Boston Jane

  “Death can come at any time! The kingdom of heaven is open only to those who do God’s will,” he thundered, banging his fist on our rickety table for emphasis. It shuddered.

  “Father,” I said. “The table.”

  From the bunk Mary moaned dramatically. “I think I’m gonna puke,” she said loudly, and groaned again.

  Father Joseph eyed Mary’s bunk warily.

  “Perhaps we can continue this some other time,” I suggested helpfully.

  “But mademoiselle …” He hesitated.

  “Pass me the bucket, Jane my girl.” Mary groaned even louder. She started making retching noises.

  Father Joseph looked nervously at Mary’s bunk and quickly stood up. “Another time then, mesdemoiselles,” he said, and made a hasty exit.

  The door slammed shut.

  Mary’s black-haired head popped up from beneath the covers.

  “Good riddance,” she laughed, her eyes merry. “I’ve heard some of the lads say the church shipped him out so they didn’t have to listen to his preaching!”

  “That’s not a very charitable thing to say,” I admonished, but laughed. Mary was so naughty sometimes.

  Mary shook her head, which sent her curls flying. “I feel sorry for the savages. He’ll bore them to death before he even converts the first of them!”

  Mary was not much given to good manners, but I had hope for her. Look how far I had come.

  But then, I’d had considerable motivation.

  You see, from the day my apple had made its acquaintance with her bodice, Sally Biddle had considered it her sovereign duty to torment me.

  One late autumn afternoon had found Jebediah and me playing in the street. We were tossing manure at the backs of carriages.

  “Jane, you really should use the fresh pats. They stick better,” Jebediah suggested helpfully, flinging one at a passing carriage to demonstrate.

  Just then Sally Biddle came sauntering down the cobblestone street, a gaggle of girls in her wake.

  “It’s a disgrace the way you’re always running around with scabby boys,” Sally Biddle sniffed, tossing her blond hair. Her corkscrew curls stood out like a pack of little pigs’ tails all in a row. “An eleven-year-old really ought to know better.”

  I eyed Jebediah’s knees. Come to think of it, they were scabby.

  “Just look at yourself,” Sally continued. “No wonder all the mothers keep their daughters from you!”

  The girls gave little nods of agreement.

  I looked down at myself, wondering what she meant. It was true my apron had a cherry stain on it, but this was no different from any other day. And perhaps my hair was a bit tangled and my nails were a bit stained, though that was to be expected when handling manure pats.

  All the mothers kept their daughters away from me? It had never occurred to me to wonder why the other girls never played with me. After all, I had Papa and Jebediah.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  But Sally Biddle ignored me and turned to the girls.

  “My mother says it’s a shame that Dr. Peck has never remarried, but that it’s perfectly understandable. After all, what respectable lady would want to deal with a girl like Jane? It would be like bringing a street urchin into your home.” She spoke conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather or a new bonnet.

  I suddenly remembered all the times I’d come home late for supper, tracking manure from the street. How Papa would sometimes look at me and shake his head and sigh heavily. Was he secretly ashamed of me? Was I truly a disgrace? A cold, sick feeling curled in my belly.

  The corners of Sally’s mouth turned up in a small smile, and the sight of that knowing smile made my back stiffen. The words tumbled from my mouth in a rush.

  “Papa loved my mother!” I blurted. “He’s never cared for another woman!”

  Sally turned on me smoothly, not a petticoat out of order, not a bow out of place. “Then he must not care for you very much.” She paused, drawing the moment out. “After all, you’re the reason she’s dead!”

  I stumbled back as if I’d been punched hard in the belly, the air going out of me in a rush, leaving my knees wobbly.

  The other girls looked at Sally and laughed uncomfortably.

  “She probably died from the shame of having a girl like you!” Sally added, and burst into peals of laughter.

  I couldn’t bear to hear any more.

  I turned and ran.

  Sally Biddle was relentless.

  On an exceptionally mild February afternoon in the year 1850, I was sitting on the front step of our house on Walnut Street eating a piece of Mrs. Parker’s cherry pie. Suddenly Sally Biddle appeared, like a mosquito scenting a plump, bare leg. Cora Fletcher was with her. Cora was an almost perfect replica of Sally, right down to her rabbit fur muff.

  “Everyone knows that all the best people live on Arch Street,” Sally Biddle remarked to Cora, as if I weren’t sitting right there.

