“Louisburg Square? That’s in Boston, isn’t it?” Hannah asked.
“Yes, my dear. Beacon Hill, one of the finest addresses in the city. The Hawleys are very…” She searched for a word. “Well, very refined, a very old Boston family and very wealthy.” Then she hastened to add, “But don’t let that worry you. You won’t be serving at parties, as I said. You’ll be…well, more or less in the shadows.” Mrs. Larkin now leaned forward. “But it will be a comfortable setting and earn you almost one hundred dollars a year.”
“One hundred dollars!” Hannah gasped. This was an unimaginable sum. Hannah had never had in her possession a single dollar before, had never felt in her hand the crumpled sturdiness of a bill.
“The starting wage for a scullery girl is one dollar and seventy-five cents per week. You get room and board, and you work seven days a week, but get two Sundays off a month.”
“Starting wage,” Hannah whispered.
“Yes, starting wage.” Mrs. Larkin cocked her head to one side and regarded Hannah carefully. “But that is just starting. Do a good job and you can work your way up. The head upstairs maid makes over five hundred dollars a year and the cook…oh my goodness, cooks and butlers make almost a thousand dollars a year. I know you are bright and you will do well at the Hawleys’.”
“You mean…” Hannah hesitated. She could not find the words as real hope sprung up in her. “You…think I am suitable?”
“Yes, dear. Now, here’s the address and I am not sure if you will be speaking with Mrs. Hawley directly. It might be the butler or the head housekeeper, or perhaps the cook, but just be sweet. Don’t ask too many questions. I shall send a letter along that says you can read. And do you do any figures, dear?”
“I can do sums and know my multiplication tables, and I was beginning to learn long division.”
“Wonderful—almost fit for Harvard!”
“What’s Harvard, ma’am?”
And now Mrs. Larkin laughed very hard. “Oh, you don’t need to know about Harvard, dear. They don’t admit girls.” Hannah bit her lip lightly while she thought. She was determined to do well in this job, learn everything she could. It wasn’t just the money, the promise of higher wages. It was the chance to live within reach of the sea. The salt crystals had stopped forming on her skin, but the crystals in the envelope that she had brought back seemed to have intensified in their color. She kept them now in a little pouch that she wore around her neck, tucked discreetly inside her camisole. Like a charm, a talisman she seemed to need to keep close to her.
“Hannah,” Mrs. Larkin said loudly, calling her back from her reveries. “Is there anything else?”
“No…but it’s a lot of money one could make someday, isn’t it?”
“Indeed! And what would you do with more money?”
Hannah cocked her head. She had never thought about such a question until this moment. But then it came to her—a stunning realization and yet so obvious. “Why, I’d buy a house. Well, not a house—a little cottage by the sea.”
Mrs. Larkin pulled her chin in and tipped her head back as if to take in a fuller measure of Hannah. “Hannah, you’re…you’re very original.”
And now Hannah grew very quiet. “No…not really, I just know where I am comfortable, where I belong. And that is near the sea.”
“Any sea?” Mrs. Larkin asked.
“Is there more than one?” Hannah replied.
“Oh, yes, my dear! But the Atlantic Ocean is closest to us.”
“That will do,” Hannah said simply.
Mrs. Larkin looked at Hannah curiously, and then she laughed. “Well, I’m glad. I would hate for you to have to go too far away to find a proper sea for yourself.”
“They’re all proper. They all fit.”
“Fit?” Mrs. Larkin asked. Hannah shrugged and did not reply.
Mrs. Larkin smiled warmly and reached across her desk and patted Hannah’s hand. “You’re just starting, my dear. The sky is the limit here. Or perhaps I should say the sea’s the limit.” Mrs. Larkin laughed gaily, but Hannah smiled quietly to herself and touched the pouch beneath the bodice of her dress.
Now Hannah looked up at the Clock Tower. The hands were at twenty-five minutes before nine. Hannah had made a detour on her way to the interview on Beacon Hill to come by the harbor. She was not due at number 18 Louisburg Square until nine o’clock, but she would get there five minutes early. That would impress them. Promptness was essential in domestic service.
