5

The Miller’s Daughter

ANNIE SURRATT was counting candles. She had dozens of them on the table in front of her.

I’d gone over as soon as Robert left. I needed to see Annie. She was the only one who could ever understand what I was feeling. And explain it to me.

I felt no real grief that Mama was dead. Only relief that it was over. For weeks I had been caring for her, missing school, confining myself to the house, watching her suffer, listening to her ravings about Daddy and unable to defend him.

Annie jumped up when she saw me. She hugged me. No words. She didn’t have to say any. Her hug was enough.

“I’ve come to say I’ll accept your mama’s invitation to stay here.”

“Oh, I’m so happy!” She hugged me tighter. “Come on, sit down. Do you want some tea?”

“No, I’ve been drinking enough coffee to sink an ironclad.”

We sat together on the tufted sofa in the front parlor. In the corner was her mother’s piano. Mrs. Mary played all the time. Their parlor was a gathering place for guests and boarders. There was lively conversation, friendly discourse, and good food all the time in this house. How could Uncle Valentine say the Surratts were trouble? How could Mrs. Keckley say a serpent had taken up residence here?

“I was thinking I could do chores around the house and earn my keep. Your mother always needs help with the boarders.” I didn’t want to tell anybody about Johnny’s gold pieces. Not even Annie.

“You don’t worry about that,” she said.

I looked around the room, to the hand-carved paneling on the doors, the astral lamps, the rich draperies. I felt close to Johnny here. “Where is your mother?”

“Gone to mass. To pray for yours. I’m furious that she didn’t get over to see your mama before she died. I kept after her. ‘What good are prayers now?’ I asked her this morning. But you know how Mama is with her religion. If I ever get that way, will you do something for me, Emily?”

“What?”

“Shoot me.”

Annie’s mother had sent her to convent school, and she had hated it. Not like Johnny, who’d wanted to be a priest. For most of the time I had known her family in Maryland, she was away at school. When she came home, she went wild, riding Johnny’s horses astride, climbing trees, reading French novels, and disappearing for hours at a time. In Maryland I had not been close to her. She was all blond curls, all dimples and girlish curves. She was disdainful of the pretty dresses her mother made her wear, dresses I would have killed for.

She was disdainful of everything. I would have killed to be able to be like that, too. I envied her because she seemed fearless of things all young girls were taught to fear. Things I feared.

When the family came to Washington last fall, she became my friend. She was sixteen to my fourteen. (She turned seventeen in January.) She was out of the hated convent school. Our paths crossed and we decided we were both fatherless, our mothers were impossible, and we both adored Johnny and hated being in Washington. It was enough for us to become fast friends.

We went everywhere together, to Gautier’s for confections, to the triangle below Pennsylvania Avenue where General Hooker had concentrated the fancy women in their own colony. We gaped at them in their outlandish gowns. We went to the Smithsonian to see the stuffed orangutan in a glass case, and to hops at Willard’s.

I was the first one she’d confided in about Alex, a young captain in the Northern army. The Surratts were Secesh. But Annie didn’t care about politics. She cared about Alex Bailey. She and her mother fought constantly about Alex. There was something strange about the family. For instance, Annie’s real name was Elizabeth Susanna. One day she just changed it to Annie. This was the kind of thing I loved about her. I knew that if her last name was Pigbush she’d change that, too.

“Shoot you?” We looked at each other and laughed. And then I leaned against her and cried. I couldn’t help it.

She held me. “It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “I’m not crying for Mama. I’m crying for myself. Annie, only you can understand this. I feel no grief for Mama. All I feel is glad it’s over.”

“Don’t plague yourself with guilt. I can’t stand guilt. It’s what the nuns tried to put on me for years. You’ve lost both parents and now you have to figure out how you’re going to live. And you’re angry, too, aren’t you? At both of them for leaving you.”

“You’re wonderful, Annie. You understand so much.”

“I’m not wonderful. I’m truthful, something most people aren’t. Most people are hypocrites. I can’t stand hypocrites. Look at my mother. She goes to mass, hides in the church. But do you know what she’s about these days? She’s in love with Booth.”

My eyes went wide. “She isn’t.”

“It’s true. She’s smitten with him. He’s near twenty years younger than she is, and my brother’s friend. And she chides me because I love Alex and he’s fighting for the Union.”

