The House of Closed Doors (7 page)

Martin, Mama told me, spent his nights by his mother’s bedside and his days at the store. She did not know when he slept. I felt a deep sadness for my friend and wished that I could spare him the additional anxiety of believing I was ill. For I was sure that he was worried about me; when I was a little girl he used to warm flannel scarves by the fire and wrap them tenderly round my neck when I had one of my rare colds.

I was not idle during this period. Bet purchased several bolts of warm winter wools and a quantity of flannel and cotton suitable for petticoats and underwear but also excellent for making baby clothes. With the help of a few patterns from my grandmama’s huge stock‌—‌I used some copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book to bring them up to date‌—‌and the sewing machine that still stood in her old bedroom, I set to making a large quantity of clothing for myself and my baby.

The dresses I made for myself were plainer and simpler than the ones I usually wore, and I had to exercise my imagination to account for the growth in my belly over the next few months. The few maternity patterns Grandmama had saved were extremely outdated, but I was skilled enough to adapt them.

Making the baby clothes reminded me of my earliest experiments in sewing, when Grandmama had shown me how to cut and fit clothes on Emmeline, the only doll I had ever cared for. I regarded my child as a growth that I would be relieved to have removed, but sewing was my greatest joy, and I did not resent the hours I spent making tiny gowns, caps, and diapers.

Bet, bless her, had begun knitting tiny garments and warm, soft blankets for the baby about three days after she found out about it. Despite her rigid disapproval of my own wretched self, she “could not condemn the mite, innocent little morsel that it is.” She told anyone who asked about her sudden enthusiasm for sewing and knitting that one of her cousins was expecting again. As Bet’s forty-one first cousins, spread the length and breadth of the county, were a byword in Victory, no one even took the time to ask which; since most of the female cousins had names starting with Mary, even the most accomplished gossips in Victory could never quite remember them all.

I was sitting in my room serenely sewing yard after yard of hemstitch, such tiny, neat stitches that they could not be seen, when Marie came in to lay a fire. I was glad of it; the wind was positively howling outside, and my fingers were stiff with cold. Marie was followed by Bet, who laid a small pile of tiny bootees on the table beside my chair, each fastened with a bow of thin, white satin ribbon. She sniffed to indicate that she had not made them for
my
benefit, nodded at me to lift up my sewing, and twitched a mohair blanket over my legs.

“Thank you, Bet. It has become quite chilly in here.”

“’Tis one of those days when the wind brings the freeze with it, Miss Nell. There were some late roses on the bush by the gate this morning, but they’re all wilted with the cold now.”

As she said this, her voice softened and our eyes met. We both knew how the temperature could suddenly shift in this area‌—‌how the cold could move so fast that it could overtake the unwary traveler. We knew it because we had learned it the hard way. My insides lurched.

“Mama should not walk home, Bet. You know the cold makes her heart worse.”

“I know that, Miss. I have already run to Mr. Drehler’s to ask if he would be kind enough to send his buggy for her and make sure that there were blankets in it.” We kept no carriage of any kind, as Victory was a small town and we could walk most places. Besides, Mama had thought a carriage a ridiculous extravagance for a household of women, and the habit, reinforced by Grandmama’s Yankee thriftiness, held firm after she remarried.

“We will have to impose on him often, Bet, until Mrs. Rutherford …”

“I don’t think it will be long now for the poor lady,” Bet said regretfully. She sighed and shook her head, looking out of the window at the scudding gray clouds. “Your mother will be lonely with her gone, and with you to be away soon …”

Marie had lit the fire and was looking at us with wide eyes. “Is Miss Nell going off to have the baby elsewhere, then?”

Bet let out a loud “Hmph!” of irritation and turned on her subordinate, who was related to her in some complicated way and bore an identical topknot of bushy brown hair. “What did I tell you? If you value your position here, you’ll keep quiet about this baby, in this house and especially outside.”

Marie’s head drooped, and I flashed a small, sympathetic smile at her. We both knew that Bet’s bark was worse than her bite, but being on the receiving end of her brisk anger was a disheartening experience.

