Ella did not leave New York City right away. Damn the whole lot of them, she thought, including her brother and Poultney. She decided to take miserable Margaret’s advice after all and dined in so that her small savings would last her long enough to gain another audience with George Putnam’s publishing house. As directed by Mr. Putnam she had sent him a copy of her collection of poems. She titled the work Pine Needles or Sonnets and Songs — and was waiting for a message of encouragement.
In the meantime she had downgraded her suite of two rooms to a room with one bed, one chair and a table. She shared a toilet closet with four other women. She came to realize that the Sherwood House was a way stop for many women first coming to the city to find work. They were from small rural towns or foreign countries and left their homes either out of desperation or hope. They had a cursory education and took jobs as secretaries, clerks, housemaids or laborers in the factories.
The boardinghouse was a replacement for the family life they left behind, even if it was less than ideal. Ella was intrigued by their diverse vocabulary and unending optimism. Many were either hoping to land a husband, were giving up on ever finding one, (Ella put herself in this camp) or like her friend Mary, were avoiding one. Ella was especially fond of Mary.
She was from some small farm town in the midwest. She told Ella her story one night while sitting on Ella’s trunk drinking lukewarm tea that Ella had managed to scrounge up from the cook after dinner one evening.
“He was a terrible man, my husband. I had to run away.”
“But why not go back to your family then?” Ella asked.
“They wouldn’t take me. They said I had made my bed I had to lie in it.” Mary took a sip of her tea. “My father was a mean one as well. Thought he could solve every problem with us children with the back of his hand. I went from the frying pan into the fire for sure.”
Ella loved these colloquial sayings. She overheard so many while dining with the ladies of the household. They would gossip at the table about the latest job prospects, a surly boss, or floor manager at a factory and say things like “He was fair to middlin’ — meaning about average. Or her favorite when they were in a hurry to get somewhere — lickety split. She had lived in America now for more than five years and couldn’t recall ever hearing these phrases from the company she kept. Or maybe she just never noticed. She was ashamed to think of how she had always shunned people like Mary.
“He would come home drunk,” Mary continued, “and start fights with me all of the time over simple things like the bacon being under-cooked. Sometimes he would hit me.” She looked down at her hands and wrung them together for a moment before picking up her teacup again.
“I started to save money from the allowance he gave me for food and hide it in the floorboards of the bedroom. I did this for over a year. Then one day he came home — drunk again — and he started to rave at me about the meal I had cooked. He said some terrible things to me that night, said I was worthless and barren.” Mary put her hand to her womb out of habit. She looked up at Ella, pained. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him he was a no good drunk. And that is when all hell broke loose.”
Ella was gripped by the story. She imagined her own father, stewing in his anger. The one positive thing she could say about him was he controlled his temper, usually. Her mother knew how to prevent an outburst. He had never been violent with his children or his wife. “What happened?” she asked.
“He started fumbling for his belt. I knew he was going to try and use it on me. He had threatened before. I just couldn’t take it!” Mary choked back tears. “I picked up the milk jug and swung it down on his head and he fell over. And then I ran into the bedroom, grabbed the money I had been stowing away under the floorboards, took a small bag of clothes I kept packed in the back of the closet, and ran to the train station. I was so lucky a train was leaving fifteen minutes after I arrived. If he had come after me I don’t know what I would have done. Then I got to New York City and looked up my school friend Velvet here at the Sherwood House.”
Ella knew Velvet, she worked as a clerk in a milliner shop nearby and wore the smartest hats when the girls all went for their weekly Sunday stroll in Central Park.
They sat in silence. “What do you plan to do next?”
Mary shrugged. “I’ve been looking for work, and I have an interview tomorrow.”
“Wonderful! Where?” Ella said.
“One minute.” Mary got up to go to her own room to find the newspaper advertisement for the job.
“See here? It says secretary needed.” She retrieved the newspaper and pointed excitedly at the ad. “And I can read and write as good as anybody, I made it all the way through the eighth grade.”
Ella looked over the advertisement. “Why, I know this man. His company does business with my father. Let me write you a recommendation letter.”
“You would do that for me? How grand you are!”
“And what do you plan to wear to the interview tomorrow?” Ella asked as she glanced at Mary’s attire. Mary’s wardrobe left much to be desired, she feared she would make a fool of herself in an uptown office; one look at her shoes and they would show her the exit.
“I don’t know.” Mary looked down at her worn-out waist coat and fiddled with a loose string hanging from the hem.
“I think I have just the outfit for you.” Ella brightened. “Let’s look through my trunks shall we?”
Mary was offered the position, and the ladies all celebrated the next night with a bottle of champagne that Ella had splurged on when she heard the news.
“Ella, what do you do for work?” One of the girls asked after they had clinked their glasses in a toast.
All eyes turned to Ella.
“I, uh, I write.” Ella stumbled for words. “Yes, that’s right, I’m a writer.” Saying so felt good to her own ears.
“Really? What kinds of things do you write?”
“Well, I’m working on a book of poetry.” The ladies murmured approval.
“And a play on the life of Dante.” She received blank stares.
“Who’s Dante?”