I did not know what to say.

“Booth’s here all the time. Mama pets him, fawns over him, makes him special things to eat. It’s disgusting.” She went back to the table and picked up some of the candles. “It’s why I’m going to put all these candles in the windows. Tonight. It’s illumination night. All over Washington, every home will be ablaze with candles. Booth will be by. He’ll hate it. So will Mama. ‘How can you celebrate the defeat of the South?’ they’ll say. Well, I can and I will. I don’t care about this old war anymore. All I care about is that Alex will soon be home.”

She sat back down on the sofa next to me. “I know you can’t take part in the illumination, what with your mama just dying. But would you like one candle to put in the window tonight? Your daddy died fighting.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll take two candles. One for each front window in the parlor. Now I have to go home and pack, Annie. And work on finishing Mrs. Lincoln’s dress.”

She gave me two candles and walked me to the door. “I’ll be by in a while and sit with you when people come. We’ll have a grand time when you come here, Emily.”

“Yes, grand,” I said.

This house had its share of sadness, too. I was foolish to think there was any place that didn’t. . . . What with Mrs. Mary worrying about Johnny, the undercurrents between Annie and her mother, and now this thing with Booth, I was beginning to worry.

Was I doing the wrong thing coming here? Was Uncle Valentine right?

Then, in the next instant, Annie brightened. “Who was that handsome young man who came calling this morning with your Uncle Valentine?” she asked as I went out the back door.

“Handsome? Oh, that was a student of his, Robert deGraaf. They wanted to cut his leg off. Uncle Valentine saved it.”

“How romantic.”

“How can he be romantic? He limps.”

“He has two legs,” she said simply. “Many who will be coming home will have one. Some will have one arm or one eye.” She gripped my arm as I went out. “I fear for my Alex. I haven’t heard from him. He’s been down-country with Sherman in Georgia.”

“I’m sure Alex will be fine,” I said.

“Promise me we’ll always be friends, Emily. I need a friend like you.”

I said yes, we would always be friends, and went home.

 

All afternoon people came, dozens of them. They brought chicken and biscuits, cake and corn pudding, oysters in cream sauce, and sugared ham, more cake, and long faces. They brought tears and gossip. I recognized a few women who worked with Mama, and some of Mrs. Mary’s boarders. But Mrs. Mary didn’t come. Annie did. She came and stood and sat with me. Others wandered in and out and said how lovely Mama looked in her lead coffin, and wasn’t it God’s blessing that she was at peace now?

They called me “dear.” They clucked over me. They patted my head. I wondered where they all had been these last few weeks, when I’d sat here alone except for Ella May, in the rain, listening to Mama’s coughing, wondering where I would get a chicken to put in the pot.

The wake took on a life of its own. It gathered momentum. And soon it had nothing to do with Mama.

“Who are these people?” I asked Maude.

“Some of them are professional funeralgoers.”

“How do you know them?”

“Oh, I’ve been known to go to an occasional funeral myself. There are people who have no mourners, you know. It helps when some of us show up to pay respects.” She smiled and handed me a cup of tea. When I’d just about drained the cup there was a taste to it that was different, a faint bitterness about it.

By the time the reverend arrived I was ready to agree with everyone that Mama looked beautiful. I think Maude had put something in my tea.

“Is my Uncle Valentine coming?” I asked Maude.

“No. You hurt his feelings. He felt it best he stay away. But he sent all the flowers.”

Hurt his feelings? Yes, I supposed I had. I would have to make it up to him somehow. I looked at the flowers. The room was awash with them. But something was wrong.

“If he paid for the flowers he was cheated,” I told Maude. “They look wilted already. They aren’t blooming.”

“They will be tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.” She smiled at me. “Over your mother’s grave, in the dark. They are nightflowers. My husband delivered them earlier. They are from your uncle’s garden.”

Was she serious? Or was I muddleheaded from the tea? No matter, the reverend was starting prayers. I closed my eyes and sank back in the chair. Next thing I knew the reverend was saying good words about my mother, speaking about her in glowing terms. It didn’t sound like my mother he was talking about, but like a stranger.

Before we left for the cemetery Annie took me into the kitchen and gave me a glass of cold lemonade. “Who is that funny little man who came in just before prayers?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him. I don’t know half the people here, Annie.”

