"You had better not waste your kerosene," she said, "or Emily will yell. She won't give you more," she warned.
"This is horrible," I cried. "I'm made to stay in a room without a window and there is no light except this small kerosene lamp and the kerosene is rationed."
Charlotte stared at my outburst, her eyes wide with surprise and confusion. Then she bit down on her lower lip and shook her head emphatically from side to side.
"Emily says there's a lot of waste going on. It's the devil's work when we don't cherish what we have and when we waste. Emily says waste not, want not. That's what Emily says," she concluded.
"Well, Emily's not right. I mean, Miss Emily," I corrected quickly.
Again, Charlotte stared at me. I could see from the look in her eyes that she either didn't understand my anger or didn't want to. Suddenly, her expression changed and she looked like a little girl about to whisper a secret. She leaned toward me, first looking toward the doorway to be sure no one was there.
"Did the baby keep you up all night?" she asked.
"The baby? What baby?"
"The baby," she said, smiling. "The baby was crying and I went to give him his milk, but when I got there, he was gone," she said, holding her hands out, palms up.
"Gone? Whose baby? I didn't hear any baby."
"We better get downstairs," she said quickly and stood up. "Emily's made oatmeal for us and if it gets cold, it's our fault."
She started for the door. I sighed and turned off the kerosene lamp. It would be a minor tragedy if I left it burning, I thought.
I followed Charlotte out. She walked with short, quick steps, shuffling her slippers over the floor, and kept her hands clasped to her body with her head down like a Geisha girl. Now that there was some light pouring through the windows here and there, I could see more of the house. When I had arrived in the dark, I hadn't realized just how run-down it was inside as well as outside. This wing, my wing, looked like it hadn't been used for years. Large cobwebs hung between the ceilings and the walls and through the chandeliers. The walls themselves looked caked with dust.
Here and there along the corridor were pieces of hall furniture: a dark oak chest, hardwood benches too uncomfortable looking to be sat upon, and upholstered chairs that looked like great dust collectors. Every dozen yards or so, there was an old painting, most depicting classic southern scenes: slaves picking cotton, a plantation owner sitting upon a great white steed and looking out over his acres and acres of crops, and pictures of young women holding parasols and talking to handsome young suitors on great, green lawns or in front of gazebos.
When we turned toward the stairway, the paintings on the walls were all portraits of ancestors—women with pinched faces dressed in dark clothes, their hair pinned back tightly, men unsmiling and stern, and an occasional portrait of a child who had obviously been forced to sit still and pose. At the end of this corridor, right before the stairway, stood a broken grandfather clock, missing its minute hand.
When we reached the stairs, I looked down the opposite corridor toward the west wing where Miss Emily and Charlotte lived in the great house. The hallways were cleaner and brighter and there were many more pictures. That side would get most of the sunlight, I thought. Why couldn't she find a place for me there?
Charlotte looked up from the stairs to be sure I was following and then continued quickly. I felt silly walking in my boots and wearing a gown that looked like a hospital gown, but what was Ito do? Miss Emily had taken my clothes. I hurried along to catch up and turned at the foot of the stairs to follow Charlotte through a wide doorway.
The first room was a great dining room with a long, dark oak table and ten chairs. It had a light brown rug and a wall of windows which made it one of the brightest rooms I had seen. Above the table hung a large chandelier. There was a matching dark oak hutch in one corner and I could see dishes and ceramic figurines within. They still had some nice things here and there, I thought.
"Come along. Hurry," Charlotte said in the far doorway. I followed her into the kitchen.
It looked very little changed from what it must have been when the house had first been built. There was even a hand pump beside the sink instead of a faucet. There was a cast-iron stove for heat and cooking, a light oak table and six chairs in one corner and a counter beside the sink with cast-iron pots and pans dangling from hooks. The windows were covered with thin, white cotton curtains and the refrigerator was an old ice box.
