A Violet Season (15 page)

“It’ll be quite a crowd today,” Harriet said.

Cook brought Harriet a fresh cup of coffee, and for a while they sat together in silence, listening to the hum of conversation in the parlor, punctuated occasionally by the men’s laughter.

“She’s not in a glove factory, is she,” Harriet said at last.

“I don’t know where she is,” Ida admitted. “I hope to hear from her when she gets her Christmas package.”

Harriet pushed her coffee cup away and folded her hands on the soiled tablecloth. She stared over Ida’s shoulder at the portrait of the colonel who had owned this land 150 years earlier, someone else’s ancestor. William had bought the painting from one of the wealthy river families. Opposite Ida’s seat at the table was the étagère that held Frances’s collection of seashells, a reminder of her privileged childhood summers in Newport. On the center of the top shelf was a conch shell the size of a woman’s hat. Ida had always had the childlike urge to hold that shell up to her ear. What might it whisper to her?

“Harold told me they’ve asked Frank to repay his debt in full by spring,” Harriet said.

This news should have panicked Ida, but it felt more like a bullet grazing past her ear. “Go on,” she said.

“He must pay by the first of June, or they’ll take your house. To get Norris started.”

“That’s impossible, of course,” Ida said. “They’ve been paying him as a farmhand all these years. We never get ahead enough to pay the debt.”

“I know,” Harriet said, and her cheeks flared red as the fire. She looked ready to fight the men.

“Well, then, what are their plans for us when he can’t pay?”

“Mr. Tenney has agreed to take Frank up at his farm.”

“The Tenneys already have a foreman.”

“As a worker,” Harriet said. “And they have a small house to rent.”

Ida knew the house she meant—a two-room shack that was fit only for summer use. “We should go now,” she said, “before they take away our horses and wagon, too.”

“Frank has been paying them extra every month,” Harriet said. “Maybe if he’s paying them in good faith—”

“He’s always paid them in good faith.”

“I know, Ida,” Harriet said, reaching out but not touching her. “And you’re working so hard to keep up. It’s not right. I know.”

A thick lump was rising like dough in Ida’s gut, just below her breastbone. A group of men coughed and choked with laughter in the parlor. She pressed her right hand to her abdomen, realizing she’d fastened her corset too tightly.

“I think,” Harriet continued, “as long as he’s paying them more than usual, they could be convinced to be more lenient.”

“They want the house for Norris,” Ida repeated. It was becoming more clear to her, Frank’s growing desperation these past few months, sending Alice to the city, bringing more babies to nurse.

“Norris can continue to live up here,” Harriet said. “Until he marries, which could be quite some time.” She flashed a wicked smile.

“Quite,” Ida agreed.

“I thought you should know,” Harriet said. “I wasn’t sure Frank . . . He’s so quiet, I wasn’t sure . . .”

“He hadn’t told me,” Ida said. “You were right to tell me. Thank you.”

Harriet drew her cup of coffee to her. Ida watched her take a sip of the lukewarm drink and dab the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

“Harriet,” Ida said. “About Alice . . .”

“Oh, Ida,” Harriet said, and Ida was surprised to hear the compassion in her voice. Harriet had never been cruel to her in the way Frances had, but she had never been a confidante, either. That she had gone out of her way to deliver the news about Frank’s debt made it seem, however, that she might be willing to do more.

“I can’t go to the city to check on her myself,” Ida said. “Whenever I ask Frank, he says he’ll do it. But I want to see for myself that she’s all right. And now, with two babies . . .”

“I can’t feed the babies for you,” Harriet said with a laugh, though Ida was in no mood for teasing.

“No, but I was wondering. Perhaps the next time you go to the city . . .”

“Oh, yes!” Harriet said. “Give me the address. I’ll be taking Elizabeth to B. Altman in a few weeks for her birthday. Is it far from Sixth Avenue?”

“I don’t know where it is,” Ida said. “Do you think you’ll be able to find her?”

“Give me the address,” Harriet said. “We’ll find her.”

The doorknob turned, and a servant peeked into the room. “Your presence is requested in the parlor,” she said to them, then withdrew.

“Shall we join the others?” Harriet said.

In the parlor, every seat was occupied. The men were standing about with unlit cigars, eager to be dismissed into William’s study, where they could smoke and talk at leisure. Ida said hello to Mrs. Nathan and a few other women she knew from Underwood and then slipped into the corner, where Frank stood alone.

“May I have your attention, please,” William called out from in front of the fireplace. Then, obviously feeling the heat on the seat
of his trousers, he let out a comical whoop and took a large step forward, eliciting a laugh from his friends. He gestured to Norris, who walked across the room to join his father with a serious expression.

“My wife and I have been hearing about the attractions of the state of Florida recently,” William began, “and we have decided to take a well-deserved vacation next month to spend several weeks soaking in the sun while the rest of you lot are in the belly of winter.” He said this with a grin, and several men moaned or shouted at him before he continued. “While we are gone, my son, Norris, will take over my responsibilities on the farm as an equal partner with his uncle Harold.” Ida felt as if she were on the steamship again, the floor rocking beneath her, but beside her, Frank stood steady. “It will be his opportunity to show me whether he is ready to take on those responsibilities on a more permanent basis. I hope you all will offer him the same professional respect you have always shown me.”

Again, there was cheerful grumbling from the men, but with it a round of applause, and Norris flushed red as his father patted him on the back. In a few minutes’ time, the men took him into the study, and Oliver confidently invited himself along. The ladies were left in the parlor to sample Christmas cookies with two different pots of Indian tea, and Ida distracted herself as best she could until a servant called her to nurse the babies again and oversee supper for Jasper and Reuben.

