wore a high collar, she didn’t look flushed or creased, and she carried herself like a queen.
“What’s your name?”
“Janet Lovelace, ma’am.”
“My son tells me you ran away from home.” Her voice was courteous, but something else, too: maybe disdainful; maybe severe. “Wasn’t that a rash thing to do?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, as courteous as she. I surprised myself, answering her so readily, but something about her brought out my mettle. It was a queer thing: Mr. Solomon Rosenbach made me feel kind of frail and delicate, but
she
made me strong.
“You don’t think it was rash, to come to a strange city where you know no one, and have no place to spend the night?”
“If you put it like that, it sounds rash,” I admitted, “but I had to leave home. If I have to sleep on a park bench, I will. But I won’t go home.”
She took a step forward and looked at me, first as if I was a curiosity, and then more closely. She saw my bruises and winced at the sight of them. She said, almost under her breath, “No, you mustn’t go home,” and all at once, I realized what she was thinking. She’d gotten hold of the idea that someone at home had beaten me, and I tried to remember just what I’d said to her son. Of course I hadn’t mentioned Cressy; and I’d told him I couldn’t go home because of Father. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t lie.
But I didn’t confess, either. I don’t mean confess, exactly: I didn’t explain. I
should
have explained, but the Rosenbachs were looking as if they were sorry for me, and I wanted them to feel sorry for me, because I needed a place to spend the night. So I kept my mouth shut.
“I understand you want to be a hired girl.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you could help me find work, I’d be much obliged.”
“You have a character?”
I said hesitantly, “I think so, ma’am. Miss Chandler — my teacher at home — she thought I had a good character.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant references — a written testimonial to the effect that you are honest and clean and obedient. Have you anything of that kind?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You may find it difficult to find work without one. However”— she hesitated —“there may be a place here.” She took a step toward a small rocking chair and sat down in it. “Sit down. I should warn you that it’s unlikely you’ll stay here for long. I’ve dismissed three servants in the two past months.”
“I’d like to work here,” I said breathlessly. I meant it. I wanted nothing more than to work in this magnificent house. I could tell that the Rosenbachs were people of culture and refinement. At the same time, I wondered what the other servants had done to displease her.
Mrs. Rosenbach said unexpectedly, “Are you hungry? Have you dined?”
“No, but I had breakfast on the train, ma’am. It was a very large breakfast. I’m not hungry.”
She sighed. “Solly,” she said to Mr. Rosenbach, “go downstairs and fix the girl a sandwich. And a glass of milk, I think.”
Her son got to his feet and left the room. He was going downstairs, this wealthy, grown-up, well-dressed man, to
fix me a sandwich.
Luke would have called him a sissy. I thought he was manly and gallant.
Mrs. Rosenbach rocked in her chair. It’s funny — sitting in a rocking chair is kind of a homely thing to do, but the way she did it, with her wrists resting so lightly on the arms of the chair, and just the tip of one shoe showing — why, it wasn’t homely at all. A queen might rock that way, if she had a throne with rockers on it.
She said, “Malka is in bed. She’s tired out after the Sabbath.”
I wondered who Malka was. It struck me that Mrs. Rosenbach had the day wrong, because it was Saturday, but I didn’t say so.
“Malka is our housekeeper. She was my husband’s nursemaid when he was a child. Mr. Rosenbach is devoted to her, and when I came to this house as a bride, it
“What’s your name?”
“Janet Lovelace, ma’am.”
“My son tells me you ran away from home.” Her voice was courteous, but something else, too: maybe disdainful; maybe severe. “Wasn’t that a rash thing to do?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, as courteous as she. I surprised myself, answering her so readily, but something about her brought out my mettle. It was a queer thing: Mr. Solomon Rosenbach made me feel kind of frail and delicate, but
she
made me strong.
“You don’t think it was rash, to come to a strange city where you know no one, and have no place to spend the night?”
“If you put it like that, it sounds rash,” I admitted, “but I had to leave home. If I have to sleep on a park bench, I will. But I won’t go home.”
She took a step forward and looked at me, first as if I was a curiosity, and then more closely. She saw my bruises and winced at the sight of them. She said, almost under her breath, “No, you mustn’t go home,” and all at once, I realized what she was thinking. She’d gotten hold of the idea that someone at home had beaten me, and I tried to remember just what I’d said to her son. Of course I hadn’t mentioned Cressy; and I’d told him I couldn’t go home because of Father. He must have jumped to the wrong conclusion.
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t lie.
But I didn’t confess, either. I don’t mean confess, exactly: I didn’t explain. I
should
have explained, but the Rosenbachs were looking as if they were sorry for me, and I wanted them to feel sorry for me, because I needed a place to spend the night. So I kept my mouth shut.
“I understand you want to be a hired girl.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you could help me find work, I’d be much obliged.”
“You have a character?”
I said hesitantly, “I think so, ma’am. Miss Chandler — my teacher at home — she thought I had a good character.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant references — a written testimonial to the effect that you are honest and clean and obedient. Have you anything of that kind?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You may find it difficult to find work without one. However”— she hesitated —“there may be a place here.” She took a step toward a small rocking chair and sat down in it. “Sit down. I should warn you that it’s unlikely you’ll stay here for long. I’ve dismissed three servants in the two past months.”
“I’d like to work here,” I said breathlessly. I meant it. I wanted nothing more than to work in this magnificent house. I could tell that the Rosenbachs were people of culture and refinement. At the same time, I wondered what the other servants had done to displease her.
Mrs. Rosenbach said unexpectedly, “Are you hungry? Have you dined?”
“No, but I had breakfast on the train, ma’am. It was a very large breakfast. I’m not hungry.”
She sighed. “Solly,” she said to Mr. Rosenbach, “go downstairs and fix the girl a sandwich. And a glass of milk, I think.”
Her son got to his feet and left the room. He was going downstairs, this wealthy, grown-up, well-dressed man, to
fix me a sandwich.
Luke would have called him a sissy. I thought he was manly and gallant.
Mrs. Rosenbach rocked in her chair. It’s funny — sitting in a rocking chair is kind of a homely thing to do, but the way she did it, with her wrists resting so lightly on the arms of the chair, and just the tip of one shoe showing — why, it wasn’t homely at all. A queen might rock that way, if she had a throne with rockers on it.
She said, “Malka is in bed. She’s tired out after the Sabbath.”
I wondered who Malka was. It struck me that Mrs. Rosenbach had the day wrong, because it was Saturday, but I didn’t say so.
“Malka is our housekeeper. She was my husband’s nursemaid when he was a child. Mr. Rosenbach is devoted to her, and when I came to this house as a bride, it
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