Boston Jane (3 page)

“A promising young man, William,” Papa said in an approving voice. “Nineteen and already finished medical school.”

What else can I tell you about him? He was the youngest son of a large family, and a proper gentleman. He always scraped his shoes before coming into the house, and he had beautiful manners. Why, he never belched at the table or spit tobacco like the men in the taverns.

And he was kind, so very kind to me, that it was like a balm after all the terrible months of Sally Biddle. Everything seemed manageable when William was present.

One morning when I was sitting on our front step, William came out of the house. “What excitement are you up to today, Miss Peck?” he asked.

I shrugged. Most likely I would be spitting from the roof at passing gentlemen with Jebediah Parker, but I thought it best not
to say anything. A man who didn’t belch at the table was unlikely to approve of spitting.

A lady and gentleman came walking by. The lady looked at my stained apron and tangled hair and shook her head, pursing her lips slightly. William looked away quickly, reddening.

When they were out of sight, William gave me a measured look.

“Is that young lady still being unkind to you?” he asked.

“You mean Sally Biddle?”

“Jane,” he said in a firm voice. “Perhaps if you were more … how do I say this? If you were more ladylike they would not be so terrible to you.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“I know it’s been hard because you have no mother. But you must learn how to be a proper young lady, Jane,” he said, gazing at my stained apron. “One’s position in Society is very important.”

“But how do I learn?” My mind was whirling. You could learn such a thing? To be a proper young lady? This would solve all my troubles forever!

My hero scratched his head. “Surely there must be a girls’ school around here.”

I considered this for a moment.

“But if I go to school, who will help Papa with the patients?”

“A young girl like you ought not to be following her father when he is treating patients. It is most improper,” he said sternly.

“But you are too big to sit on a man’s belly!” I insisted.

“Whyever would I sit on some man’s belly?”

“Papa says men behave better when he sets broken bones if I sit on their bellies, and that they think twice about getting into another bar brawl,” I explained.

William looked very much like he wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead he said, “Jane, I have two younger sisters, and they both went to school and turned out very well. I know you could be a perfect young lady if only you would try.”

“You do?” I asked, hope beating in my stomach.

“Yes, Jane,” he said, his beautiful gray eyes looking deep into mine. How long his lashes were! “I do.”

The very next morning I arose early, from anticipation. I selected a fresh apron, if not free of stains, at least as clean as Mrs. Parker could get it with boiling. I did my best to pull a brush through my hair and tie it in a braid.

Then, walking a safe distance behind, I followed Sally Biddle and the other girls as they made their way down Arch Street to a tidy-looking brick house. They disappeared behind a green door with a shiny brass knocker. A discreet sign hanging from the side of the door announced the name of the establishment:

I nearly lost my nerve when I saw that sign, but then I remembered William’s encouraging words. I took a deep breath and walked up and knocked on the brass knocker. The sound
echoed in my ears like a taunt, and my heart thumped fast.

A young, harried-looking maid answered the door.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Miss Hepplewhite,” I said in a nervous rush.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I whispered.

She looked me over and sniffed as if to say she was hardly surprised that a girl like me didn’t have an appointment. She held out her hand. “Your card, please.”

“Card?”

“Your calling card. You do have one, don’t you?”

“No,” I said, feeling as if I’d failed some important test. I didn’t even know I was supposed to have a calling card.

The maid shook her head at me in a disappointed way. “What’s your name?”

“Jane Peck.”

She disappeared back inside the door and reappeared a moment later. “Follow me, Miss Peck.”

I followed the maid down a long, cool, shadowed hallway to a closed door. She told me to sit on a chair. Miss Hepplewhite would be with me shortly.

A moment later a smooth voice called, “Come in.”

I opened the door nervously.

A trim-looking older woman wearing a gray silk dress was seated behind a desk, her dark brown hair bundled discreetly in a snood, her hands clasped in front of her, all efficiency. She looked as neat as a calico print.

“Yes?” she asked, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

“Are you Miss Hepplewhite?”

