The Pages of Time

Gilded Summers-7

We had fifteen minutes to eat a bowl of porridge, some tea—a strange pale drink in comparison to the espresso I used to start my days with—and some bread and butter.

“To your sewing room, girl.”

I jumped, turned. She stood behind me. I hadn"t heard her come near me, not a step. I"d barely had a few bites.

“Yes, Ma"am,” I stood, gave my silent father a silent nod, and rushed off.

I climbed two flights of stairs back to the sewing room, entered with a surprising rush of pleasure…it was empty, save for its magic tools…and me. This room seemed to hold me within it, the me I knew. In there, I looked at it as mine. My ownership was short-lived.

The large woman rushed in, the bunch of clothes in her arms almost as big as she.

“You can sew, can ya"?” she asked, a lovely greeting.

“I can,” I said, giving back the gruff I got.

“Well, there"s plenty, so get on about it.”

On the table against the wall, she plucked down the pile she carried with a sigh of relief.

“There"s some simple work here,” she hurried on as she separated the clothes, throwing them in smaller piles here and there. “Some buttons missing, some socks need darnin". But…” here she stopped her busy hands and turned to me, her round, pale face was flushed with pink, wiry red strands poked out of her faded blue cap “…one of the mistress"s dresses has lost some beads and must be replaced.” She pointed a chubby finger at me. “This work requires great care. She will see, oh you can bet she will, if it"s not done right. Believe you me.”

Her plump face puckered; it looked as if she tasted a bad memory. I quaked, never stopping to think why they entrusted me with this task.

“You"ll find buttons and beads in that cupboard there.” She pointed at a tall piece of furniture set in the back corner; there were at least thirty small drawers in this large oak piece. “They must be perfect.”

“Yes, Ma"am,” I said, again, feeling sure they would be words I would say often.

With a clipped nod, chins appeared in the plump flesh of her neck. She spun on her heel and made for the door, a busy woman.

“Scusi.” I could have bit my tongue. “Excuse me, please. Who you are?”

ScusiI knew that wasn"t right either, but it was too late.

“I"m Mrs. Brown, head laundress and seamstress,” she said, chest rising, a quirk of a smile. “Well, I guess I"m simply the head laundress now.”

She looked over her shoulder into the hall and skipped back to me faster than I thought a woman of her size could move. “And between you, me, and the wall, I"m mad as hops that you"re here.”

My lips opened and closed; a fish caught in a hook. Her words confused me. They were not the first, would not be the last, to make me feel like the foreigner everyone saw me as. The wall could hear us? No, that couldn"t be right. “Mad as hops” frightened me. Was she angry with me? I hadn"t done anything yet. She looked anything but angry. She read me well.

Mrs. Brown pinched my cheek. “I"m glad you"re here, gel, the work was too much for me.” She smiled then. I had never seen a smile belong on a face so well. “Mind me, do good work or I"ll hear about it.”

At the door, she flung her last words over her shoulder, “When you"re done with the Mrs."s dress, just lay it on her bed.”

With that, she was gone. I was on my own. This tiny room with a window facing the small front garden was mine, all mine. I volleyed between fear and excitement.

I set to work. The buttons, the darning, went fast and smooth. I saved the dress for last, a treat for myself, wanting my fingers limbered up before I tackled it. I put it on the curved, dress form. It was wonderful, perhaps the finest dress I had ever seen; never had I worked on such a garment. It was nothing like the simple, rough-clothed dresses I had learned to make by my mother"s side. It was a frock like those that filled my daydreams; the fantasies where I designed and made such dresses. For more moments than I should, I simply stared at it, walking round it to see all its glory. I circled it as I would a great piece of art.

It was all silk, lace, beads, and pearls. It hugged the form tightly through the bodice and the upper legs, then flared wide and long, draping the floor. The puffed sleeves, much larger versions of those I wore, were sheer and had the trickiest design of beads, a floral pattern on the largest part, the stem and leaves flowing down to long cuffs buttoned with more pearls. It was there, in the long curling stem, that I found the open spaces, the beads" missing places.

It took me ages to find the right beads to match, even longer to sew them in perfectly. My pace slowed by my eagerness to do the work perfectly. The sun rose above the tree line, had started to make its way to my window, and the room grew brighter and brighter as I worked. I was as thankful for the window and its glimpse of sky and trees as I was for the work my hands did. The noises in my mind silenced by purpose and gratitude.

