Katherine Keenum (3 page)

“That Abigail is happier, Aunt Maude.”

“That what? Do my ears deceive me, missy?”

“Oh, Aunt Maude, Abbie was
so
unsuited to Vassar, and she and Beau are
so
much in love!”

“Don’t gush, Jeanette; it’s girlish. Besides, no girl in her right mind falls in love with a man named Beaufort Dabney Calhoun, even if he did go to Princeton.”

“And even if his father once owned half the slaves in South Carolina,” said Adeline. “The Calhouns are penniless now.”

“Not penniless,” said Jeanette, “they still own the land.”

“Malarial swamp,” said Mrs. Hendrick, “which they probably still work with the same poor darkies. The McLeods were tireless abolitionists, Jeanette. It’s no wonder they disapproved of him.”

“Which is why Abbie and Beau had to elope,” pleaded Jeanette. “It’s not Beau’s fault he was born to slave owners. Can’t anyone see that the war is over?”

“Not in this household,” thundered Mrs. Hendrick. “You are forgetting that your father and I lost a brother.” Effie sighed again, more audibly. “And Effie lost her fiancé.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Hendrick snorted. “The young have ever been careless. To keep to the topic at hand: Do you mean to say that you defend what you did?”

Jeanette hesitated. If she had it to do over again, knowing the price, would she? “I will still defend what Abbie and Beau did,” she said, slowly.

“Well, that’s something,” said Mrs. Hendrick. “If you are going to sacrifice yourself to a quixotic cause, you might as well believe in it.” A lump rose in Jeanette’s throat. “I suppose I had better know exactly what happened.”

“Mother, you old fraud,” laughed Adeline, settling back to listen, too. “We both want every delicious detail, Jeanette. It’s why I came.”

For the next hour, Jeanette tried to reconstruct events both before and after the elopement through a bewildering flow of questions and rebukes from Mrs. Hendrick, amused asides from Adeline, bickering between mother and daughter, and a stifled interjection now and again from Cousin Effie. “Matthew Hendrick will be arriving soon,” said Aunt Maude at last. “He likes a pretty face. Effie, show Jeanette which room you have put her in. Have a wash and smarten yourself up a bit, Jeanette. Dinner is at eight, and the warning gong will ring at a quarter to. Will you stay, Adeline?”

“No, Mother, Harold will be getting home, too, and I want to peek in on the children before they are put to bed.”

*   *   *

In the hallway, Effie and an exhausted Jeanette reached the staircase to the third floor just as Mr. Hendrick came up from the first.

“That you, Effie?” he asked, in the gloom. “Who’s this you’ve got with you?”

“It’s Jeanette, Matthew.”

“Ah, yes! our miscreant!”

He spoke with such good humor that Jeanette reluctantly stepped forward. “Good evening, Uncle Matt.”

Matthew Hendrick was a short, round man whose agile arms and legs were fitted into tight sleeves and trousers; his coattails seemed to flap of their own accord out of habit when he halted his energetic step. He rubbed his hands together. “Been stirring up the ladies, I hear, Jeanette!” He kissed her cheek.

Jeanette, grateful for his tone but at a loss for words, was rescued by Effie. “You must excuse us, Matthew, we’re on our way up to change for dinner.”

“You do that! Put on your prettiest dress, Jeanette,” said Mr. Hendrick, patting her hand. “And pinch your cheeks for color—winter needs brightening up.”

On the third floor, two bedrooms formerly belonging to Hendrick girls overlooked narrow gardens and faced the back windows of the next street over. Tonight, heavy draperies were drawn against the cold; but while each room had its own marble fireplace, they no longer served any purpose except to provide a mantelpiece on which vases and ornaments could be set. For heat, up-to-date steam radiators hissed and clanked. The air was already warm, though the profound cold of the furniture revealed that until a few hours ago, the spare rooms had been thriftily closed up.

“Would you prefer a bath and supper on a tray instead of coming down?” asked Effie. Her hands tugged nervously at her wrists.

“No, thank you,” said Jeanette, who knew better than to appear difficult to Aunt Maude. “I’ve had enough of meals by myself.”

