The fire in the woodstove has long since died. The room is dark and cold. I shiver, and then pull the wool cover over my head.
Papa has left early for the glasshouse. It is a good distance away along our property’s edge. He works from well before dawn until long after dusk in the large barn. There they crush sandstone in large troughs and then smelt it in the opening in the enormous furnace to produce fine glass. I’ve seen the blazing furnace on a few occasions. It is a monstrous thing, reminiscent of a fiery dragon throat.
Papa employs twenty-one men and twelve boys. He calls them dog-boys, as they are trained to respond to the unique whistle of the men they assist. I tell him the name is disrespectful and unkind, and he tells me that is why he will not permit me to come to the glasshouse and upset things with my rebellious, visionary ideas. That, plus it is too dangerous. Papa says accidents can occur quickly.
Of course nothing could ever happen to Papa. He is an expert glassmaker. He apprenticed at the prestigious Boston & Sandwich Glass Company, where he then worked for many years before leaving Massachusetts to begin his own business in Pennsylvania.
Papa says he produces the finest flint glass in all of Pittsburgh—perhaps in the entire Union. He is proud to tell Mama and me that in the five years since he left us to found Palmer Glass Works, it has come to rival even the most exceptional of European imports.
I have only been in the city of Pittsburgh twice since my arrival in Pennsylvania, but I wholeheartedly agree with Mama—it is not nearly as lovely as Boston. Clouds of soot billow from smokestacks. The dark, dense air hovers like a gray blanket over the city, blocking out the sunshine during the day and the stars at night.
I lie in my bed thinking of Boston and my stately, beloved row house. All the while this new house creaks and groans, and the wind wuthers in the chimney flue like a strange symphony performed just for me.
Then, all at once, the symphony ends. The front door creaks open, and dull footsteps clip-clop across the hall. Frau Heinzelmann, the German woman Papa has employed to care for us, has arrived. She is a stout and sturdy woman, with a round face and rosy cheeks. A thick braid of nut-brown hair coils around her head like a snake.
I spring from bed, gather the wool blanket around my shoulders, and fly down the dark oak steps. Papa reminds me all the time not to charge like a buffalo down the steps or one day I will take a nasty tumble, but I do not heed his warning.
Papa has instructed Frau Heinzelmann to work silently so as not to disturb Mama, but as I approach the kitchen I can already hear her bustling about, clattering pans, singing cheerfully.
Der Jäger in dem grünen Wald,
muß suchen seinen Aufenthalt.
er ging im Wald wohl hin und her
ob auch nichts anzutreffen wär …
It is an old folk song she has taught me about a hunter in a green forest who meets a young girl with glowing eyes.
We must keep the house quiet for Mama. She has not adapted well to the change. She misses her sisters, Cordelia and Angeline. She longs for the streets of Boston, her favorite hat boutique, and of course the restaurants and cafés. Papa says Mama has a touch of melancholy caused by acute nostalgia. Frau Heinzelmann insists it is her spleen.
“Too much black bile brings on gloominess,” says Frau Heinzelmann.
She has suggested a good leeching, but Papa is all for modern science—not what he calls medieval myths and peasant practices. Doctor Fenton has prescribed Mama a nerve powder and plenty of bed rest.
Today, Frau Heinzelmann has brought Mama a large clay pot brimming with wood violets. I stick my nose into the floppy blooms and inhale deeply. They smell sweet and mossy and wet-leaf green. It is like a whisper of summer entering our late fall lives.
I follow Frau Heinzelmann up the stairs into Mama’s room. I hop onto her soft mattress. Mama turns and runs a hand down the long braids Frau Heinzelmann has given me. She smiles vaguely and says, “Hello, little bird.”
Before I can respond, her eyes glaze, her hand falls limp at her side, and she is gone again. Today is a good day. Some days Mama does not speak at all.
“Sweet violets cure the soul,” says Frau Heinzelmann, placing the plant on Mama’s nightstand. She checks the porcelain chamber pot, but it is bone dry. “Mind, you can only smell them once. After that, the nose is deadened to the scent.” She points to the rather bulbous feature in the center of her round face.
“I can still smell them,” I tell her, sniffing the sugary aroma that has taken over Mama’s room.
“Hush, child.” Frau Heinzelmann ushers me out. “Go somewhere and play.”
I heave a sigh. I would very much like to do just that, only I have no one to play with. Our neighbors are a great distance away, and Papa will not permit me to go off on my own. He does not want me to get lost in the woods. They lead to the Monongahela River.
Papa says Monongahela is an Algonquian word that means falling banks. Apparently the shoreline is unstable and quite treacherous. He worries for my safety. He believes if I get too close, I might slip in, and I cannot swim. He says the current would carry me to the Ohio River and then perhaps all the way to the Mississippi. He would never see me again.
Frau Heinzelmann claims it is not the current I should worry about but rather the strange man-fish known by locals as Monongy. She warns that the elusive aquatic beast will drag me under the waves should I so much as dip in a toe.
Of course, I do not wish to become Monongy’s victim, so rather than venture outside or spend my days in solitude, I return to the kitchen with Frau Heinzelmann. While she cooks and cleans and irons the linens, she tells me old folktales of cunning toads and deep wells and lovely princesses. She sings songs about brave hunters and young maidens with bright, clear eyes.