I would never end up like my mother.
2
Itook the elevated train from Lower Manhattan to Grand Central Station for the second time in two days and then walked the half mile to 800 Fifth Avenue. Tall, gothic church spires rose toward the heavens, large, plate-glass windows sparkled in the sunshine, and intricate details on the brownstone mansions drew my eye. The wide avenue was clean and free of debris. There was no one loitering and no stench. Everyone had a purpose in their steps. Fashionable women paraded down the street with parasols and plumed hats, servants carrying packages. While men in suitcoats and top hats spoke quickly to one another, tipping their hat when passing a lady.
A police officer stood on one corner, nodding congenially to pedestrians, while a lady in a pink gown strolled past with a large poodle on a leash.
The difference between Mulberry Street and Fifth Avenue was like night and day. I still couldn’t believe I would be welcomed into one of the fine mansions lining this street. I’d heard stories of people leaving the tenements and finding respectable workas servants in one of the homes on Fifth, Park, or Madison Avenues—but I had never known anyone who accomplished it. Most tenement workers had sweatshops in their apartments, like ours, or worked in one of the factories. Servants were usually trained in Ireland or England and came to America with the purpose of finding domestic work.
What would Mrs. Hill have in mind for me? I crossed Fifth Avenue to avoid walking past the policeman, who was eyeing me suspiciously, and wouldn’t let myself imagine the possibilities, for fear of being disappointed. Even if she had work for me, I probably wouldn’t be qualified for it. I had basic cooking and cleaning skills, but I could never help in a kitchen or as a chamber or parlor maid. Maybe I could assist a washerwoman or be a scullery maid. But even then, I’d have a lot to learn.
I looked at the addresses on the houses as I moved along Fifth Avenue. One brownstone mansion after another—until I came to 800 and stopped in my tracks.
This wasn’t a brownstone mansion, with its boxed look and dark exterior. This home was tall and gothic, like the church spires, and the stone exterior was much lighter. The intricate carvings and details were a marvel to see. I could have stared at it for days. But it was nearing ten and I didn’t want to be late.
I turned down West 52nd Street and walked almost the entire length of the block before I came to the back entrance of the mansion. A low stone fence ran along the perimeter of the house with one opening at the back.
Trailing my hand down the front of my dress, I tried to take a steady breath. I had spot-cleaned the dress before I came, washed my hands and face, and combed my dark brown hair before braiding it and twisting it into a crown on top of my head. There had been no time for a sponge bath—and even if there had been, Aunt Orla would have questioned such behavior. Water was hauled up to the apartment for cooking and drinking, andto keep our hands clean while we sewed. Baths were reserved for the warmer months when we could pay five cents and swim for twenty minutes at the public bath house on the East River.
I was trembling as I walked down a set of stone steps and approached the back entrance to the massive home. It was chilly today, though the sun was shining. The leaves had changed, and most had fallen from the trees, their branches offering a stark contrast to the blue sky.
It took all my willpower to knock on that massive wood door and then step back to wait for a servant to answer. Looking up, I felt dizzy at the height of the four-story structure. I focused, instead, on the beautiful stonework. Even the archway over the door to the servants’ entrance had beautiful carvings.
The door opened and a young woman in a black dress, white apron, and mobcap answered. She looked me up and down, her blue eyes disapproving. “What are the likes o’ you doin’ here?” she asked in an Irish accent, not too different from my own. “We’re not buyin’ whatever it is you’re sellin’.”
WhatwasI doing here? I lowered my gaze and said, “I’ve come to see Mrs. Hill.”
The maid scoffed. “As if the lady o’ the house would see you. Mrs. Walker is the housekeeper. She does all the hirin’ and firin’. And she’s not lookin’ to hire street trash.”
She started to close the door, but I showed her the card Mrs. Hill had given me. “Mrs. Hill asked me to come.”
“Mrs. Hill herself?” The maid didn’t look like she believed me—yet if Mrs. Hill had asked me to come and the maid turned me away, she’d be in trouble.
“Aye,” I said. “Outside the opera house last night.” Should I mention that she’d paid for me to come? Just thinking about Mr. Alexander Paxton-Hill putting that five-dollar bill in my hand made my heart beat faster. It all seemed like a dream—one I’d soon wake up from.
“Outside the opera house?” she asked. “We’ll just see about that. You might as well come in out o’ the cold and wait to speak to Mrs. Walker. She’ll know what to do with you.”
The maid opened the door a little wider, revealing a servants’ hall. It was long and wide, with doorways leading off on both sides. There was a lot of activity as people came and went. A tall man in a black tailcoat, a young woman in a gray dress with a white cap, and several others dressed like the maid who had opened the door for me.
“Wait in Mrs. Walker’s sittin’ room,” the maid said as she opened a door into a small, comfortable-looking room. “But don’t touch anythin’.”
I entered the room, and the maid kept the door open as she left to find the housekeeper.
Glancing at the clock, I saw it was already ten. Would Mrs. Hill be upset that I was late?
Thankfully, Mrs. Walker didn’t make me wait long.
She entered the sitting room as if she was in a hurry, but she didn’t look at me with the same disdain as the maid. Mrs. Walker had a pleasant face with kind brown eyes. Her gray hair was in a low chignon. “Hello,” she said with a smile and a British accent. “Mari tells me you’ve come to see Mrs. Hill.”
“Aye, ma’am,” I said, showing her the calling card. “I’m Keira O’Day.”
“Ah, yes. I was told to expect you.” She looked me up and down, like the maid had, but with curiosity and not condescension. “I’m Mrs. Walker, the housekeeper.”
“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” I stood under her scrutinizing eye. She surveyed me much like Mrs. Hill and Mr. Paxton-Hill had yesterday.
Would Mrs. Walker be my boss? I wished I had a nicer dress or a stylish hat to wear for her approval.
“Come with me, Miss O’Day,” she said.