Ella looked around the table at the eager faces. “He was, oh well, never mind. I also write short stories for magazines.”
“Oh gee! What kind of short stories? What magazines?”
“Oh you know, silly love stories for magazines like Godey’s, The Queen, that sort of thing.”
“Ooooh.” The ladies gave off a collective gasp of approval.
“I see the Missus reading those while I’m working. When nobody’s looking I look inside at the pretty pictures,” one girl whom Ella hadn’t met yet told the group.
“We have a real live writer in our company!” the brown-haired girl named Shelly said. “Tell us about your latest story,” she added.
“Well,” Ella started nervously, then found encouragement as she looked around at her rapt audience. “It is about a young maiden who is in love with a Lord.”
“Set in England then? Are you from there? Is that why you speak with an accent?” Shelly asked.
“Yes, I lived there awhile,” Ella responded. “As I was saying, the fair maiden is in love with a Lord but she can’t marry him.”
“Why not if she’s in love?” Mary said.
“He is too far above her station you see. But he is in love with her as well.” The ladies all nodded in sympathy.
Ella went on with the love story she had been cooking up in her head over the past few weeks. She had jotted down a few notes and struck out a lot. However, once she wrote them, these short stories seemed trite. To make them marketable she had to use a simple formula she read in all of the other works like them: man meets woman and they fall in love; something, whether it be their station, their health, or an evil family secret, kept them apart. They miraculously overcome the odds and end up married, the end.
It had to have a happy ending otherwise it wouldn’t sell. It was not as if the American audience was looking for a Shakespeare tragedy. Especially if, as she observed, most of her reading audience was in any way like these ladies, fleeing to New York to seek their fortunes. Who was she to deny them?
She finished her story to a hushed silence. The ladies were enraptured.
“Tell us another one then!” said the brunette from a small town in Pennsylvania.
Ella knew she was onto something when she told them another tale about a Duke and Duchess who learn they have an illegitimate grandchild when their son dies after being thrown from a horse while fox hunting. They clamored for more. That night she got busy writing down her stories. She posted them in the mail at the end of the week to the ladies magazines to see who would offer her the most. At least these stories could keep her ‘in clover’ as she often heard the girls say over dinner, while she waited on Putnam to decide about her book of poetry.
A few weeks later Ella saw her father on the street. It was a wet, cold, February day. She was coming out of Neamanns’ Jewelry Store where she knew her father’s credit was still good, after purchasing a baby’s silver cup — a christening gift for one of the Dix’s grandchildren. She was lost in thought about whether the magazines would accept her short stories when she saw him. He was weaving in and out of the crowds without looking up to see where he was going, or if he was in anybody’s way, a man on a mission; no doubt to attend some business meeting or gathering at his yacht club.
“Father,” Ella called to him. He looked peaked, had lost some weight, and he was coughing when she stopped him.
Dr. Durant looked up to see who was interrupting his token apology to the man he had bumped into. It took a moment to realize it was his daughter. He hadn’t seen her in weeks.
“Fine to see you here in the streets of New York City,” he said between fits of coughing.
“Where have you been and who are you staying with these days? Your mother is worried sick, asking about you all of the time, as if I would know where you are. I readily admit I am inept when it comes to your governance,” he said sarcastically.
Ella, who had reached to kiss his cheek was taken aback by his animosity and poor appearance. “I’ve been staying with friends,” she shivered as she lied. “I wrote mother last week. And I’m doing fine, Papa, if that’s what worries you.”
Dr. Durant brushed that notion off like dust from his lapel. “What worries me, Ella, is that you left our household in a rage, accosted your mother’s faithful companion Margaret, and are now spending your time at clubs and the theater with divorcees and actors. It is no company for a young lady.” He raised his voice. “Especially one that is unmarried.”
Ella instinctively held her package a bit closer to her chest as curious bystanders stopped to witness the scene that was unfolding in front of Neamanns.
She had slapped Margaret, it was true, but the woman deserved it for practically threatening to expose the Durant family skeletons. It was so long ago she had forgotten. If he only knew how ludicrous the rest of his accusations were he would not be accusing her of being a spendthrift. Ella barely had any of her small savings left, and what little she had wasn’t even enough to attend the theater. Besides, as much as she would’ve liked to, there was no one to accompany her anyway. Martha had proved an unworthy friend, Poultney and William had abandoned her, and her cousins were too busy with their own beaux. None of the girls at the Sherwood House could afford it.
No one was concerned about Ella’s social life, no one that is, but Ella.
She moved closer to her father and said, “This is not the place to discuss my personal life or marital state.”
“Maybe you should consider where the right place is then because you have outlived your welcome in our home. It might be time to consider your alternatives as a spinster.”
“Excuse me, Miss, is this man bothering you?” A young gentleman had overheard Dr. Durant berating Ella and felt compelled to stop when he saw how distressed she looked. Ella looked from the kind stranger to her father. How odd this must seem to the gawkers on the street. Her father looked wild, his hair was unkempt and straggling out of his top-hat. His ruddy cheeks were aflame. His eyes looked manic. It was as if he was another man, not her real father. He started to cough uncontrollably.