I finished and stood back, pleased. Not the slightest stitch revealed where the new joined with the old. I wanted to carry the dress through the house. I longed to show Mrs. Briggs and everyone who doubted me—which was probably everyone—that I was true to my word. I could sew, and very well. I wanted to scream at them. Though I spoke with a heavy accent, spoke slowly, my mind was quick and sure, as were my hands. I had been the smartest girl in school, the most talented sewer too. I longed to be that girl again, known as that girl here. Vanity and pride are not virtues, but they were mine in that moment. I claimed them reluctantly. If no one here would know me, at least I would, the all of me, good and bad.

I knew I couldn"t parade the dress, parade my prideful self through the house. I knew I had to return the dress to Mrs. Worthington"s room and nothing more.

I took the dress off the form slowly, draped it delicately across my forearms, and poked my head out the door. I saw no one and entered the small foyer outside the room and through another door into the hall. Through all the sewing, my hands were still and sure. Now they shook. My pride and vanity and the sureness they gave me betrayed me and stayed behind. I was once more the lost, uncertain girl. I had no idea which room belonged to the woman of the house.

The doors across from me stood closed, but I didn"t think Mrs. Worthington"s room would be so close to the sewing room, or the servant"s stairs beside it. Along the wide hallway, of the same cream marble as on the floor below, across the wide foyer at the top of the double staircases, those the family used, I saw doors opened at that end.

I tiptoed to them, past tapestries larger than I had ever seen, older still. I smelled my own sweat along with the fresh flowers blooming on every table in every room I passed. I peeked in the first door. It opened to a narrow hall, long and dark and secret, and then two more doors. Both stood open. The first room was rich and dark, deep maroon silk covered the bed, the walls, the curtains. A man"s jacket hung on some sort of contraption in the corner. Mr. Worthington"s room, I thought, or the son"s.

I saw a bathing room at the end of the hall, the door to its foyer and the door to the inner room both open. Inside was a bathing room like none I had ever seen. My unworldliness slapped me good and hard; knowing there were those who lived better lives was one thing, seeing it another. Within its square dimensions lay a deep tub, pure white tile, a marble sink painted with a garland and topped with a faucet of gold, and the strangest toilet, hidden by a cane-covered box. Another basin stood next to the toilet, something shaped like a miniature tub, though I had no idea what it was. The dressing table held every sort of grooming device, delicate ones—combs, brushes, mirrors, and more—all made of tortoiseshell. My mother had a tortoise comb; it was all she had. It was now mine. I held it often but never used it.

I couldn"t go in, couldn"t keep staring, though I wanted to. Such a bathroom belonged to a woman.

The door closest to it stood opened too. I stepped in and knew at once it was Mrs. Worthington"s room. Never had I seen such a place. Rich, thick, light green silk was everywhere, delicate furniture, scrolled and gilded, and lace, lots of lace.

I could have stood there forever staring into this room, this world, unlike anything I had ever imagined. Delight and envy tangled with anger, a knot of rough yarn. How could so few have so much when so many had so little? I criticized it even as I longed for it.

The voices stopped me.

They echoed up the stone stairs, bounced against marble walls, coming closer.

I laid the dress carefully on the bed, as instructed, and rushed out.

I slipped to a stop. The voices were upon me. I heard footsteps now too.

I ducked out a side door by the main door. I found myself in a tiny hallway leading to another tiny hallway. I turned "round and "round, not knowing which of the three doors would lead to the best hiding place. The voices grew closer. I spun like a top, the string one of dizzying confusion.

I found a narrow corner, a cubby of space. I jammed myself in, back to the wall, and slipped down. I huddled in a ball as the voices grew louder and closer. I stayed there even as they grew softer and farther away again. Lost became redefined in so many ways. I couldn"t stop the tears then.

I was up early, eager for the day. Barefoot and in my nightdress, large windows in my large room thrown open for the warm, salty breeze to greet me. I stood before my easel, as I did most days. I know now that I did not see the glory of it all, all which was mine. I never questioned its beauty or my possession of it, not as I should have.

My gaze drifted out those large windows, my mind followed, across the vast lawn of rolling slopes that led to the grove of feathered trees. My trees. I closed my eyes then, opening my artistic vision. With it, I saw a small child, a girl, barefoot and giggling, ringlets bouncing and flying behind her, pudgy hands flapping with the freedom.

I opened my eyes, turned back to the self-portrait—that portrait—before me on the canvas.

Mother had grudgingly allowed me the “hobby,” an appropriate one for a young lady of means. “Appropriate” from her meant acceptable to society, her most critical gauge. Little did she know I had no intention for it to be a hobby. Not since that day. Not since I had met Mary Cassatt. Was there a part of me that set my course simply because it would upset my mother? I would not be the first daughter to rebel in such a manner. I only knew the burning passion compelled me to it—my art. Denying it would be to deny myself.