Set on the table were three bowls of hot oatmeal and one piece of bread and an orange beside each. The place setting contained a single soup spoon and a napkin.
Miss Emily stepped out of the pantry, which was at the rear of the kitchen. Through the window in the doorway beside it, I could see some of the rear of the house: a bald field with an old wagon in the center and the corner of a barn.
"Well, it's about time," Miss Emily snapped. She wore a dark gray shift with a high white collar and black, high-top leather shoes. In the daylight, her face looked even more pasty and sallow. Her thin lips were so colorless they reminded me of long, thin dead worms. She had Grandmother Cutler's gray eyes, all right, but set in her narrow face, they looked sly, evil, conniving. The line of face hair above her upper lip was more pronounced in the light, and I saw she had a curly strand of gray hair here and there under her chin as well.
"Without a window, I didn't know it was morning," I replied.
She pulled her shoulders back as if I had slapped her.
"Um," she said, nodding. "I shall put a clock in your room so you won't use not knowing the time as an excuse to get out of your chores."
"Chores?"
"Of course, chores. Did you think this was going to be some sort of free ride? Did you think we were all born to be your servants?"
"I don't mind chores," I said. "I . . ."
"Sit down and eat before it's all too cold," she commanded.
Charlotte moved instantly to her seat and lowered her head. I sat down across from her and Miss Emily took her seat.
"I . . ."
"Quiet," she snapped. She clasped her hands and dropped her gaze to the table. "For this and all our other blessings, Dear Lord we thank you. Amen."
"Amen," Charlotte said and raised her eyes to me. "Amen," I said.
"Eat," Miss Emily ordered. Charlotte began to scoop up her cereal, clutching her spoon awkwardly in her thick fingers. She looked like a little girl first learning how to eat by herself.
When I put my first spoonful of oatmeal in my mouth, I nearly gagged. It was not only bland; it was bitter. I had never tasted hot cereal so bad. Neither Charlotte nor Miss Emily seemed to notice or mind. I looked about hoping there was a jar of honey or a jar of sugar, but there was nothing.
"What's wrong?" Miss Emily asked quickly.
Having cooked and baked so often for my family when I lived with Daddy and Momma Longchamp, I knew seasoning and ingredients. It tasted as if she had added vinegar.
"Is there vinegar in this?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I put vinegar in everything I make."
"Why?" I asked, astounded.
"To remind us of the bitterness we must endure for the sins of our fathers," she replied. "It will do you good to remember."
"But . . ."
"This is all there is to eat," she said, smiling. "If you don't eat it, you will have nothing and you need your nourishment if you want to deliver a healthy child. God help it," she added, raising her gaze toward the ceiling.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, willing the cereal to taste better than it did. An old lady on her deathbed would have had more appetite.
"When can I get my things back?" I asked. "I don't have a hairbrush, but I have a comb in my purse."
"You won't have any reason to make yourself pretty here," she said, loud, cold and flat, her eyes challenging mine. Swallowing, I felt fear raise the hair on my neck.
"But why did you take my purse?" I asked softly.
"Everything has t
o be purified," she replied and ate her oatmeal as if it were the most delicious thing in the world.
"Purified? I don't understand."
She paused, closed her eyes to indicate that I was being very stupid and very annoying, and then turned to me.
"Evil is a disease; it clings to us and to everything associated with us. You brought it with you into this house and I have to make sure it doesn't stay. Now eat and stop asking so many questions."
I looked at Charlotte who sat there smiling dumbly.
"But Charlotte told me today was her birthday and you were having a party for her," I said. "I'll have to have my clothes back if I'm to meet anyone."
Miss Emily threw her head back and laughed the most hideous shrill laugh I had ever heard. Then she gazed at me, her eyes cold and narrow again.
