The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [6]
“With the mayor’s letter?”
“With all of us doing our part. That’s what families do, Clara. They sacrifice and serve, and then all will be well.”
I wished I could share her enthusiasm, but it wasn’t in my nature.
THREE
Letting Go
MAY 1896
I entered the servants’ quarters at the Stapleton household. It would be my last day working for this fine family. Giving a two-week notice would have been the professional thing to do, increasing the likelihood of reclaiming my position once we returned, but my mother hadn’t granted me the luxury of an organized departure.
I’d first worked for another family, the Rutters. When Bertha, my now fourteen-year-old sister, was ready to serve at age twelve, she took my place there and I joined the Stapleton family household. (My mother would correct me if I said “joined the Stapleton family.” She’d remind me that I merely worked in it.) Olaf tended the Rutters’ yards and gardens weekly. During our trip, Bertha would continue working out; Olaf would return to the farm to help my father.
I donned my cap and white apron and entered the drawing room to ask Mrs. Stapleton if I might have a word with her.
“Of course, dear,” she said. The Spokesman-Review lay on the table. She looked at her lapel watch. “Come back in, say, thirty minutes? I’m sure the upstairs linens need tending. It’s Monday after all.” She was a stately woman who dismissed me by adjusting her glasses and returning to the newspaper.
They’d had houseguests over the weekend, and that meant changing the linens on all the beds in the five upstairs bedrooms. I didn’t mind the work, but it wasn’t what I intended for my life. What I wanted was to be a wife and mother, to support a husband’s efforts at managing money as he cared for his family. I was good with numbers and once even imagined becoming a banker myself, but it wasn’t an occupation for a woman—or at least I knew no women who were. I’d be a fine mistress of a grand house and generous because my husband would be kind and generous to me. And we’d never worry over money or do ridiculous things like expose an unfortunate personal situation to the world because of money.
Mr. Stapleton was a banker and his son, Forest, would be one day. I sighed, thinking of Forest as I worked and nearly burned my hand on the hot iron while pressing the sheets left for me.
When I came downstairs, Mrs. Stapleton was standing in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest, and she tapped her foot though I wasn’t late at all. Lilac scent wafted in from the open window but didn’t sweeten Mrs. Stapleton’s disposition.
“I know what you have to tell me,” she said. “Or does your mother have another daughter she intends to take across the continent on this ridiculous scheme?” She nodded toward the Spokesman-Review. “ ‘Walk to New York,’ it says. ‘Hoping to meet a wager and save the family farm,’ it says. ‘Wearing the new reformed dress.’ ” She scoffed and picked up the newspaper, jabbed at it with her finger. “What on earth is your mother thinking? Aside from the fact that it’s terribly dangerous, it’s … it’s … an affront to womanhood. Traveling across town unescorted is uncivilized enough, but across the country? And to publicly announce your family’s financial position? Well, I … And the dresses you’re to wear! Absolutely provocative showing so much ankle. You’ll be assaulted and understandably so.”
“We’ll carry a pepper-box gun,” I offered. “My mother will have a revolver too, and she does know how to use it.”
“What western woman doesn’t? But that’s beside the point,” she said. “It’s your reputation, Clara. You’re tarnishing it with this foolishness. You’re old enough to make your own decisions now. Refuse to go. Save your mother from further humiliation.”
I agreed with her, but I had no choice that I could see. An Estby did what was required for family. “It won’t be foolish if we succeed,” I said, my