“He looks like a dwarf. Like he should be in a circus. And he’s all done up in tweed and a cape, like it’s midwinter. He’s spent most of his time near the coffin.”

“My head seems fuzzy. I think Maude put something in the tea. Everything’s soft around the edges.”

“It’ll be hard around the edges soon enough,” she said.

They took the ironclad coffin outside. People went to the waiting carriages. Annie and Maude went upstairs to freshen up. I was alone with the funny little man in the parlor.

“I don’t believe I know you, sir.”

He couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. Yet he reminded me of somebody. He bowed, a sweeping gesture. “Miss Emily, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Guess, guess, you will never guess my name,” he said. His eyes twinkled.

Guess? I stared at him.

Then he sobered. “Please let me tender my condolences. Your mama was a lovely woman. Lovely. A great loss.”

“You knew my mama?”

“I knew her indirectly. I am husband to Maude.”

Husband to Maude? He was under five feet. Maude was enormous in comparison.

His eyes twinkled. “I am small of stature but big of heart,” he said. “And I know your Uncle Valentine well. He could not make it today. I come as his emissary.”

“What do you do for Uncle Valentine?”

“I am a man of all trades, Miss Emily. And because of my size I am looked upon fondly. All dwarves are these days. Ever since Tom Thumb and his wife were received by the Lincolns in the White House . . . I make deliveries for your uncle. Receive shipments. Facilitate things.”

It was a vague answer. He looked like a gnome from my childhood fairy tales.

“The nature of your uncle’s work is such that certain shipments must be delivered on time or they will spoil.”

I understood then. “You bring the flowers!” I said. “The nightflowers! Like you brought them here today!”

“Ah, you put it so nicely. Yes, I bring the nightflowers. You have spoken a lovely sentiment there. Lovely. Nightflowers. Why didn’t I think of it?”

But he had! Was the man mad? Before I could study on it, Maude came down the stairs, followed by Annie. “Merry, you aren’t tiring this child with your gibberish, are you?”

“Maudee, Maudee, are my words gibberish?”

Merry? What kind of name was that for a man? He should change it.

He stamped his foot. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and given away my name to this child. And she was supposed to guess it.”

It was then that I knew who he reminded me of.

Rumpelstiltskin, the gnome in the fairy tale. From the Brothers Grimm. I could still hear my father’s voice reading it. And telling me the lesson of it. “Don’t ever enter into difficult arrangements just to save the moment, Miss Muffet,” he’d said.

When the miller’s daughter was put in the tower by the greedy king, to spin the flax into gold as her father had boasted she could do, Rumpelstiltskin had come to help, because she could not make good on her father’s boast and was crying. If she did not spin the gold for the king, he would have her head cut off in the morning. Twice Rumpelstiltskin helped her, spinning the flax into gold. But she had to give him jewelry first. Then she ran out of jewelry and he demanded her firstborn child. She promised it. What did she care? She would never marry and have a child.

But she did marry. She married the king. Why anyone would want to marry a man who had threatened to have her head cut off, I never could understand. Even if he was a king. Then they had a child. And Rumpelstiltskin came to claim her firstborn.

But she cried so, that Rumpelstiltskin gave her three chances to guess his name. So she sent scouts throughout the kingdom. One saw Rumpelstiltskin dancing in the forest, chanting his name, and told the miller’s daughter, who was now the queen. And when the little gnome came back to claim the child, she guessed his name. Then he got contentious. He stamped his foot through the floor and was killed.

When Merry Andrews stamped his foot, I’d seen Rumpelstiltskin.

But then, who was Maude? Some scheming matron in a Grimm fairy tale, with her calming ways and bitter tea that set my head to reeling? I saw it now. Perhaps I wouldn’t have if my head had been clear. But when I looked up at them standing in front of me, she towering over him with her arm around his shoulder, him smiling, it came to me that these two were not what they seemed.

She goes to funerals, I thought. He delivers shipments on time, so they won’t spoil. Why do I think he is speaking of something other than flowers?

“Come along now, Emily.” Maude put her arm around me. “Don’t pay mind to him. He loves to spin tales. Don’t believe anything he’s told you.”

