Chapter 4

In Which the Rent Is Inflated, and So Is My Sorry New Dress

I kept my chatting to a minimum for the rest of that day, lest I drove my aunt crazy with conversation until she marched me back to the orphan asylum. I think I tidied up our two rooms, not to mention changed and rechanged the pillow beneath her swollen knee at least six times before she finally suggested I go to sleep for the night. Even this morning, after rising again from my parlor chair, I decided not to join Aunt Kitty as she hobbled downstairs to breakfast. I was afraid my sizable appetite might scare her off.

“If your niece is to stay with you, Mrs. Warne, I will have to raise your rent to fifteen dollars,” came a high-pitched voice from the other side of the door. I opened it only to discover the enormous landlady, Mrs. Leticia Wigginbottom, filling the doorway. Dabbing at the sweat on her forehead with a lace hankie, she pushed into the room and collapsed dramatically into a rocking chair near the empty fireplace. She continued to talk as if my aunt were standing in the middle of the room, not me.

“I know you say the girl won’t be staying but a few days. But should you decide to leave with her and find other accommodations, it would be a tragic loss, Mrs. Warne. You’re one of my best tenants—nothing coarse about you, so tidy. You give the place a bit of class.”

It seemed to tax all of Mrs. Wigginbottom’s strength to make an appearance up here on the third floor of her boardinghouse. I suspected she sent one of her two servant girls to change the linens in the various rooms, which I discovered last night housed two other boarders (one who was fond of door slamming, another with a tendency for humming) and modern amenities (my aunt’s way of delicately explaining the indoor toilet). Mrs. Wigginbottom’s cheeks were pink as she sat fanning herself with her hankie.

I was aghast at what she’d said. A rent of fifteen dollars was a dear price to pay—maybe too dear! Aunt Kitty was still downstairs, but she would surely rid herself of me the moment she learned this.

I’d have to earn my keep, and fast.

“I can sew and do a little knitting,” I said frantically, wanting desperately to win over Mrs. Wigginbottom but feeling a little afraid to approach her, in case the chair she was sitting on should splinter beneath her impressive weight. “Give me what you need done around here, and take it off the rent.”

Mrs. Wigginbottom tucked her hankie into the sleeve of her brown dress and gave me a curious look up and down.

“Mrs. Warne already does a bit of the laundry and sewing here, and it doesn’t pay enough for two souls. Are you strong, young lady? Dressed in those boyish trousers, you do not appear to be a delicate flower.”

I told her all the chores I used to do on the farm in Chemung County. Milking the cows and tending the chickens was how I greeted every morning. But did she have any cows for me in her backyard here in Chicago?

“A farm? Did your aunt work on the farm as well, Nell? And where is her husband, Mr. Warne? Did she leave him behind in the corncrib?”

“No, not at all, Mrs. Wigginbottom. Aunt Kitty left the day her Matthew got shot by my daddy. They were brothers, you see.”

Mrs. Wigginbottom nodded like she understood, but her eyes told me otherwise. She asked if my daddy was in jail.

“He’s in heaven now,” I said, feeling my eyes start to well up at the thought of him. “Daddy saw the jailhouse for drinking and cheating at poker. But he never did time for shooting his brother. That was an accident, ma’am.”

Mrs. Wigginbottom was on the edge of her seat now, which both made me proud as a storyteller that she was hanging on my every word, and caused me great concern for the fate of the rocking chair’s legs. She asked me how my daddy made it to the pearly gates of heaven.

“Through prayer, ma’am. Mine mostly, since he wasn’t the praying kind…”

“No, child,” she corrected. “I mean, how did your daddy die?”

I told her what I knew, which wasn’t much. That he was shot just a few months back. That he was killed in the same woods where his brother Matthew had died a few years before. That there was something to do with slaves escaping to Canada. And that—unlike his brother’s death—my daddy’s passing was no accident.

“I am still piecing this patchwork quilt together, Mrs. Wigginbottom,” I explained. “Most grown folks do not believe a person my age can handle the facts. So nobody bothers to tell me anything—except that I’m a hopeless orphan.

“I have an old friend in Canada who writes me letters. I believe she might know a thing or two—about how my daddy passed away and about how Aunt Kitty’s husband died, too.”

Suddenly Aunt Kitty appeared in the doorway. One look at her fierce blue eyes made it clear she’d overheard our conversation.

“My Matthew died when your daddy shot him, Nell. End of story. And if you want to pry into my private business, Mrs. Wigginbottom, you should interrogate me and not this silly girl.”

I stood as still as a vase of peonies, fearing that the two of them were about to exchange words that would send me right back to the doorstep of the Home for the Friendless. My heart jumped up in my throat as I watched Mrs. Wigginbottom heave herself to her feet and straighten her cuffs, clearly insulted by the tone my aunt had taken.

“Your niece and I were just discussing the rent, Mrs. Warne, and how you plan to pay for it.”

“That’s right,” I interrupted, deciding I’d better take Destiny into my own hands. I hastily searched for a way to cover the cost of keeping me here. And studying our landlady’s heavy jowls and sausage-like fingers, I suddenly saw how I could help.

“With all the folks Mrs. Wigginbottom has to feed here, I was hoping to take over her marketing duties. I can do all her shopping each day—to the butcher, to the general store, to the vegetable market. This will save her having to carry those heavy groceries by herself. Won’t that be a help?”

Mrs. Wigginbottom pulled at her tight, sweat-soaked collar and gave me a look of such relief, I knew I’d hit on the right thing.

