I get to my feet and try to imitate her stance, but I’m “too stiff.” “Too loose.” “Too hasty.” When I have walked the floor again and again and it feels that I’m finally beginning to make some progress, Mrs. Tusk merely sniffs and turns away. “Practice makes perfect. It shall certainly take time to prove this point with someone of your … limited background.”
Dropping my arms, I feel an ache in my shoulders. If I am ever going to be as stiff and proper as she is, this part of my education is going to require a vast amount of practice.
Moments later, a knock comes on the door and Maddy enters the room. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but it’s time fer Miss Annabel’s wardrobe fitting.”
Suddenly nervous, I fidget with my scarf. I thought that perhaps I would help Maddy sew another dress or two that I could wear. I had no idea I was to be given an entirely new wardrobe.
“We shall continue upon your return,” Mrs. Tusk says. “You are dismissed.”
I stand and offer her a curtsy, and she gives me a brief nod. Then I follow Maddy out of the room. “Is it going to be terrible?” I whisper. “I have no idea what to expect.”
“Yer going to be poked an’ prodded,” she whispers back. “But Madame LaFleur is the best seamstress in all of Philadelphia. Don’t you worry.”
She leads me to another sitting room, where piles of silk and lace already cover the floor, and two women are flitting around like busy bees. They introduce themselves as Madame LaFleur and her assistant, Jacqueline. I glance over at Maddy. How will I be able to keep my scarf on during the fitting?
“Go on, miss,” she says with a wink. “I already told them that yer not used to the cool air in Philadelphia yet, comin’ from Siam an’ all, so you have to keep yer scarf on so you don’t catch cold. They’ll not be asking you to take it off.”
I silently vow to repay her act of kindness. “Thank you, Maddy.”
She gives me a curtsy, and then leaves me to face the seamstresses on my own. They direct me toward a dressing screen set up in the middle of the room and tell me to wait behind it. Moments later, Madame’s assistant joins me and begins to strip me free of my dress. Bolts of deep blue and dark red silks are held up beside my face, but each one is quickly discarded when Madame comes behind the screen.
“No, no.” Madame shakes her head. “These colors are not right for her. You can tell from where she has been covered beneath her clothes, Jacqueline. See? Her darkened skin, it is from the sun, oui? Yes?”
I nod, and she nods as well.
“Her natural coloring is fair, with medium brown hair and dark eyes. We must stay away from the dramatic.”
Jacqueline puts a measuring string against my body, marking her place with one finger. Then she brings over a thin piece of muslin and a pair of scissors. Quickly cutting away two sides of it and bidding me to hold out my arms, she pins the muslin around my shoulders.
Madame makes several notes on a small slip of paper, then mutters, “We shall need three walking dresses, five morning dresses, a cloak, some gloves …” She glances down at me. “Your hands?”
I offer them to her, and a look of horror crosses her face.
“Mon dieu! So rough, so worn. And the spots! We shall need the gloves right away. Jacqueline! Bring the extra pair. I just hope they fit.”
Shame washes over me. My job as Mother’s assistant made it impractical to have impeccably kept hands. Most days, we would find ourselves helping with daily tasks such as hauling water or washing soiled linens. I did not realize that here in Philadelphia even my hands would cause offense.
They pin me and mark me for what feels like several more hours until finally Jacqueline helps me dress again. She leaves me to fasten my own stockings, but she doesn’t go far. I can hear her speaking softly just beyond the edge of the screen.
“Hurry,” Madame admonishes. “We need to pack the fabric up quickly.”
“I’m sorry, Madame. I—”
“No matter. Just be sure that nothing is left behind.”
“Have we been here too long?” Jacqueline asks.
“Far too long. Even though we came in via the servants’ entrance there is still risk that someone will see us leaving this house. I may have been willing to offer my services for a pretty penny, but that does not mean I am willing to compromise my reputation. Quality breeds quality, you know. Heaven forbid word get out that I have been associating with the master of this house. No matter how much extra he pays.”
She says master like it’s a foul word, and Jacqueline makes a sound of agreement. I carefully readjust my scarf around my neck, patting it into place as I contemplate their words. Why would she wish to not be associated with Father?
Once I’m fully dressed again, Madame tells me my new wardrobe will be ready in one week and then takes her leave. I return to Mrs. Tusk and we are about to resume our lessons once more, when Grand-père joins us.
“Excuse me for the interruption, but I was hoping that I might be able to steal my granddaughter away,” he says. “You are more than welcome to take tea in the dining room during this hiatus, Mrs. Tusk.”
Mrs. Tusk reluctantly agrees. Then she asks, “Will I have a chance to speak with the master of the house this afternoon? We have some, ah, unfinished business.”
“His customary teatime is three o’clock. I’ll inquire if he can see you then.”
Though it is evident she has a desire to be more insistent, Mrs. Tusk only frowns slightly before turning away from us. Grand-père offers me his arm, and we walk toward the great room.
“How are things progressing with your lessons?”
I glance down. “Well, I suppose.”
He notices the hesitation in my voice.
“It certainly doesn’t sound as though things are going well. This is your home now, Annabel, and I want you to feel comfortable here. Did breakfast with your father this morning upset you?”