“Oh, dear, yes, of course. Silly of me. Well, before I go, let me say just one thing.” Effie gaped, and the chin of her open mouth virtually disappeared. “It was wrong of you to help Miss McLeod elope, Jeanette, but, but—it was very
romantic
.”

CHAPTER THREE

Mrs. Palmer’s Arrival

T
he next morning, Jeanette ate breakfast with Uncle Matthew and Cousin Effie (Mrs. Hendrick’s breakfast was sent up on a bed tray). Back in her room, she wondered nervously how to spend the hours until her mother arrived. She wanted to block all thought of what was to come.

The bedroom was still, in many ways, a girl’s room from twenty years earlier: simple wooden furniture, white-sprigged counterpane, thin linen liners at the windows where the pale-blue, winter draperies had been tied back to let in as much sunshine as possible. A pair of framed silhouettes from early in the century were the only decorations on walls papered in a silvery blue-and-white pattern. With all that white and a window facing northwest, the room was coolly and evenly lit; it would be a good place to work and might, for that matter, make a possible subject. She hoisted her shawlstrap onto the bed and spread out some sketches, looking for one she had made of her room at Vassar.

“May I see?” asked Cousin Effie, from the doorway. She peered inquisitively at a sketchbook that lay open to a page of pen-and-ink drawings of anatomical casts—hands, feet, arms, ears. They were drawn with a firm line and rounded by technically proficient cross-hatchings. “But these are good!” she exclaimed, when Jeanette moved aside.

“They’re like finger exercises on the piano,” said Jeanette. “Anyone can learn to draw shapes.”

“No, they can’t. Not like this.”

Surprised but won over by Cousin Effie’s matter-of-fact declaration, Jeanette explained what she was trying to do in some of the sketches and made excuses for others. On a page with a full head from a Greek classical statue, a little caricature filled an upper corner. In profile, it depicted a woman in a beribboned cap looking through a telescope, with her mouth dropped open.

“Why, that’s Miss Lyman!”

“It was the germ for this.” Jeanette wasn’t sure it was wise to show Cousin Effie an irreverent cartoon, but she couldn’t resist. Over a caption,
The famous Professor Maria Mitchell and Miss Hannah Lyman look at the stars
, two women stood back to back on a dwarf version of the Vassar Observatory, each peering through a handheld telescope. A stout one gazed rapturously up at the night sky, while her taller, thin companion stared indignantly down at a tiny, mooning pair over whom hovered a cloud of sparkles. Effie snickered at the schoolgirl joke. “Are there any other caricatures?” she asked.

Jeanette showed her Becky, Irma, Professor van Ingen, and the newest—the unfortunate Leticia in saucer-eyed terror. “And here’s a study of Mother.”

“Why, that’s lovely—and it’s Sarah to a T. My goodness, child, you ought to be a portraitist.”

Jeanette seized her chance. “Let me draw
you
, Cousin Effie. Sit for me. Right now!”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think . . .”

“This light is perfect, but I need a subject,” said Jeanette. She steered her cousin to a seat on the bureau stool. “Now, tilt your head a little.”

Jeanette worked quickly in pencil, but not too quickly. Bold relief would emphasize the defects of Effie’s rabbity face. Instead, she blended feathery strokes to minimize Effie’s overbite and emphasize her hooded eyes and wide brow. White chalk provided a few highlights.

“There.”

“Oh, my. Well, I never. May I keep it? Please? If you give it to me, my dear, I shall treasure it forever.”

“The chalk needs to be set.”

Jeanette rummaged in her carpetbag; but before she could pull out a bottle of fixative, Effie’s face had changed from naive pleasure to something more calculating. “You must limn Maude! Nothing will put her in a better mood than a portrait, especially if it’s flattering.” Effie jumped up, still holding the sketchbook. “Never mind about the chalk right now. Bring your pencil. She’ll be in her parlor.”

The second-floor sitting room was at the bright, southern end of the house. Sitting in her customary chair beside the double window, Mrs. Hendrick could keep an eye on whatever was happening on the street below while taking advantage of the sunlight for needlework. Her head, when they entered, was bent over an embroidery hoop. Continuing to stitch, she inclined a cheek slightly, which Effie obediently pecked.

“Maude,” began Effie.