“She looks as witless as a chicken,” the landlady said, “but your niece is as clever as a fox, Mrs. Warne. You can start today, Nell. But not too early when prices are high. Wait until noontime to visit Lake Street, and look for the graying meats. That miserly butcher is willing to make a deal when the mutton starts to turn—but mind he doesn’t put his thumb on the scale when he weighs it!”

It was many hours later when my work on Lake Street was finished. I’d bargained with Mr. Zenger, the German butcher, and come home with gray mutton. I’d done my best with Mr. O’Malley and his vegetables, but all I could scavenge from his wooden bins were a few wilted eggplants. And my arms and legs were still aching from the heavy sugarloaf I carried all the way from Mr. Lloyd’s general store.

“Did you help Mrs. Wigginbottom put all the groceries away, Nell?” Aunt Kitty asked the moment I sat down and propped up my feet on the little wooden table by the window. The afternoon heat was stifling upstairs, and the lamb’s wool I was using to stuff my oversize boots made my feet sweat. Even I could barely stand the smell. I peeked at Aunt Kitty to see if she was preparing to holler at me, but I saw her slip licorice from a silver tin and pop it into her mouth. She didn’t bother offering me any.

“Of course I did,” I snapped, not meaning to adopt my aunt’s peckish ways. But hot is hot, and the layers of my brother’s clothes were wet with sweat and itching me like fleas. “When I finished with her, I even put out a dish of milk for that sweet orange kitten that hangs around the back door. My work for the day is done.”

“Not quite,” she said, wrapping a cloth around her tender knee. “I want you to accompany me downtown. I have an appointment to keep, but afterward we can visit a few schools and asylums to see if they have room for you. Now wash up, and we’ll go.”

I started to point out that her knee was still mending and that she’d need me for at least another week. But Aunt Kitty put her hand up to shush me. And hot as I was, I decided that arguing with her would be about as useful as squabbling with the striped wallpaper. It wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Instead, I would have to prove to her that I was useful to have around. So I headed into the tiny back room and began scrubbing my face and arms at the water basin.

“Hair,” Aunt Kitty reminded.

“Why? I’m going to wear my old bonnet anyway.”

She gave me another one of her looks. This one meant that I should stop talking and start combing.

“And it’s time you put on a dress and let the world know you are of the female persuasion,” she added. “So take off those boys’ shirts and pants and pass them out to me. We’ll give them to Mrs. Wigginbottom’s girls for washing.” Then she added at a whisper as she pulled the door shut, “Or burning.”

“I heard that,” I said. Then I caught a whiff of one of my undershirts, damp and stained yellow from sweat, and I began to cough.

Once I’d surrendered all the unsavory old clothes to Aunt Kitty, I turned to a neat pile of fresh garments stacked on her bed. They were as white as eggshells and looked just as delicate. I picked up a petticoat, breathing in the fresh smell of lilac.

“It’s so hot today, Aunt Kitty,” I called through the closed door. “Do I have to put all these layers on?”

“Of course,” came her reply. “It’s not decent otherwise.”

It felt a tinge awkward handling all these frills, but I’d laundered enough of my mama’s linens to know what was what. I got started on the first layers, tugging the stifling black stockings up above my knees and then climbing into the long white drawers. Next I pulled on a cotton chemise with pretty white ribbons, thankful for its lack of sleeves. I could not recall the last time I had something new to wear—something that was not handed down from my brothers—and I felt my cup of happiness start to runneth over right there at the washbasin.

“I need help with this corset,” I shouted into the big room. “I’ve seen something like it before, but I’ve never worn such a fancy, newfangled thing. I’m afraid it might strangle me.”

“Stop that yelling—I’m right here,” Aunt Kitty said, appearing behind me at the mirror. “I hardly live in a palace, Nell.”

I could tell that Aunt Kitty’s well of patience was not particularly deep, so I quickly began fastening the tiny front hooks before she could start yanking and tying the back laces.

“Not so tight,” I heaved, after a particularly strong tug on the corset strings. “You’ll crack my ribs!”

Aunt Kitty finished with the tying, then left to gather her bonnet and bag. I waited a few moments to catch my breath before facing the final layers of my dressing. As I slipped on the long camisole and the fresh-smelling petticoat, I noticed three more petticoats stacked right there on the bed, each embroidered more beautifully than the next. They were a dullish white from age, but that did not bother me one whit. I couldn’t decide which I liked most. So I put them all on.

Heat or no, I was never, ever going to be mistaken for a boy again.

“There’s a dress hanging on the wardrobe door,” Aunt Kitty called. “Mrs. Wigginbottom passed it along to me, with those petticoats, too. Her washer girls outgrew them, so they are yours now.”

I turned around and saw a red-and-white-checkered dress staring back at me. It was as ugly as a one-eyed dog, with long, faded sleeves and a collar at the top that probably had been white once. Now it was more the color of weak tea. The whole gown was about as worn out as an old dishrag, but I wasn’t about to start complaining. It was the first dress I could call my own since, well… since my mama died.

Once I’d slipped into my boots and emerged from the bedroom, I had to bite my lip to keep from singing over the sheer joy of it all. Even though it was homely and ill-fitting, my dress nearly filled the doorframe. Aunt Kitty started up with her tsk-tsking as she fastened the row of buttons up the back, but I would have none of it. I was wearing petticoats for the first time that I could remember.

Puffed up proud like a rooster, I circled the room with my head held high. I knew I looked like a real, fashionable lady.

“Heavens” was what Aunt Kitty might have sighed just then as she watched me strut, my full skirts knocking over the umbrella stand. But I couldn’t be sure, since it mixed with the sigh I was heaving at exactly the same time.

“Heavenly.”

We eyed each other for a moment or two, and then we both headed for the staircase. This room was too hot for any more squabbling. Or strutting.