do anything not menial.” For Miss Ardmore, worse than any plague or consignment to eternal damnation was her dread of being asked to perform menial tasks. She, like so many governesses, was plain to the point of drabness, and often lonely. She had no prospects—either romantic or economic—beyond winning a position in a respectable upper-class household.

“Well,” Ettie said, ignoring Miss Ardmore but continuing her conversation with Hannah. “Lila can make eyes all she wants with Mr. Wheeler. But Clarice is much prettier.”

Miss Ardmore stood up. “Henrietta Hawley, I insist that…”

Ettie turned to her and said, “I was just going to say that Clarice is so pretty, but still too young. She’s just thirteen and he might be nineteen or even twenty. But she is so pretty.”

“What about yourself, Ettie?” Hannah asked as she set down a plate of sliced bread and butter. “When you grow up? You’re just as pretty.” Miss Ardmore gave her a sharp look. Hannah knew that she had crossed a boundary. This was definitely a nonessential conversation. Miss Ardmore must have read Miss Claremont’s book as well.

“Oh, no. I’m going to have the Hawley nose,” Ettie replied.

“Now, whatever is that?” Hannah asked.

“Really, Ettie,” Miss Ardmore broke in. “This conversation must stop.”

Hannah quickly gathered up the tray to leave. As she walked out the nursery door, Ettie shouted after her, “It’s that honking big thing Papa has smack between his eyes and his mouth!”

As Hannah came back upstairs to get Jade’s pan of milk from the dumbwaiter, she saw Lila and Clarice about to make their descent. They both looked lovely. Clarice was dressed in a pink gown with seed pearls embroidered in a floral design. Her blond hair was done up with tiny silk roses tucked in the coronet of braids. Beside her stood Lila in tiers of turquoise ruffles. A diagonal garland of ivory satin bows spilled down the skirt from waist to hem.

Hannah gasped with amazement when she saw Lila. She looked much older than sixteen, and stood there proudly enjoying the effect she was having on Hannah. ”You look…you look wonderful, Miss Lila,” Hannah said. But at just that moment Mrs. Hawley came out of her room, looking not simply wonderful but magnificent in her Charles Worth white silk gown overlaid with a black, delicately scrolled embroidery that gave the illusion of wrought iron with its curving tendrils and vines. The off-the-shoulder sleeves and deeply cut neckline provided the perfect frame for the blaze of diamonds against her creamy skin. Her dark blond hair was
artfully piled into a cloudlike confection with a few tendrils falling to graze her ears, from which sparkling diamond pendants hung. By comparison, her daughters looked as drab as governesses.

“Oh, Mummy.” Ettie sighed. “You look so beautiful.”

“Thank you, dear. And don’t your big sisters look lovely?” Hannah waited tensely.

“Oh, yes! And, Lila, you look very grown up.” Ettie paused and turned to Clarice. “And, Clarice, you look the same age, but prettier.”

“Prettier than me?” Lila said, tipping her head and looking at her little sister. Hannah noticed that her tone was not harsh but almost pleading.

“Don’t be silly. I mean prettier than Clarice usually looks with her nose in a book.”

There was a titter of nervous laughter.

“Quick, Hannah! We’ve got an emergency. Susie’s taken ill.” Mr. Marston rushed up to her. “You’re going to have to help serve tonight. Into a formal uniform now! Quickly, girl. Daze will help you.”

Hannah rushed to the pantry closet where the uniforms were kept. Daze was already standing by the closet door holding out a black alpaca-wool dress with long sleeves and high white stock collar for her.

“I’ll look like a reverend in this,” Hannah muttered. “My goodness, the collar is scratchy.” It was odd but ever since Kansas, Hannah had been much more aware of which materials chafed and which were soft. Her bedsheets were infinitely softer than her muslin nightgown, so she had taken to sleeping in nothing. And she loved the feeling—it was so free.

“Don’t complain,” Daze said. “Do well at this and then when we go to Maine you might get to serve again, and you’ll earn yourself a nice Christmas bonus if they keep you for fancy parties. Here, I’ll help you into the apron.”

“Ouch! That’s way too tight. I can hardly breathe!” But the apron was not the only thing constricting her lungs. The realization that she would see the painter again hit her full force at the very moment Daze tied the sashes.