“I’m afraid I am the one who has upset him, Grand-père. I wish to study medicine, and he thinks it unseemly. I am nothing more than a disappointment.”
Grand-père sighs heavily. “Your father is disappointed with himself. With his … limitations. He has an illness that weakens his muscles. He is mostly affected in his legs, as you have seen, and he deals with pain every day of his life. It does not often allow for a cheerful disposition.”
“What kind of illness does he have?”
“A severe form of typhus.” Grand-père’s voice catches. “I took him on a trip to France many years ago, and he caught the disease there. It is incurable.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Grand-père.”
“I think it’s difficult for your father to remember his life before he had this affliction. The memories can sometimes drive him to the edge of madness. You must understand. I do not wish to make excuses for him, but now, it’s like living with a different person.”
We continue walking as Grand-père reminisces about how things were like before Father’s illness struck, and I find myself caught up in his stories. It seemed like Father was so happy before the symptoms of the disease ravaged his body. So full of life.
Perhaps if I can find a way to ease some of Father’s pain with one of Mother’s poultices, some of that joy will return again. Perhaps then, he will come to appreciate my interests in medicine.
Five
When my lessons with Mrs. Tusk have concluded for the day, I return to my bedroom. The few medical books that I brought with me are still within my valise, and I quickly find the one I’m looking for. Paging through my worn copy of William Cowper’s The Anatomy of Humane Bodies, I come to the topic of typhus.
The disease of Typhus; more commonly known as jail fever; is capable of afflicting the mind as well as the body. Head pain, delirium, and stupor are noted symptoms as well as nausea, arm and leg pain, body fever, and red sores. These sores can lead to rotting flesh and gangrenous limbs. Believed to be caused by rats, the best prevention is to keep one’s home and property as free from vermin as possibl
e. Once the disease has spread, there is no known cure.
But something about the entry bothers me, and I reread the information over and over, trying to decipher what has disturbed my thoughts. A knock on the door interrupts my concentration.
Maddy enters, bearing a silver tray with a teacup and a small white bowl. The bowl is filled with shiny red things. “Cook sent these along with some tea, miss. Picked fresh from the tree outside.”
Remembering the distasteful kippers from this morning, I lift the bowl carefully to my nose. The red things smell sweet. “What are they?”
“Cherries. Try one. You’ll like them.”
Placing the cherry on my tongue, I almost swallow it whole before she laughs and stops me. “Not the green stem, miss. An’ mind the pits inside.”
I remove the stem and bite down, pulling out the pit. A bit of juice splashes onto my wrist and I hastily wipe it away as a sharp burst of tart sweetness fills my mouth. Maddy is right—I do like them. I eat several more, and glance out the window. Remembering the lantern that flared ever so briefly last night, I look farther down into the courtyard. There are bushes cut into strange shapes, and I can see the door where the figure with the burlap sack had been standing.
“Would it be possible for us to take a walk around the courtyard?” I say impulsively. “It’s still daylight, and I have not yet explored the grounds.”
“I’m not needed in the kitchen until dinnertime,” Maddy admits. “An’ since it’s not dark yet, we should be just fine.”
Her words give me pause. “Is it not safe to walk in the courtyard at night? I thought that’s why Father has Jasper and Thomas walking the perimeter?”
“Us servants don’t go out at night is all I meant, miss,” she says. But she will not meet my eyes. Then just as suddenly, her grin returns. “Cook made her famous cherry jam this afternoon. It’s the best thing you ever tasted. An’ I know where she keeps it. I can gather some biscuits an’ put it all in a basket to take with us.” Her smile turns bashful. “That is, if you would want to, miss.”
“A picnic! That sounds lovely, Maddy.”
Leaving my medical book behind, I follow her down to the kitchen. Something sugary-sweet fills the air, and I stop and inhale deeply as Maddy gathers biscuits and cherry jam from the larder. The scent reminds me of pa-tong-goh. Another wave of homesickness washes over me.
“It’s taffy, miss,” Cook says, noticing I’ve stopped in my tracks. Both of her hands are plunged deep into a bowl on the table.
“What’s taffy?”
“A bit a molasses, some butter, an’ sugar. You heat it all up, then roll it out flat. As it cools, you grease yer hands, then pull it apart with ev’rything you’ve got. They’re the Master’s fav’rite.” With a nod of her head, she gestures to a tray filled with golden-brown lumps. “Go ahead an’ take a couple. They’re ready.”
I reach for the taffies, but Maddy waves something at me. “Waxed paper. Use this so they don’t stick together.”
I take the paper and wrap each one up tightly, then thank Cook and hand them over to Maddy. She puts them into the basket and leads me to a door that takes us outside. We step into a walled courtyard where the grass is lush and neatly manicured. The bushes are cut into the shapes of animals, and in the middle of the courtyard is a pond filled with orange-and-white fish.
I follow Maddy to a bench beside the pond as she points out different animals along the way. There are lions, horses, and something with small horns called a stag. We lay out the biscuits and jam between us, and our conversation slows while we eat. She seems as content to indulge in her thoughts as I am in mine. It’s only when I hear a soft snore coming from her that I realize she isn’t merely lost in her thoughts. Her head has drifted to one side, and her eyes are closed. She’s sleeping.