“Sir, do you know this young lady?” The gentleman inquired when her father had stopped coughing long enough to hear him.
“Of course I do you idiot! She’s my daughter. Now leave us alone.”
The startled man hurried away and the others who had stopped to see what would happen put their heads back down to the cold drafty wind and followed his cue, moving along to their destinations.
Dr. Durant tipped his hat in a gesture of courtesy and kept walking. Ella could not recall a time he had ever been so cruel.
Ella went to see Reverend Dix for consolation. She had found her way through blinding tears to the Trinity Rectory to talk to the Reverend. He was the only one she could think to turn to after the public berating.
“Are you quite sure? This doesn’t sound like your father,” he said after she told him her story.
“It is exactly as he said it,” Ella said. She knew she sounded like a dribbling fool but one look at the Reverend’s calm face and she was reminded of all the kindness his family had bestowed on her and her mother and brother over the years. It was a stark contrast to how unkind her own father could be.
“Come now, chin up young lady,” he said as he guided her to a chair in front of the fireplace. “Mrs. Daly is getting us some tea. The world’s problems can be solved over a strong cup of tea.” He patted her shoulder.
Ella smiled at him. “You’re so good to me. I am sorry to be burdening you with my problems. But I have nowhere to turn.”
Although just hours ago she had been confident that she could sell her stories and make a living as a writer in New York City, the confrontation with her father left her feeling insecure. If her own family would not support her, who would?
“I must confess my savings are almost exhausted and I cannot stay any longer in the city. But after that public rebuke there is no possibility of me going back to my home in North Creek, even if I did choose to grovel.”
“I’m sure your mother would take you back?” Morgan said.
“I can’t go back there! I was a prisoner in my own home. Is there no way for me to stay here? Could I help by cooking or cleaning at the rectory in some way?”
Mrs. Daly came in and put a tray of tea between them and Morgan poured them both a cup.
Morgan shook his head. “Menial labor is not your type of work I’m afraid. No need to stoop so low. No, I have a better plan for you. Why not enter our convent and do the good work of the Sisters as they help the poor and destitute?”
Ella lifted her head up from the scalding hot teacup in her hand. She put the cup down on the saucer and considered her prospects. The convent might be just the answer to her public humiliation, both from her father and Poultney. However.
“Don’t women that enter the convent tend to, um.” Ella stopped to think of how to say what she was thinking tactfully. “Aren’t they considered fallen women?”
Morgan scoffed, “Fallen from what? The sky? No, the sisters you’ll meet are no more fallen than the rest of the poor lonely creatures that inhabit this bagnio we call New York City. You will find Ella, there are quite a few young women such as yourself, looking for a chance to meditate and assist those in need.”
Or run away from their problems in a reputable manner. “I accept your offer,” she said.
When she got back to the Sherwood House she made arrangements to have all correspondence sent to the Sisters of St. Mary’s Mother House. She packed her bags, said her goodbyes and never looked back when she entered the convent doors the next day.
William was sitting in his office in New York City, staring at the calling card he had received that morning from Miss Stewart; it read:
Another lovely evening at Sherry’s. Thank you.
He guiltily put it away in the drawer of his desk, thinking how he too enjoyed his second date with the young lady. If only he could hold Louise in his arms, he might be able to stave off this craving for human bonding. If he didn’t hear soon he would find a way to head up there, some excuse, any excuse to go. He knew he could come up with something his father would not argue about.
William was worried about his father. It had been over a month now since Ella had entered the convent, and he was forlorn and confused about why Ella had chosen this path.
Earlier in the week he had met his father at the yacht club for dinner and his father expressed his concern. In hushed tones he said, “Our family has never been over-zealous when it comes to religion. I can’t think of any reason she would enter the convent except because she is a fallen woman.”
“From what Morgan has told me she is not becoming a nun, father. She is assisting the poor. It is noble work.” William tried to sound encouraging.
His father had looked ill. He had been coughing more than usual and recently was diagnosed with emphysema. William had suggested to him that he travel with mother south, to warmer climates, both to improve his father’s health and to keep him out of the Adirondack Railroad business. He refused of course.
When William finally gathered the courage to ask him about the family finances, his father brushed him off, saying, “The creditors think they can take the Adirondack Railroad away from me. Well, that will never happen as long as I am alive!”
“Maybe we should consider selling some of our land as you suggested? I have some plans drawn up for a development near Eagle Lake—”
His father waved him off. “It was a good plan at one time. But not now. The vultures are circling, William,” Dr. Durant said.
It was a difficult discussion to have at the club with all of their friends sitting at nearby tables. Eavesdropping was not just a custom for ladies in tea parlors. Leaning in towards his father, William was about to inquire further when cousin Howard came up to greet them, ending any chance for William to pursue it.
A sharp rap on the door to his office brought William to the present.
“Mr. Durant?” It was his clerk.
“Yes? Did I forget an appointment?”
“No sir.” His clerk entered with a telegram in his hand. “This came for you, sir.”
“Thank you,” William said as he eagerly opened it and waved him away. It was from his cousin Frederick at Prospect House on Blue Mountain Lake. It read:
Ike arrived after walking for days in a snow storm. Louise is dead.