Mrs. Hendrick ignored her. Without looking up, she said accusingly, “Well, Jeanette, did you sleep the sleep of the innocent?”

“I slept well, Aunt Maude, thank you. In fact, I almost overslept.”

“Sloth will not be tolerated in this house. Do you sew?”

“Not as well as Mother but—”

“Made what you have on, did she?”

“No, a dressmaker—”

“With three daughters to clothe, your mother should be a seamstress. Sit down,” said Mrs. Hendrick, nodding to a chair on the opposite side of the table. “I am converting some worn-out sheets to a set of napkins and tray towels. Adeline prefers showier needlepoint and grand schemes, but I’m a merchant’s daughter plain and simple and a merchant’s wife.” She looked up. “Sit down, I said. I’ll start you with hemming to see how well you stitch.”

Effie, who had been hovering with Jeanette’s open sketchbook, slapped it onto the table at Mrs. Hendrick’s side and hastily pulled her hand back. “First look at this, Maude.”

Mrs. Hendrick squinted at the picture through her spectacles, then looked up at Jeanette. “Did you do that? When?”

“Just now, Aunt Maude.”

“Upstairs,” said Effie. “Isn’t it beautiful? She can do yours, too. We could have the pair ready for Matthew and Sarah when they get here. Wouldn’t it astonish them? And it would make Sarah proud of Jeanette instead of ashamed.”

Jeanette blanched. “I’ll hem,” she said.

“Coward. How long will I have to hold still?” Aunt Maude’s face was already freezing into an unnatural mask.

“It would only be a study, Aunt Maude,” sighed Jeanette. “Perhaps you should go back to sewing. I’ll sketch you occupied.”

“That’s right, Maude, look at this one of Sarah. Isn’t it lifelike?”

Mrs. Hendrick’s facial muscles relaxed as she glanced at the sketch of her sister-in-law sitting with a book. “Trust Sarah Palmer to find time to read. No wonder she doesn’t sew. Well, I suppose drawing is the sort of ladylike accomplishment you young folk set great store by, even if some might call it the work of idle hands.”

“I’ll hem the next napkin for you, Maude,” said Effie. Scooping up one of the several white linen rectangles already pressed under and basted around the edges, she began to take rapid, fine stitches.

Mrs. Hendrick snorted, but she made no other protest and went back self-consciously to her embroidery. She took no notice when Effie excused herself, saying that she must arrange the day’s flowers and see that a fire was lit in the library.

The clock on the mantel ticked on.

The sketch of Mrs. Hendrick was less successful than the one of Effie, the shadings overworked, too strong. Jeanette frowned as she reluctantly handed the sketchbook to Aunt Maude. “I’d like to try again.”

“It looks like me,” said Mrs. Hendrick, mesmerized by a recognizable image of herself. After a few moments more, she began turning pages. “What are these?”

“Pieces of statuary.”

“Who wants pictures of statues? Stick to drawing people.”

“If only we could! But first you need to learn from ideal shapes; all the schools teach that way. And besides, nobody can afford to pay models for beginners.”

“So I should be charging you?”

“I’ll pay you with a better sketch if you like.”

Mrs. Hendrick laughed. “Papa’s granddaughter, I see—not too much the aesthete to drive a bargain. Another time.”

*   *   *

The rest of the morning was spent in needlework. After lunch, Mrs. Hendrick installed herself and Jeanette downstairs in the library to be ready for Mrs. Palmer. Cousin Effie would be out for the afternoon. No one had thought twice about sending her to Poughkeepsie for Jeanette, but Mr. Hendrick would do the honors himself for his sister-in-law.

“Is there anything else I can do, Maude?” asked Cousin Effie, as she pulled on gloves. “I’m not sure I should leave.”

“So you have said a hundred times, and for the hundredth time I repeat: I am quite capable of receiving Sarah Palmer in my own house by myself. If Sarah asks, we’ll tell her the weekly meeting of the Children’s Aid Society would falter without you. Run along.

“Here, read this to me.” Mrs. Hendrick handed Jeanette
David Copperfield
, open to the chapter in which Steerforth’s perfidious abandonment of Little Em’ly is revealed. Her heavy face maintained a placid absorption while she continued her morning’s embroidery, only occasionally stealing a sly glance at her niece.