“I am. How may I help you?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m Jane Peck, and I’d like to go to your school.” As an afterthought, I whispered, “Please.”

Miss Hepplewhite sized me up where I stood as if I were a ham she was deciding whether or not to purchase.

“How old are you?” she asked finally.

“Eleven. I’ll be twelve next month,” I whispered.

Miss Hepplewhite shook her head. “It is my opinion that a girl should begin her education at a young age—nine at the very latest. You are too old. Surely your mother knows this,” she said in a disapproving voice.

“But I don’t have a mother!” I cried.

Miss Hepplewhite went still, her face softening slightly. “Yes, of course. You are Dr. Peck’s daughter, are you not?”

I nodded.

“I don’t think—” she began.

“Please!” I pleaded. “I have to be a proper young lady. Otherwise my father will never marry, and it will be all my fault because I’m a disgrace!”

She studied me. “Have you had any education at all?”

“I can read and write. I went to common school until I was ten!”

Miss Hepplewhite hesitated. “Very well. I shall take you on as a special pupil.” She paused, fixing me with a serious look. “But you must promise to work very hard.”

I nodded furiously. I would promise anything!

“It’s settled then. I’ll expect you here tomorrow morning promptly at eight o’clock. Please have your father call on me to discuss
the fees.” Then she looked down at her writing, dismissing me.

I started toward the door.

Miss Hepplewhite paused, pen in hand, and looked up at me. “One other thing, Miss Peck.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“A clean apron tomorrow, Miss Peck. No jam stains, understood?”

“It’s cherry pie, Miss Hepplewhite,” I said.

She blinked. “No cherry pie stains then, Miss Peck.”

“Yes, ma’am. No cherry pie.”

I didn’t mind if it meant forgoing cherry pie forever.

After all, I would be attending Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy!

Miss Hepplewhite’s was a
whole new world.

There was so much of importance to learn! We studied Etiquette, Embroidery, Watercolors, Drawing, and Music. The older girls also studied French Conversation, which Miss Hepplewhite said was crucial to a young lady’s education. I had never heard anyone speak French except the baker, who would curse in it when a stray dog stole his bread, but all the girls seemed to agree with Miss Hepplewhite on this matter.

There were twelve students, and Miss Hepplewhite gave us lessons in the parlor room. The older girls sat in the back, but I sat in the front with the nine- and ten-year-olds, even though I was eleven. Sally Biddle, who was thirteen, sat in the very back. Sometimes I felt her eyes pressing into the back of my head, hot as embers, as if she were just waiting to burn me.

Miss Hepplewhite gave me a book called
The Young Lady’s Confidante
.

“Consider this your bible, Miss Peck. Refer to it often,” she urged, holding the small, brown-covered book as if it were a great treasure.

I turned the pages carefully.

“Please turn to Chapter Five or, Listening Well,” Miss Hepplewhite instructed the class. I had already missed the first four chapters as I had joined late in the term.

She walked slowly in front of the room, her feet barely making a sound, her dove-gray petticoats swishing back and forth, soothing as a swing. The pocket watch hanging from her waist by a chain swayed slightly in time with her movements.

“A young woman should always listen well. No matter whether you are at church, on the street, or in your very own parlor, it is most important to listen carefully and quietly.”

Miss Hepplewhite paused for emphasis.

“If you
listen well
, you shall always do well,” she predicted.

Miss Hepplewhite suggested that we practice Listening Well as our study assignment. When someone said something clever, we were to laugh at the appropriate moment, or perhaps nod if the subject turned grave.

That evening supper was very quiet as I was so busy listening. Papa and William were discussing a case Papa was concerned about, an old banker whose toes looked rotten.

“I expect we’ll have to take the foot off,” Papa said with a sigh.

William disagreed. “The recommended therapy is to bleed the patient first.”

“Bloodletting has taken more lives than any war,” Papa
scoffed. “The man’s going to lose enough blood when I remove the foot. I won’t have him lose any more because of quackery.” Papa was something of a radical in his profession.

“That is your opinion, of course,” William said stiffly.