“But he hasn’t told me anything,” I said. Or had he?

I had the feeling he had. And that I had been too doltish to understand. Oh, I wished my head were clear.

 

The cemetery was deserted and cool. The grave had been dug, the flowers were in place, the reverend said the words about ashes and dust, which I never will understand. How can we return to dust when we are supposed to be made in God’s image? From about a block away came the strains of “Dixie” being played by a brass band. It was Abraham Lincoln’s favorite song.

Someone handed me a single flower. Its head was bowed, its petals drooped. I set it on top of Mama’s coffin. Then I looked up. There was Mrs. Mary standing across the grave from me. In love with John Wilkes Booth, I thought. Well, she’d gone to that fancy girls’ school with Mama. Like Uncle Valentine said, it had given them notions.

Everyone was leaving the cemetery. The funeral was over. I felt spent. From the street it seemed as if the revelry was getting louder. Dusk was falling. Tonight all of Washington would be illuminated in honor of the end of the war.

Annie came up to me. “Booth took Mama to Surrattsville this morning. He’s coming tonight, too. I can’t wait until he sees my candles in the windows. And I’m not moving them. I don’t care what anyone says. Do you want me to come home with you?”

“I’ll take care of her,” Maude said. “She’s my responsibility until she moves in with you people, if that’s what she insists upon doing.”

 

Maude and I went home, and I put Annie’s candles in the two front windows of the parlor.

“Now, why do you want to do that when you’ve had a death in your family and can be excused?” Maude asked.

“I don’t want to be excused.” The candles looked lovely. The windows were open and the sweet spring air drifted in. “My daddy fought in the war. And this may be the only war I’ll ever be able to celebrate the end of.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” Then she turned and went back into the kitchen. “Come have your supper. There’s plenty of food left over.”

I followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

“I went to the hospitals so many times with your uncle to attend the wounded. That’s when you learn that suffering has no uniform,” she told me. “Many times we met Mrs. Lincoln in the hospitals. She would bring flowers from the White House, candies, cakes, liquors, chickens, turkeys. Nobody knows this about her. She didn’t want people to know. But we met her many times in the hospitals.”

“What is she like?”

“A small, modest woman. Nothing like they write about her. She never wanted to be noticed. But I did speak to her on one occasion. It was right after they lost Willie. Do you know what she said to me?”

“What?”

“‘We must let them go and get on with the business of living. The only way to let them go is to mourn them. We must work at it, the same as we must work at being happy.’ . . . I noticed you didn’t cry today at your mother’s funeral.”

I fell silent. “I’m going upstairs,” I said, “to finish Mrs. Lincoln’s dress.”

I don’t know how long I worked on Mrs. Lincoln’s dress. Perhaps an hour. Outside I could hear the sound of rockets going off, bands playing in the distance, music, and the shouts of people enjoying themselves.

Grief is hard work. We must work at it, the same as we must work at being happy.

Who would have thought that you had to work at grieving? Was it a chore you had to apply yourself to? Was that why Mrs. Lincoln had gone visiting the hospitals?

I had not worked at grieving for Mama. I had not even tried.

An especially bright rocket went off down the block, but it was as if it was in my own mind. I set the black silk dress with the white flowers on it aside and went downstairs, meaning to slip out the back door.

“Where are you going?” Maude was there, watching me.

“Out. I’m going out.”

“Where, at this hour of the night, with the streets full of unsavory characters?”

“It’s only eight o’clock. I’m going to the cemetery.”

“What for? Lunatics go to the cemeteries at night.”

“I’m going to work out my grief. Like Mrs. Lincoln. I’m going to cry for my mother.”

She took off her apron. “You can’t go alone. Take someone with you.”

Not her. Please, God, I prayed, don’t let her want to come with me.

“I’ll send for a hack,” she said. “Why don’t you go and ask your friend Annie to go with you? She offered to keep you company tonight, didn’t she? Go and ask her to come back here and wait for the hack.”

I looked into her eyes to see if she was scheming. They were bland, innocent. If she offers to make me tea, I won’t take it, I decided. Because she’ll put something in it again. Likely she’ll knock me out this time. But she was putting on her cloak and bonnet to fetch a hack. “All right,” I said. I went out the door to cross the backyards to the Surratt house to fetch Annie.