*   *   *   

The letter, in a pale blue scented envelope, arrived the following day. Reuben brought in the mail, and it was sandwiched between two pieces of correspondence for Frank. But it was addressed to Ida, and after reading it, she decided not to show it to him. Not yet. She needed to think on it for a day or two. She slipped it under the tea towels in the kitchen cupboard and went about her day.

December 22, 1898

Dear Mrs. Frank Fletcher,

I believe you have my baby, Anastasia, and I want you to know I am so grateful for her to be healthy in your care. I dream of her every night and miss her terrible and hope she will go to a good family. I am not suppose to write you, but I am desperate to find out how she is, even if I may never see her again. You may write to me at this address:

c/o Mrs. Gertrude Gilhooley

157 White Street

Manhattan

Sincerely,
Miss Bridie Douglass

You came to Albany County in what year?

1899. May of 1899.

And before that you spent your whole life in Underwood?

Yes, for the most part.

When you say “for the most part,” what other places did you live?

I went to New York City.

What can you tell me about New York at the turn of the century?

Oh, I don’t know. It was crowded, and frightening. I didn’t really see much of the city.

Where did you go when you were there?

I worked there for a short time, as a domestic. A housemaid.

For a wealthy family?

No, it was just an ordinary boardinghouse. I changed the sheets, cleaned the glasses. That sort of thing. I’m happy to talk some more about Albany at that time. Isn’t that what you really want to hear about?

—excerpt from an interview with Mrs. Alice Vreeland for
The Women of Albany County,
July 6, 1972

November 25, 1898

Dear Joe,

This is just a quick note to tell you where I am. You may have heard that my father brought me to the city and left me here in a boardinghouse. I am working hard, but I have clean lodgings and three meals a day. I have not heard from my father or my mother since. I do not expect to hear from you either, but if I do, I shall be happy. It is your choice. You may write to me at the return address on this envelope. If I do not hear from you, I shall know that the time we had together is over.

Sincerely,
Alice Fletcher

December 2, 1898

Dearest Alice,

Your letter arrived today, and I was overjoyed. My mother was curious, but I have said nothing to her about it. I had not heard anything but that you had gone to the city. I wondered whether it was because of me, but now I know you didn’t want to go. I wish I could do something to bring you home again. Where are you working? I am worried about you and pray for your safety.

I have been working steadily on the farm since you left. Things will be busy now into the winter, with the holidays coming. We had a rush to supply the Yale football games. They say the violet is the flower closest in color to the Yale blue, and I suppose it is. It is funny to imagine the flowers I have picked ending up pinned to the shoulder of a Yale man’s sweetheart in Connecticut. I would bet they never give a thought to where those flowers came from. It makes me wonder about all the things I must take for granted every day.

I have gotten much better at picking, though I am sure I am still not as fast as you. I can pick a handful quickly, but I haven’t perfected tying them, and often get tangled in my own string. You would laugh to see me. Your uncle Harold has asked me whether I would switch to nights soon in order to tend the stokehouses. I imagine I am a good choice for that work as I don’t have a family and can sleep in peace during the day, so I will probably say yes and try it out. It could be a lonely job, but I don’t mind working alone. It gives me plenty of time to think. I need to decide what I will do next, whether I will make the commitment to attend law school or maybe strike out on my own. I hate to think of leaving you, though, and if you were here, I would be tempted to work on the farm longer so I could be near you.

I will save my earnings and take the train down any Sunday to visit you. Please tell me how I may find you when I get there.

I remain yours,
Joe

December 16, 1898

Dear Joe,

I am so happy to hear from you, I think I may cry. I have read your letter over several times, until I nearly have it memorized. I hope you will write me again soon.

I am well enough here. I am working as a housemaid in a girls’ boardinghouse. I sweep and dust and change the sheets—though I do not have to wash them!—and I wash the dishes, of which there are many. I have a cold little room of my own, but it is no worse than sharing the attic with my brothers, and I have not seen any mice yet, though the cook complains of rats in the garbage outside.

I do wish to see you, but I am not sure how. I cannot have visitors, and I do not have Sundays off, or any other day. However, I am earning extra money for my family, so for now that is all right. My father was here a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know whether he will return, but I think he is collecting my pay. I have not heard a word from my mother. Since I cannot plan a visit with you right now, I hope you will keep writing to me and telling me all the news of home. I miss you and everyone there terribly, but especially you, and I hope it is not too forward of me to say that I dream often of the day when I may see you again.

Since it occurs to me that you might try to come down anyway, you should know that the address where you write to me is not where I am staying, but I am getting your letters. Please write again very soon.

Yours,
Alice

December 21, 1898

Dearest Alice,

Though you appear cheerful enough in your letter, which I just received this morning, I am worried about you nevertheless. What kind of place makes a young lady work seven days a week without even a break for the Sabbath? I suppose the work is not much different from what you were already doing at home, but I hope it will not go on much longer and your
father will bring you home again. Will you come for a visit at Christmas? I will look for you in church.

You may be interested in news of your friend Claudie. She has a new beau, a young man she met at our church social last month. He is from Poughkeepsie and the son of a judge. I did not meet him, so I cannot offer any opinion on him. Her brother, Avery, has been in our prayers. He has been able to get out of bed some days, but is having difficulty with one numb limb that won’t walk right. Other days he is laid up with headaches and back pain. My father has been to see him twice, but he is not hopeful when he returns. There are also rumors that your brother Oliver and his friend George Ellerby have plans to head out to Boston in the spring, but these may only be rumors. Do you know anything of this?