I very much wanted to announce that I once saw Papa lop off the rotten toes of a man who’d had a brick dropped on them, but I forced myself to listen well. I tried to nod and smile, but I am afraid that my smile looked more like a wince. And after a while my neck ached from all the nodding.

“Good heavens, girl,” Papa suddenly declared. “Is there something wrong with your head? And why do you keep grimacing at us?”

Was I to smile or nod at his remark? I couldn’t tell.

“Speak up, Janey,” Papa said. “Why aren’t you talking?”

“I’m supposed to listen well. That’s what Miss Hepplewhite said.”

I looked over at William for help, but he was in the middle of a coughing fit. He had the napkin at his mouth and was making a gurgling noise.

Papa roared with laughter so loud that the chandelier shook.

“Janey,” he said, “is this school I’m sending you to going to turn you into one of those useless women who care for nothing but dresses?”

“I’m trying to be a proper young lady, Papa,” I said in a small voice. Papa didn’t understand anything!

“A worthy goal,” William said, nodding his head approvingly.

Papa’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’ll be a lady in no time at all,” William added. “All that is required is dedication and single-mindedness.”

“Do you truly think so?” I asked shyly.

“Why, yes, I do,” he said, ignoring Papa’s loud snort of disdain.

A reluctant smile tugged at William’s lips. When he smiled like that I had a warm feeling in my belly, nearly the same feeling I had after eating Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie.

I grinned at Papa.

“Since you mentioned it, Papa, I do need new dresses. Miss Hepplewhite says mine are most unsuitable because of all the cherry stains.”

Papa sighed heavily and sank back into his chair.

There was much to learn at the Young Ladies Academy, and Miss Hepplewhite considered me a challenge.

“Raw clay, that’s what you are, my dear,” she said, not unkindly. “But we will mold you yet.”

Miss Hepplewhite demonstrated with a footstool how to enter and descend a carriage properly, which didn’t involve leaping as Jebediah and I usually did.

“Like so,” she said, holding up her petticoats carefully and arching one tiny foot.

She showed me how to stand gracefully, how to walk, and how to sit. I was amazed to discover that I had been standing, walking, and sitting the wrong way all these years!

Really, I didn’t know anything at all!

“A young lady,” Miss Hepplewhite emphasized, gazing at me, “should never skip or jump or scream.”

My hand crept up timidly. “What about running?”

Miss Hepplewhite looked pained.

“Miss Peck,” she said at last, “a young lady should never, ever, under
any
circumstances whatsoever, run. Should you find yourself in a situation where you are at risk, it is always preferable to faint. Do you understand me?”

The other girls giggled.

“Yes, Miss Hepplewhite,” I whispered.

I knew better than to ask about spitting or lobbing manure.

How I learned! Each day I reported back to William on my successes at Miss Hepplewhite’s. He alone seemed to appreciate my diligent study.

“Today we learned Chapter Seven or, Deportment at the Dinner Table. I learned that a young lady should speak in low tones, never laugh out loud, yawn, or blow her nose at the table,” I informed him. “Or spit!” I added, remembering.

William was sitting at the desk in his bedroom with maps spread out in front of him.

“Really?” he asked in a distracted voice. “No spitting?”

“No belching either. Papa is going to be upset about that one.”

“Hmmm,” William said, his attention fixed firmly on the maps before him.

“What are those?” I asked, scrambling around the desk, trying to get a closer look.

He regarded me with serious eyes.

“Those, Miss Peck, are maps of the frontier.”

“Where the Indians live?” I gasped. There were always thrilling stories about Indians in the newspapers, how they abducted women and ate babies and did all sorts of horrible things to the poor pioneers. Jebediah always said that he would like to meet some Indians one day, as long as they didn’t cut off his scalp.

William nodded. “Yes, there may be savages there. You see, Jane, when I’ve finished my apprenticeship with your father, I’m going to go out there and make my fortune.”

“Are you going to dig up gold in California?” Jebediah had told me all about his plans to go to California and dig up the gold in the ground. Jebediah had lots of big plans. I heard all about them as I practiced Listening Well.