Mrs. Larkin had given her a handbook to read about how domestic servants—from scullery girls to butlers—were expected to behave. Hannah had almost memorized the book, reading and rereading the sections on why girls were dismissed. The reasons were fairly clear—all of which, from drunkenness to stealing, were listed under the heading of “Inappropriate Behavior.” Most of it was clear and easily avoided, but there was one short paragraph that disturbed her. Mrs. Claremont, the author of the book, had written, “Of course, if a servant appears eccentric or odd, or for one reason or another just does not seem to fit in the household, she can be let go. Usually if this is the case, a severance payment is made.”
Money or no money, severance was a harsh word. Hannah knew what it meant. Dismissed, discharged, cut off. She simply could not be cut off. For cut off now might mean being sent away, far, far from Boston. Far from the salt air of the sea.
4 NUMBER 18 LOUISBURG SQUARE
HANNAH MADE HER WAY up the steep brick sidewalk of Mount Vernon Street, which bordered the west side of Louisburg Square near the top of Beacon Hill. Four rows of stately redbrick houses around the square looked down on a gated, leafy park. Mrs. Larkin had told her that number 18 would be on the far side of the park, the third house from the right. She stopped and counted in three houses to find number 18, which was almost identical to all of the others. There was a disturbing rigidity to the overall design—the flat fronts, the lines of shutters painted a dark green that appeared almost black. Hannah could not help but think of the ominous words of Mrs. Claremont in the book: “Of course, if a servant appears eccentric or odd, or for one reason or another just does not seem to fit in the household, she can be let go. Usually if this is the case, a severance payment is made.” I will fit in! Hannah thought, and marched resolutely up the walk to the front door of number 18.
Hannah was happy that number 18 was one of the few houses with a bowed front. It gave the house a more welcoming appearance. Like all of the houses, number 18 had a tiny front yard with a low wroughtiron fence. In the middle of the yard was a tree bare of leaves but with visible buds that appeared swollen in anticipation of spring, though it would be another week until the beginning of March.
In the middle of number 18’s door there was a brightly polished brass lion’s head clutching a large H in its mouth. Hannah lifted the H and tapped it against the plate of the door knocker, which also had an H inscribed on it. She waited the better part of a minute, but no one appeared. She knocked again, louder. Still there was no sign of movement. Hannah tipped her head toward the heavy, carved door and pressed her ear against the wood, straining to hear through it. Just then there was a loud creak and the door swung open. She tumbled against something firm.
“Ooh! Ooooh! I’m so sorry.”
“I should think so…what in the name of—?”
Oh, no! How could I have forgotten. Back door! The thought coursed through Hannah’s head too late. Had she not read in the handbook Mrs. Larkin gave her that service people must always use the service entrance at the back of the house? Within the first ten seconds, before she had even entered the house, she had succeeded in making herself an ill fit. A dozen words flew through her head. Abnormal, weird, outlandish. Yes, there’s a good one, she thought. Might as well just hang a signboard from me. OUTLANDISH GIRL APPLYING FOR A JOB IN LOUISBURG SQUARE.
A very tall man was now brushing off his doublebreasted frock coat. The small brass buttons were as polished as the door knocker, and the letter H gleamed from them.
>
“Mr. Hawley, I am so sorry!”
“I am not Mr. Hawley. I am the butler and you I presume are the girl sent from the home.”
“Yes, yes, Hannah Albury.” She started to hold out her hand but realized this was not a good idea and quickly stuffed it back in her pocket. “I meant to go around to the back.”
“You meant to? Then why have you come to the front?”
“I…I…guess I got confused.”
“You confused the front of the house with the back? My, my! Well, I suggest that you try again.” With that he took her by the shoulders, spun her around, and marched her back through the front gate.
“Turn left at the corner. Take another left into the service alley. Open the small gate with the number Eighteen to the refuse yard and knock on the door. Florrie will admit you and we’ll start all over.”
Hannah did as she was told. She stepped into the narrow refuse yard. There were only number 18s painted on the bins and barrels. No Hs. The door had no knocker, so she rapped loudly. She heard footsteps, and the door swung open. “Heard all about you already. I’m Florrie. Brilliant!” The girl had black hair that foamed around her head. Her cheeks were ruddy. “Follow me. Mr. Marston just about had a fit.”