"Didn't I tell you never to listen to anything she says? Every day is her stupid birthday," she added, glaring across the table at Charlotte. "She doesn't even remember the actual day anymore. She has no concept of time. Ask her what year it is or what month. Ask what today is. Tell her, Charlotte," she urged cruelly. "Is today a Monday or a Saturday? What is it?"
"It's not Sunday," she said. "Because we didn't have our service in the chapel," she added, smiling proudly at her accomplishment.
"See," Miss Emily said. "All she can tell you is it isn't Sunday."
I couldn't believe how harsh she was with her sister, but I swallowed my thoughts along with the rest of my terrible oatmeal. At least the bread tasted good and the orange was just an orange. She couldn't do anything to spoil that.
"Now that you have finished your breakfast," Miss Emily said with her elbows on the table, her hands clasped together, "I will tell you some of the rules.
"First, you are never, ever to go to the west wing of the house where Charlotte and I live. That section is off limits to you, do you understand?" She didn't give me a chance to reply.
"In fact, you are restricted to your room, the library, the dining room and the kitchen.
"Second, you are not to bother Luther. You are not to go out to the barns or the pens or the coops and pester him with stupid questions. He doesn't like it and it takes away from his work. Time is the most precious gift we have and it is not to be spent loosely.
"Third, from today on, after I put the clock in your room, you are to come down here at six, after you make your bed of course, and start the fire in the stove. Use only four pieces of wood. Luther keeps the wood in the pantry. After that, you set the table for our breakfast, a bowl for the cereal, one spoon, and a napkin, just as I have done today. On Sunday we each have an egg as well, so you will put out a small dish. I will show you where everything is and where everything goes after you wash it.
"Which brings me to four. Your first chore is to wash and dry all the dishes and polish the silverware every day. I want all the pots and pans scrubbed, even the ones we don't use because they gather dust.
"Five, after the breakfast dishes and silverware, and the pots and the pans are all washed, you will scrub the floor. There is a pail and a brush and soap in the pantry. Begin at the door and work your way to the pantry. Dump the dirty water off the steps in the back and then put back the pail where you found it. I like everything to be in its place.
"Six, every third day, you will take the linen I leave in a pile at the entrance to the west wing and, along with your own, wash it and hang it out to dry. Everything is to be washed by hand in the wash tub on the back porch and then put through the wringer. You will find the tub and the washboard on the porch. Once a week we do clothing and the pile will be in the same place. You will find you have a second gown in the top drawer of your dresser."
"But what about my own things?" I cried.
"I don't know about your own things. I know only about what is and this is what is and what must be done," she said quickly.
"Seven, you are to begin this afternoon with the cleaning of your wing. Since it is now being used because of you, you should be the one responsible for how it looks. I want the hallway floors scrubbed and the walls scrubbed. Use the same pail and brush that you used on the kitchen floor, but remember to put it back in its proper place," she repeated. "I want all the furnishings dusted, as well as all the paintings. Be extra careful when you touch the paintings; some of them go back a hundred years.
"Eight, on Saturdays we will do the windows on the first floor. Since that will take almost all day every Saturday, you will begin immediately after you clean the kitchen following breakfast.
"Dusting and washing furnishings and other things will take place almost every day in the afternoon. I will leave an apple on the table for you for your lunch.
"Do you understand all this?" she demanded.
I understood; I understood that she was turning me into a house slave. With the paltry and meager things I was being given to eat and to wear and with my horrible living conditions, I also understood I was doing far more than earn my keep.
"When will I have time for anything but work?" I asked innocently. Her eyes flared.
"There is nothing else for which time is meant," she declared. "Idle hands make mischief. Besides, the hard work is the best thing for you in your condition. It will make you stronger so when the time comes, you will be able to face your ordeal," she added, making it sound as if she were doing me a favor by turning me into a slave.
"Whenever you do have some idle time, you should fill it with sensible activities. Accordingly, I will permit you to go into our library and choose a volume or two to read. However, you should plan to utilize as much daylight as possible for this so you don't waste your kerosene. I don't want to see you sitting up all night reading some romantic novel and burning the oil," she warned.