Jeanette took the point of the selection, but her increasing anxiety as they waited had nothing to do with Aunt Maude’s estimation of her or her worries about Abigail’s fate and everything to do with her mother’s attitude. At last, the front doorbell rang, followed by indistinct voices in the entry hall.

“Aunt Maude, they’re here!”

“Then what are you waiting for? Go greet your mother.”

Jeanette ran. Because she had stayed East during the Christmas holidays, it had been nearly six months since she had last seen either one of her parents. Coming into the drawing room from the back of the house just as her mother entered from the front, she was struck hard by the fatigue in her mother’s face. A corner of her mind noted also how dumpy her mother was, how provincially dressed; yet Sarah Palmer was formidable, too, in her dignified self-possession. When their eyes met, a questioning look crossed Mrs. Palmer’s face, but her brow eased as if she were satisfied. At that signal, Jeanette ran forward, threw her arms around her mother, and broke into sobs. Mrs. Palmer clasped her briefly and rubbed her back, then pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length.

“Oh, Mama!”

“Now, now,” exclaimed Uncle Matthew, rubbing his hands energetically. “No tears in this house, no tears! Never allowed from my girls, you know. I like to see smiles on pretty faces.”

“Don’t cry, Jeanette,” said Mrs. Palmer, quietly. “What’s done is done, and we’ll talk about it later. Right now, I must greet your aunt Maude.”

So there it was. Appearances, even within the family, were what mattered. After hours of anxious waiting, to have her drama simply pushed aside hurt; but Jeanette resigned herself to the role of a child for the time being, to be seen and not heard.

When at last they were upstairs alone, Sarah Palmer lowered herself slowly onto her bedroom’s one armchair and propped her elbows on the armrests. Leaning back wearily, she pressed her fingertips together in front of her chest and looked at Jeanette. “Well?”

Jeanette’s unhappiness flooded up again, hotly. “Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry it’s all turned out this way. Really I am!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Mrs. Palmer’s coolness was another slap, but not unexpected. Jeanette perched on the edge of the bed and tried to be equally cool. “What is it you want from me, Mama?”

“Genuine contrition and humility to begin with, Jeanette; and we need to understand each other if we are to plan sensibly for your future.”

“I’m going to paint, that’s all I know.”

“Each of us has our favorite pastime.”

“No, but art is much more than that for me, Mother! You always insist that women must think for themselves and do what they believe in, don’t you?”

“That is hardly a practical answer, Jeanette.”

“For me, it is. It means I have to go on with my training.”

“What we’d like to do and what we can do are not always the same thing in this world.” Mrs. Palmer sighed and put a hand to her forehead. “Don’t protest, Jeanette. You are overwrought, and I’m tired. Go wash your face, and then I’ll take a bath. I have five hundred miles of grime to get rid of.”

*   *   *

The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Hendrick asked, “What’s on the schedule, ladies, eh?”

“I have an excursion in mind!” announced Cousin Effie, making a quick gambit.

“I was thinking of a turn around Washington Square to stretch my legs,” said Mrs. Palmer, mildly.

“We can go there, too,” said Effie, “but first, Matthew, I want to show them the Tenth Street Studio Building. Jeanette is going to be an artist, you know, and—”

“Are you, my dear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She aspires to be one,” said Mrs. Palmer.

“Well, in that case, she must see the Studio Building—a most interesting enterprise. Only artists for tenants,” said Mr. Hendrick, “and very successful—they had to annex space next door a few years ago.”

“And I happen to have made friends with a young man who has a studio in the annex!” said Effie.

“Young man? Made friends with?” growled Mr. Hendrick, facetiously. “You’re a dark horse, Effie Pendergrast. Never a word till now, and you’ve been seeing a young man. I hope you have been well chaperoned.”

“Go on, Matthew.” Cousin Effie squirmed. “It was at the Children’s Aid Society. Mr. Moyer teaches a mechanical drawing class there, but mostly he works in his studio. When I told him about Jeanette’s drawing my picture, he said we should drop by.”

“Perhaps another day with a more specific invitation—” began Mrs. Palmer.