“It was so stupid of me. I don’t know how I forgot. And I studied the book so hard.”
“What book?” Florrie tossed the question over her shoulder.
“Mrs. Claremont’s Guide for Domestic Service.”
“You can read?”
“Yes, they taught me at The Home for Little Wanderers.”
“Oh,” Florrie said curtly. Hannah bit her lip lightly. Another mistake! Another thing to mark her as odd. Many servant-class girls did not know how to read. They had had to leave school early. Now this girl, Florrie, would most likely think Hannah was putting on airs. Hannah would have to make a special effort to be very nice to her. But maybe she could repair the damage a bit. “I don’t read very well. And I’m absolutely terrible with figures. Can barely add two plus two.”
“Oh, I can,” Florrie said, then added, “but Mr. Marston does all the adding and subtracting around here.” She paused. “Including the firing, which I guess counts as a kind of subtracting.”
Florrie laughed at her own joke, and although Hannah felt a terrible dread, she tried to laugh extra hard.
“You’re very clever, Florrie.” Then she made a kind of humorous grimace. “Hope I won’t be subtracted.”
Florrie turned to smile quickly. It was a friendly smile and gave Hannah a bit of hope.
They had been winding through a maze of back halls, many of which had open shelves with bins and canisters. It appeared to be an extended pantry of some kind. There were cooking smells, and soon they went through double doors and arrived in the kitchen.
“New girl, Mrs. Bletchley,” Florrie announced.
“Be right with you, dear.” A plump lady whose face was beaded with perspiration was leaning over a large pot and tasting something. “It ain’t got ’nuff pepper.” She sniffed. A small boy was scrubbing potatoes.
“Your scrubbing days might be numbered, Chauncey, and you can get back to your beasts,” Florrie said.
“Not a minute too soon. There’s tackle to be polished with the Hawleys coming.”
“This way.” Florrie nodded and held a door open to a small hall off the kitchen. Hannah followed her. Florrie then walked up to another door and tapped on it. “Mr. Marston, the girl’s here.”
“Come in.”
The butler sat behind a desk, bent over some papers. Spectacles were perched on his beakish nose. He did not look up. “I’ll leave you two,” Florrie said and closed the door behind her.
“Take a seat, Miss…Miss…”
“Albury…”
“Ah, yes, here it is. Hannah Albury. Take a seat, Hannah.”
Hannah knew from the way he said her first name that it was not necessarily a sign of friendliness but merely a designation. Like Florrie, she did not qualify for the formal address of “Miss” or “Mrs.” Lower maids were always called simply by their Christian names. He, on the other hand, must be addressed at all times as Mr. Marston.
Hannah sat down. “Thank you, Mr. Marston.” This caused him to look up. He pressed his lips together into a firm line. It was not a smile but Hannah tried to interpret it as a slight sign of approval. His pale blue eyes looked at her steadily. Then he leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, The Boston Home for Little Wanderers says you are a responsible young girl. Quick to learn—except for an alarming failure to discern the front of the house from the back—”
“I am so sorry, sir…Mr. Marston. I knew better. I mean, I read that in Mrs. Claremont’s book and I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”
“You’ve read Mrs. Claremont’s Guide for Domestic Service?” His somewhat bushy, reddish eyebrows crawled up his forehead.
“Oh, yes, sir. Every page, sir. I read the part about lemon juice and baking soda for polishing, and starch mixed with borax for—”
Just then Mrs. Bletchley entered. “Mr. Marston, can you add two bottles of the sweet sherry to the wines and spirits order? I had completely forgotten the spring luncheon Mrs. H always gives and I have to get those fruits macerating.”
“Ah, mustn’t forget Mrs. H’s spring luncheon. And then of course the symphony tea.”
“Yes, that I remembered.”
“This is Hannah, Mrs. Bletchley.”
“Ahh, the new girl.” She glanced at her quickly. “Poor Dotty.”
“Yes, poor Dotty indeed,” Mr. Marston echoed.
Hannah had no idea who poor Dotty was. She supposed there was a strong possibility that Dotty had been the previous scullery girl. Perhaps she had been pitched, but given the lugubrious tones in which they both spoke and their downcast eyes, she imagined something worse.