"When can she see my needlework?" Charlotte interjected. For a moment Miss Emily glared at her, her thin lips so tight there was a patch of white at each corner.
"What did I tell you last night, Charlotte? Didn't I tell you Eugenia would be too busy to have you follow her around and babble nonsense all day? What did I tell you to do?"
Charlotte turned to me as if she thought I would give her the answer.
"You told me to wash my hair," she said.
"Oh Lord, give me strength," Miss Emily said. "That was last week, Charlotte. Last week." She spun around on me. "Do you see the burden I've been left to bear? My rich and fancy sister doesn't have any of this to contend with, does she? She has never once suggested Charlotte come visit her. Oh, no. Instead, she sends me you . . . another burden."
"I'm not your burden," I said defiantly. "Nor am I hers."
Miss Emily stared. Then she placed her hands flatly on the table and pushed herself into a standing position, rising slowly into her full height.
"I don't expect you to be grateful. Your sort rarely is, but I do expect you to fulfill your responsibilities while you are here under my roof and in my care. Is that understood?" she demanded. I looked away. "Is it?" she insisted.
"Yes," I said after taking a deep breath. "It's understood."
"Good. Begin your chores," she commanded. "Charlotte, get upstairs and clean your room."
"But it's my birthday," Charlotte protested.
"Then clean it so it will look nice for all your guests," Miss Emily said, a small, tight smile on her face. That seemed to please Charlotte. She rose and started out. At the doorway, she turned back to me.
"Thank you for the nice present," she said and left.
"Idiot," Miss Emily mumbled. Then she followed her out and left me with my work.
There wasn't even any hot water in the kitchen. Everything had to be washed in cold and it was very cold water, water from a deep well. My fingers grew so numb I had to shake them out periodically and rub them with a dish towel. Miss Emily had set out the polish for the silverware and had laid out the pieces on the counter. They were old and stained. Polishing them was something she obviously hadn't done often, but now that she had me to abuse, she decided to do so. It took me nearly an hour to get
half of it looking decent.
Suddenly the back door was thrown open and Luther came in carrying an armful of fire wood. He barely acknowledged me with his eyes.
"Good morning," I said as he turned into the pantry, but he didn't reply. I heard him piling the wood and went to the door of the pantry. "Luther."
He paused and looked over his shoulder at me, his face almost a mirror of Miss Emily's—that same cold glint in his eyes.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I was wondering if you were going to Upland Station any time today. I have to make a phone call. I have to see about my things."
He grunted and turned back to the wood without replying. I stood in the doorway waiting. Finally, he completed piling the wood neatly and stood up.
"I ain't goin' to no Upland Station today," he said gruffly.
"Will you be going tomorrow?" I pursued.
"Can't say. It ain't tomorrow," he replied and started out so quickly, I just knew if I didn't step back, he would walk right over me. I made up my mind that as soon as I got my clothes back, I would walk to Upland Station. Where were my clothes anyway? I wondered.
I completed the polishing of the silverware and washed and scrubbed the pots and pans. After everything was put in its place, I went into the pantry and got the pail, brush and soap. I had to get down on my hands and knees to scrub the floor, but this wasn't the first time I had done that. It was just that now, with my expanded stomach, it was harder to bend over and scrub. My lower back began to ache rather quickly and I had to continually sit up and rub it.
Washing the floor, just like polishing the silverware, was clearly something Miss Emily did not have done regularly. The floor was grimy and caked with dirt. I had to stop about midway and go out to empty the blackened pail of water. The moment I opened the door, the chill of the brisk December day came rushing over me making my teeth chatter, for the wintery wind had no trouble piercing the flimsy material of my hospital-like gown and I wore nothing underneath, nor had I any socks. I hurried down the rear of the small back porch to dump the dirty water over the side and that was when I saw it.