Carefully placing the cloth that held the biscuits and jam back into the basket, I get to my feet. She looks so peaceful. I don’t want to wake her.
We haven’t eaten the taffies yet, so I put one in my pocket and leave the other two behind. Taking quiet steps over to the pond, I sit on a large rock beside it, and swirl my hand along the water’s surface. I’m concentrating so hard on trying to touch one of the fish that I miss the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing. It isn’t until a shadow falls over me that I realize I’m not alone.
“I hope you’re not planning on taking another swim,” Mr. Poe says. “I don’t think that water is deep enough for you to need rescuing again.”
He cuts a dashing figure in a dark brown overcoat with a leather satchel tucked under one arm, and I suddenly have to grip the stone on which I’m sitting so I won’t lose my balance. I try to remember the correct way to stand, as Mrs. Tusk instructed me. Head held high. Arms at my side. Feet slightly turned out. A gentle but not too friendly smile upon my face.
I get to my feet and offer him my hand. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Mr. Poe. What a fortunate circumstance.”
He clasps my fingers briefly. “Certainly much drier circumstances than when we last met.”
“That is true.” Glancing away, I remember Mrs. Tusk’s proper topics of conversation, but I can’t seem to recall what those topics were. What if I say the wrong thing?
“Would you care to take a walk around the courtyard?” Mr. Poe asks, looking over at Maddy. “Since your chaperone is here, we’re within the confines of propriety.”
“Doesn’t it matter that she’s sleeping?”
He gives me a wicked smile and offers his arm. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Desperately wishing that I had not taken off the gloves Madame LaFleur lent me, I tuck my fingers into the crook of his elbow so he won’t see my rough hands. We walk to the far end of the courtyard.
“I trust you were not put off by our conversation in the carriage yesterday,” he says. “Are you enjoying your new home?”
“It’s quite different from Siam,” I admit. “I hope it will not take very long for me to adjust.” I glance up at him shyly. “And I must say, I’m very glad my father has men to walk the grounds for our protection. I saw one of them from my window last night.”
“You did?” Mr. Poe looks at me curiously.
“Yes. Though I could not be certain who it was.”
“Then how can you be certain it was someone walking the grounds for your protection? We are very close to Pennsylvania Hospital.” He lowers his voice. “It might have been an escaped mental patient hoping to meet the esteemed Annabel Lee of whom we have all heard so much.”
I gasp and pull away from him slightly.
“Forgive me,” he says. That wicked grin returns. “I am a cad who could not resist the opportunity to tease you. You have no need to fear anything of the sort.”
I cannot stop myself from returning his smile. “You gave me such a fright! Besides, I saw by the glow of a lantern …” My voice dies off as I recall exactly what it was I saw last night. Someone was dragging a burlap bag as if it were very heavy. What could have been inside?
“Saw by the glow of a lantern …?” he prompts me.
“Jasper or Thomas walking the grounds,” I finish. “I could not be certain which one it was, but I am certain it was one of them.”
He studies me for a moment., the expression on his face deeply focused. Just as I have decided that he must be able to tell I’m holding something back, his face clears. “I’m sure that Philadelphia is as different from Siam as night is from day, but you haven’t yet had the chance to see all that Philadelphia has to offer. Beautiful gardens, historic buildings, notable citizens. When I have a free moment from my work, I shall arrange a tour.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Though I’m intrigued by the mention of his work, I try to make it appear as if my interest is in nothing more than the flowers we are passing. “Do you work with my father every day?”
“Every day. Every night. At times, it almost feels as if I live here.”
My
heart speeds up at the thought of running into Mr. Poe in the halls. “Are you helping him with his most recent project?”
He nods. “I am.”
“What kind of work does my father do?”
“He has … scientific interests. It’s all very complicated and quite boring, I assure you.”
The sun shifts overhead and disappears behind a cloud. I shiver involuntarily. Mr. Poe notices and immediately withdraws his arm from mine. “You’re cold.” He takes off his overcoat. “Allow me?”
Waiting for my nod, he places the coat around my shoulders. His hands pause and our eyes meet. My cheeks grow warm and I turn my head, purposefully looking at the gardens. “The roses are quite beautiful. I wonder what kind they are.”
He pulls back from me and offers his arm once again. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I don’t spend much time in the gardens. All of my free time is spent on my—”
He stops and looks away.
I wait for him to continue. When he does not, I say, “Surely you cannot mention something so intriguing, and then not finish telling me what it is you are working on?”
“My apologies.” He dips his head. “It’s not something I speak of very often. What little free time I have is spent working on stories and attending poetry readings. I am a writer.”
“You are?” I turn to look at him more fully. It’s no wonder his voice is so delightful. He has experience reading aloud, as I thought. “Have you been published?”
“Not yet. Though I’m working on a book of poetry. It is to be called Tamerlane and Other Poems.”
“What a beautiful title. Does it have special meaning? I’ve never heard of a Tamerlane.”
“It’s the name of the hero in one of my poems. A warrior who lost his greatest love.”