“She reads,” Mr. Marston added.
“Well, she won’t be needing that.” Mrs. Bletchley now ran her eyes over Hannah. “You strong enough to lift a twenty-pound block of ice?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”
“Let me see your hands.” Hannah held out her hands and Mrs. Bletchley picked them up, turning them over in her own plump hands, which bore traces of flour. “Well, they ain’t seen much work. But your nails are neat and clean. Mind you keep them that way despite scrubbing the fire grates. We don’t tolerate dirty nails around here even if you’re hardly to be seen upstairs.” She paused. “No boyfriends, right? We don’t tolerate that sort of thing, either. We’ve gone through that before.”
Mr. Marston tipped his head up a bit and sniffed as if a bad odor had suddenly seeped into the room.
Hannah was almost stiff with fear. She simply had to make this work, but was Mr. Marston sensing something in her? Hannah touched her chest and felt the pouch.
“No boyfriends,” Mr. Marston said.
The idea seemed absurd to Hannah. She hardly had friends. Most of the girls her age had left by the time she had returned from Kansas. She would commit herself to spinsterhood on the spot if that was what it took to get this job. It wasn’t the money, even though it would be nice to make enough someday to have a tiny cottage by the sea. But it felt as though her very life depended on getting this job. If she failed, where would she go, or worse, be sent? The word severance hung in the air in an almost tangible way. Like an ax it could fall and suddenly slice away any hope of living by the sea. Once again, Hannah touched her chest and thought of the tiny glistening fragments in the pouch. She pressed her lips together and tried to calm herself as she looked first toward Mrs. Bletchley and then back to Mr. Marston. Please, please, she prayed. Let me just seem normal. Let me fit.
“I think it’ll fit.”
Hannah almost jumped when she heard the word. Fit! I fit!
“She be about the same size as Dotty, so her uniform might fit you.” Mrs. Bletchley stepped back now and surveyed Hannah from head to toe.
“I was thinking the s
ame thing myself, Mrs. Bletchley,” Mr. Marston said. Did this mean she was hired? Hannah was about to ask, when Mr. Marston stood up and pulled a string that was behind his desk to unfurl a window shade on which an elaborate chart was drawn. Emblazoned at the top of the chart in bold letters were the words HOUSEHOLD STAFF NO. 18 LOUISBURG SQUARE. The chart showed a multitiered scaffolding, headed by the word BUTLER and followed by two other titles: COOK and HOUSEKEEPER. Then beneath them were half a dozen other positions, ranging from governess to valet to ladies’ maid. All of these upper-tier titles were written in bold letters. There were at least a dozen or so others written in smaller print below, including the handyman, chambermaids, parlor maids, and kitchen girls. Hannah wondered where her place might be in this intricate construction.
Am I hired? That is all I really and truly want to know, Hannah thought desperately.
Mr. Marston began to speak. “What you must know is that this house in which we live is divided into two universes—that of the upstairs and the downstairs. The upstairs is the world of the Hawleys, the biological family that lives here. The downstairs is the work family. That is us, the serving staff. As the Hawleys are related through blood, we are related through work. Just as Mr. Horace Hawley is the head of that family, I, Samuel Marston, am the head of the work family.”
Mr. Marston reached for a pointer propped against the wall and underscored his name with the tip. “My duties,” Mr. Marston continued, “pertain to hiring and dismissing staff, managing the household budget, et cetera. But I need not inform you of all the details. There are rules that apply to both families. My job is to tell you the ones that are the concern of the downstairs work family. The number one rule is that downstairs family members are only to be upstairs for their work. One does not go upstairs for any reason except at the time of retirement. All female staff members who serve as maids live on the premises and use the back stairs to ascend to their sleeping quarters. While working we do not engage in conversations with the upstairs family unless specifically asked a question. There is no such thing as idle or casual conversation between the work family and the Hawleys.” Mr. Marston stepped back and gazed at the chart as one might admire a beautiful painting. “This is our structure, the order, the hierarchy. Mrs. Bletchley has full command of the kitchen. Miss Horton, the housekeeper, sets the cleaning schedule.”