Elizabeth Blackwell - The House Of Secrets

In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed in embarrassment. Her hair hung in tangled ringlets. She turned on the tap and took a few moments to enjoy the luxury of warm water spilling over her hands and wrists. She washed up as best she could, then changed into one of the silk nightgowns her mother had sewn for her trousseau. She listened for a moment at the door when she was ready, but heard nothing. What happened now? Would Charles pounce on her again?

She opened the door slowly and peeked out. Charles lay on the bed in his underclothes, his jacket and trousers flung on the floor. He was snoring.

Evelyn tiptoed to the other side of the bed and slid under the covers, careful not to disturb him. Her body was exhausted, but her mind hummed with thoughts that kept sleep at bay.

The following day, Charles whisked her off for a week in New York. There were dinner parties every night, a visit to the opera, carriage rides through Central Park and shopping trips to expensive boutiques.

“You’re a Brewster now,” Charles said. “You need to look like one.”

Charles insisted on socializing with his friends from Harvard and their wives. Confident and sophisticated, these young couples intimidated Evelyn into silence. She did little more than hang on to Charles’s arm and look up at him adoringly when required. He was easy to admire then, with his elegant clothes and impeccable manners. The way he pulled her to his side and took her hand when he introduced her as “my wife” made her blush with pleasure.

Their only moments alone came late at night. Evelyn would retire to their hotel room first, while Charles enjoyed a cigar or a last card game downstairs. She would change into her nightgown, brush her hair smooth, then lie in bed and wait for him. When he came in, he would toss his jacket off in the darkness with the abandon of one who has always been catered to. There were no words, only his hands pulling her body close, his lips kissing her urgently. She lay stiff and quiet, unsure what he expected of her. He did what he needed while she concentrated on breathing until he was done. Overall, it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared it might be. But not as life-altering as she’d hoped for, either.

Now she was home. A beautiful place where she felt like an intruder. After picking at her breakfast, she got dressed and went downstairs. She walked through the rooms aimlessly, wondering how she was supposed to fill her day.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

It was Mrs. Trimble, the housekeeper, a gloomy woman who shuffled through the foyer as if sleepwalking.

“Oh, yes,” Evelyn said, summoning an air of confidence. “I’d like to discuss the household arrangements. That is, if you’re not otherwise occupied.”

Mrs. Trimble stared at Evelyn blankly. Clearly, there were no other demands on her time.

Evelyn began by asking Mrs. Trimble to tell her about the domestic staff. Peggy, the nervous housemaid, did the cleaning and served meals. Mrs. Gower, the cook, produced three-course lunches and dinners daily. Mrs. Trimble supervised Peggy, kept the house organized and handled all transactions with shopkeepers and tradesmen. Her husband and adolescent son tended the garden. The Trimbles lived in a small house on the edge of the property, next to the garden sheds; Peggy and Mrs. Gower had rooms on the third floor.

“Mrs. Brewster brought us on as a courtesy,” Mrs. Trimble told Evelyn, “until you’ve hired the rest of your staff.”

“Who else could I need?” Evelyn asked. Weren’t six people more than enough to look after one married couple?

“You’ll want a lady’s maid, surely?” Mrs. Trimble asked. “Another housemaid or two. Perhaps a kitchen girl to help Mrs. Gower, once you start entertaining.”

“Are newlyweds expected to entertain so soon?”

Mrs. Trimble shrugged. “You may do as you please.”

This, Evelyn soon discovered, was Mrs. Trimble’s response to most of her questions. After a frustrating day sitting around the house, waiting for Charles to return, Evelyn realized there was one other person she could turn to. Someone who would tell her exactly what life as Mrs. Brewster entailed. She wrote a note to Alma, inviting her for tea the next day. Just before asking Mr. Trimble to take it to the main house, she scribbled at the bottom of the page, Will is welcome to join us.

Later, Evelyn was grateful she had added that postscript, because the afternoon would have been excruciating without him. When Alma arrived, she greeted Evelyn at the door with a stiff handshake. Will, by contrast, embraced her with a delighted cry of “Sister!” The warmth of his welcome gave her strength for the ordeal ahead.

After they had settled in the parlor, Alma looked around and said, “You’ve certainly got work to do.”

“The house, you mean?” Evelyn asked.

“Did no one give a thought to decor?” Alma asked, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Evelyn glanced around the vast, mostly empty parlor. There were no curtains on the windows, no rugs over the dark wood floors. The furniture had been placed haphazardly in the middle of the room.

“Mother redecorates constantly,” Will said. “She believes a room is not fit to live in until every piece of furniture has been draped in fabric and every surface invaded by china figurines.”

“One’s house is a reflection of oneself,” Alma said, ignoring him. “If a home appears neglected, one may assume the owner is as well.”

“I agree,” Evelyn said. “That’s why I was anxious to talk to you. I need guidance on so many things. Decorating is certainly one of them. Also, which activities I might occupy myself with, while Charles is at work.”

“My dear, I cannot be your nursemaid,” Alma said. “I lead a very busy life. In fact, I canceled another engagement to come here today.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“However,” Alma interrupted, “I can share a few thoughts.” From her tone, it was clear she was issuing orders, not suggestions. “You’ll want to start with the house. My secretary can give you a list of workmen and suppliers—the people to see about wallpaper and drapes and whatnot. They are mostly in Baltimore, but I assure you it’s worth the journey. Did Charles hire a driver for you?”

Evelyn shook her head. “I don’t think so. He hasn’t mentioned it.”

“How irresponsible of him.” Alma sighed in annoyance. “I suppose you could use one of our carriages, when they are not otherwise engaged.”

“Or I could take you in my motorcar,” Will offered.

Evelyn smiled. “I’ve never ridden in one.”

“Then I insist,” Will said. “Tell me the day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alma scolded. “You’ll do no such thing, Evelyn. It’s no way for a lady to travel.”

“Ladies in London and Paris travel by motorcar all the time, Mother,” Will said.

“I’ll arrange for a driver,” Alma insisted, looking at Evelyn. She reached into her embroidered bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is a list of families we socialize with. I took the liberty of ordering visiting cards for you. You’ll have a few weeks to settle in, but then you’ll need to make calls and introduce yourself. Lavinia will host a lunch next week where you may get acquainted with the young married women in her circle. You’ll be expected to hold dinner parties at least once a month, although you must coordinate with my secretary to make sure we’re not entertaining the same day. And don’t forget to speak with Charles’s secretary at the office. He usually spends a few nights each week in the city.”

“Oh, I hadn’t realized,” Evelyn murmured, trying to keep up with Alma’s admonitions.

“I do encourage charity work,” Alma continued, “but it must be an appropriate cause. We can discuss that another time. It’s nearly four o’clock, and I still have errands in town. Charles did tell you I’m having you both to dinner this evening?”