As Hannah started to pull away, Daze called out, “Wait, Hannah, your cap.” She helped Hannah put it on. “All your hair’s to be tucked under. Mrs. Hawley is insistent about that.”

“I wish we didn’t have to wear these. It makes it so hot!” And was she already blushing? What if she spilled something on him? Her hands were shaking and she wasn’t even carrying anything yet.

“Well, we do have to wear them,” Daze said, pushing an escaping curl back under Hannah’s cap. “Now you’re set,” Daze said, taking a step back and giving her an appraising look. The mobcap was a confection of frills and had three streamers that fell down her back.

“I hardly feel set, Daze. I don’t know the slightest thing about serving in the dining room.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Marston and I will look after you. Stick close to me and just do what I do. A few rules, though. Always serve from the left, but fill water glasses from the right.”

Hannah swallowed nervously and repeated in a whisper, “Serve left, water right.”

She was shaking like a leaf when she entered the dining room, and could not even look up to see where Wheeler was sitting. She just had to get across a distance of about ten feet with the first course, a velvety oyster soup.
God, do not let me spill this
, she prayed. In all, there were sixteen guests. She would only have to deliver three bowls. Daze and Florrie would take care of the rest.

“Don’t worry,” Daze whispered. “It’s all downhill after the soup. That’s the hardest.”

Thankfully Wheeler was not one of the three guests Hannah was charged to serve. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She felt his eyes following her as she moved about with the soup course and then cleared the bowls on Mr. Marston’s signal.

Between the soup and the following course, Hannah stood at her post against the wall next to Daze. Mr. Marston surveyed the dining table like a great bird stalking a marshland. No glass must go more than two-thirds empty. Rolls must be passed at just the right time. Plates cleared when the slowest eater had begun his or her final bites. It was a
complicated sequence of events that demanded precision timing. How Mr. Marston kept everyone’s needs in mind and so quietly told all the servants what to do was nothing short of miraculous. But what did it really matter in the long run? Hannah wondered. What would happen if there was a slipup in the complicated code of serving a dinner?

Hannah looked at the people around the table. They were among the wealthiest and most distinguished people of Boston, in the house of an old and distinguished family. She had heard Mr. Marston once call the Hawleys “Boston Brahmins,” and when she asked what that meant, he said, “Noble.” Yet their lives were constrained by a set of rigid dictates as repressive in their own way as all the rules she had lived under at the orphanage.

Lila and Clarice were the youngest in the room. For the most part, the other guests were vastly older than even the Hawley parents. All except for Mr. Wheeler, who was seated next to a desiccated, grayhaired lady with crepey skin gathered under her chin in drooping folds like pleated satin. Two of
the women wore lofty ostrich feathers that plumed airily above their hairdos, but none of the women were as magnificent as Mrs. Hawley. The men were all in formal attire except for one very elderly man, whose clothes were so shabby and threadbare, and his bow tie so crooked, that his garb could hardly be considered “formal” and perhaps barely even “attire.”

Clarice sat to her mother’s left and Lila to her right. Mrs. Hawley watched them both carefully through the entire first course, monitoring their conversations.

“Professor Curzon,” Clarice said, turning her sweet, delicate face toward the wrinkled, slightly unkempt gentleman to her left, “did you read the article in the
Daily Advertiser
?” Hannah noticed Mrs. Hawley wince at the word
article
. Daze had told Hannah that Mrs. Hawley worried about Clarice with her bookish ways appearing “too smart” for her own good, distracting from her natural beauty. But Mrs. Hawley absolutely blanched when Clarice continued, “The article was about Theodore Roosevelt and his—” She
broke off suddenly with a bit of a jolt. Hannah guessed her mother must have kicked Clarice under the table. “Mama—”

“We don’t need to discuss politics at the table, dear.”

“It’s about conservation, Mama. He wants to set aside land for nature preserves.”

“Nature preserves! What a silly idea.” Mrs. Hawley laughed gaily.

“But, Mama, I plan to join the Sierra Club.”

“How lovely!” Edwina Hawley’s mouth pulled into a glaringly bright smile, and she deftly changed the subject. “Speaking of parks, have you seen the tulips this spring in the Public Gardens? They are simply spectacular, and they say that the quince tree is blooming for the first time in ten years.”