A jingling outside announced the arrival of the buggy, and Marie, at a jerk of the head from Bet, flew from the room to open the front door. In minutes my mother appeared, slightly breathless from the stairs but with cold-flushed cheeks and a cheerful demeanor. A telegraph message was clutched in her hand.

“News from your dear stepfather,” she announced. “He says,”‌—‌she peered once more at the paper‌—‌”Returning tomorrow. Solution found.”

T
he sky turned leaden by the next afternoon, and a few flakes of snow were whirling among the still falling leaves. My stepfather returned midmorning and ate luncheon alone with my mother, as he wished to discuss the arrangements he had made with Mama before speaking to me. From the armchair in my bedroom where I took my meal on a tray, I could hear their voices: my mother’s soft trill, more insistent and argumentative than usual, and my stepfather’s overbearing rumble. It was clear that there was not perfect agreement between them.

At two o’clock I was summoned to the parlor. I shivered as I made my way down the stairs, as it was always much colder in the hallway in the wintertime than in the rooms. I pulled my newest shawl‌—‌a soft beige wool that I had trimmed with a darker brown fringe and embellished with embroidery in the same color‌—‌tight around my shoulders and my ever-more prominent bump.

I entered the room quietly and, I hoped, with an air of assurance. In truth, my heart was thumping. This was the greatest step into the unknown that had occurred in my life since my father’s death, and I was apprehensive; and yet I felt excitement tingle in my bones. How that could be when I was in such trouble, I did not know, but I could not deny the feeling.

My mother’s face was pale and a little red around the eyes as if she had been crying. Yes, there was a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. What, then, was my doom? My heartbeat doubled.

“Sit down, Eleanor,” said my stepfather, speaking in calm, level tones. I took my usual seat on the red velvet settee, folded my hands in my lap‌—‌I almost folded them over my belly, but thought better of it‌—‌and looked reassuringly at my mother. Whatever it was, I wanted her to understand, I could survive it.

Hiram Jackson stroked the side-whiskers that extended down his cheeks and terminated in a luxuriant bush below his slight jowls. His hands were soft and white but bore the scars of his early days in the store as his father’s assistant. He began to pace the room.

“I had considered,” he said, “sending you to live with a family until the arrival of your, harrumph …” He did not even want to refer to my child, that much was plain. “But when I came to put that plan into action, the practical difficulties seemed insurmountable. Finding a family with the right degree of discretion in a county where I have many political enemies is fraught with difficulty. Money would inevitably have to change hands, and that would leave me open to charges of bribery, to possible blackmail.”

He laid a peculiar stress on that last word and fell silent for a moment, still pacing restlessly and looking out of the window at the snow, which was melting as soon as it touched any surface.

“If,” he resumed, “I were to send you East for your confinement‌—‌which was your mother’s suggestion‌—‌I am concerned that you will not exhibit that degree of repentance and hard work that I wish to instill in you as a consequence of your foolishness. In any case, news travels surprisingly fast between the East and here, and it is quite likely that the tale of an illegitimate baby,” he pronounced the word “illegitimate” with great precision, “would waste no time in communicating itself to our neighbors in Victory.”

He stopped pacing and stood for a long moment looking at me, rubbing the thumbs of his clasped hands together with a judicial air. My mother dabbed at a tear, but there was resignation on her face. Hiram’s smooth, handsome countenance was serene, almost as if he were amused by some secret thought.

“I have taken the superintendent of the Prairie Haven Poor Farm into my confidence, as he often sees cases like yours in his line of work and is not shocked by such, such, ahem, contingencies. I asked him where one would send a young woman in your condition. He described various institutions to me: orphanages, homes for unmarried mothers, and the like. But he also assured me that his own establishment could provide everything I wanted: discretion, safety, suitable work, and a framework for providing for the adoption of the child.”

By this time I could see what was coming, and I am certain I became visibly paler. My mother’s dabs at her eyes were becoming more frequent.

“Therefore, Nell,” my stepfather pronounced calmly, “I have decided that you will spend your confinement at the Poor Farm.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand. “Allow me to finish. You will be accorded a certain status above that of the majority of the, er, residents. There is a small number of women of more refined character who do not do work on the farm itself but perform light household work and sleep in the main Women’s House instead of in the dormitories. They are above even the unwed mothers of the rougher sort, who even so are always given the easiest tasks on the farm and are never made to work outside while their babies are small.”

He drew breath, and I took the opportunity to speak, trying to keep my voice as calm and even as his.

“And if word gets out, Stepfather, that you sent your own stepdaughter to live with imbeciles, drunks, and senile old people? Do you really think that it serves your purposes to do this?” My hands were trembling, but I pushed them under my shawl and kept my lips curved in a false smile.

“Nell,” said my stepfather, seating himself in the largest armchair by the fire, “as a member of the Board of Governors, I am responsible for taking in many unwed mothers,” he leaned forward and an edge of steel came into his voice, “exactly like yourself. Do you see that? I am treating you as I would treat any other moral imbecile.” His tone was not harsh; he sounded as if he were trying to reason with a small child.

I leaned back in shock at his words but controlled the action to make it look as if I were simply making myself more comfortable. My mother was weeping quietly, and I could hear the faint wheezing as she struggled to draw breath.

“Mama,” I said, “please do not distress yourself. I am not upset.” I turned back toward Hiram. “What kind of work would I do?”

“There is plenty of work for a seamstress,” my stepfather said. “At present there is only one elderly woman able to perform such work well, and a feeble-minded girl who helps her. Your skill with the sewing machine and the needle would benefit the Farm greatly. It is useful work, my girl, and would be quite to your taste. You would be a privileged resident indeed and spend much time with the matron, Mrs. Lombardi, who is a most refined and Christian woman.”

He rose, crossed over to my mother, and grasped her hand, remarking on its coldness. He took both of her small hands into his large, white ones, gently rubbing and massaging them as he spoke.

“I am not condemning Nell to prison, my love. I have found her a good and safe place to have her baby and be well away from prying eyes. The other governors are all Christian men who are above politics and would not dream of gossiping. The Farm is not a luxurious place to live, but it is run by enlightened, honest employees. Indeed, as a governor I have often expressed the opinion that they are overly kind to their charges.”

My mother drew a deep, shaky breath. Her tears had stopped, and her blue irises stood out sharply against the bloodshot whites. She nodded at Hiram.

“You have often told me, my dear,” she said with a tremor in her voice, “that many of the unfortunate‌—‌that many of the people‌—‌who come to the Poor Farm are simply unlucky enough to find themselves without means of support and have done nothing wrong in themselves. But what about the mental defectives? Can it be healthy to be housed with insane people?”

Stepfather straightened up and assumed a stance before the fire as if he were about to give a speech. “There is a distinction, Amelia, between the mental defectives, who are born deficient of reason, and the insane. We do not take in insane persons. If we do find that a resident is insane, we transfer him or her to one of the asylums. We only care for those who are not a danger to themselves or others. Our ultimate aim is to rehabilitate, not to incarcerate.”

He paused and glared at me until he was sure he had my attention. “Of course, Nell, you have an alternative. Name the father of your child, and I will take steps to expedite a private wedding.”

I looked down at my protruding abdomen. So marriage was the carrot, and the Poor Farm was the stick. I could choose to name my handsome, educated, and‌—‌when he came into his majority‌—‌wealthy cousin as my child’s father, or I could give birth among strangers. Why did the former prospect seem so repellent? Was marriage really so terrible? Was love important? For Jack did not love me, of that I was sure, and I did not love him. Worse, he might already have an understanding with a young lady in Hartford, and my claim on him would then cause a considerable scandal.

As for the Poor Farm: I thought hard. Hiram would surely not send me into a place where I would be treated harshly, not in an area where he was trying to make political capital. And his words had the ring of truth to them.

Above all considerations I loved Mama more than anyone and would rather stay close to her than tie myself to Jack. If I married him, I would almost never see her.