  I paused, fork to my lips.

  “Take this house, for instance,” she said. “Why, it looks older than our stables.” Sally Biddle’s eyes slid up and down our house with barely concealed contempt.

  I looked at our house as if for the first time.

  How small and shabby it appeared! The front door needed painting, and the shutter near my bedroom window was nearly falling off from the time I had tried to climb down it. And why, our house was only two stories, instead of three stories like the houses on either side! How had I never noticed these things before? The pie in my mouth abruptly tasted sour.

  Sally Biddle’s eyes shined at the expression on my face.

  It seemed in that moment that my entire life was a sham. I was a disgrace to my papa, I had killed my own mother, and our house was poor. I felt tears well up in my eyes.

  “I declare I have never seen so fine a house in all of Philadelphia,” a voice broke in.

  Standing next to our gate, the buttery late afternoon sun lighting his pale blond hair like a halo, was a young man holding a leather satchel.

  Sally Biddle gaped at him. Cora Fletcher gaped at him.

  I gaped at him.

  With his beautiful gray eyes and chiseled chin, he was hard not to gape at.

  “I’m William Baldt,” my hero said, tipping his hat. “And that’s a nice piece of pie you have there.”

  Was there ever a young man such as William Baldt?

  How to describe his perfection? His gray eyes, deep and wise. His lovely eyelashes, thick as a girl’s, and his hair, golden and smooth, like spun wheat. Then there was his elegant nose, straight as a rail. Not to mention he had all of his teeth, front and back! And did I remark upon his ears? The perfect shape of each pink lobe?

  William had come to live with us and apprentice to my father. He stayed in the spare bedroom at the back of the house and took supper with us each evening. There had been other young men who had apprenticed to my father in the past, but never one so handsome or fine or with such a charming chin.

  “A promising young man, William,” Papa said in an approving voice. “Nineteen and already finished medical school.”

  What else can I tell you about him? He was the youngest son of a large family, and a proper gentleman. He always scraped his shoes before coming into the house, and he had beautiful manners. Why, he never belched at the table or spit tobacco like the men in the taverns.

  And he was kind, so very kind to me, that it was like a balm after all the terrible months of Sally Biddle. Everything seemed manageable when William was present.

  One morning when I was sitting on our front step, William came out of the house. “What excitement are you up to today, Miss Peck?” he asked.

  I shrugged. Most likely I would be spitting from the roof at passing gentlemen with Jebediah Parker, but I thought it best not to say anything. A man who didn’t belch at the table was unlikely to approve of spitting.

  A lady and gentleman came walking by. The lady looked at my stained apron and tangled ha
ir and shook her head, pursing her lips slightly. William looked away quickly, reddening.

  When they were out of sight, William gave me a measured look.

  “Is that young lady still being unkind to you?” he asked.

  “You mean Sally Biddle?”

  “Jane,” he said in a firm voice. “Perhaps if you were more … how do I say this? If you were more ladylike they would not be so terrible to you.”

  I looked at him in surprise.

  “I know it’s been hard because you have no mother. But you must learn how to be a proper young lady, Jane,” he said, gazing at my stained apron. “One’s position in Society is very important.”

  “But how do I learn?” My mind was whirling. You could learn such a thing? To be a proper young lady? This would solve all my troubles forever!

  My hero scratched his head. “Surely there must be a girls’ school around here.”

  I considered this for a moment.

  “But if I go to school, who will help Papa with the patients?”

  “A young girl like you ought not to be following her father when he is treating patients. It is most improper,” he said sternly.

  “But you are too big to sit on a man’s belly!” I insisted.

  “Whyever would I sit on some man’s belly?”

  “Papa says men behave better when he sets broken bones if I sit on their bellies, and that they think twice about getting into another bar brawl,” I explained.

  William looked very much like he wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead he said, “Jane, I have two younger sisters, and they both went to school and turned out very well. I know you could be a perfect young lady if only you would try.”

  “You do?” I asked, hope beating in my stomach.

  “Yes, Jane,” he said, his beautiful gray eyes looking deep into mine. How long his lashes were! “I do.”

  The very next morning I arose early, from anticipation. I selected a fresh apron, if not free of stains, at least as clean as Mrs. Parker could get it with boiling. I did my best to pull a brush through my hair and tie it in a braid.

  Then, walking a safe distance behind, I followed Sally Biddle and the other girls as they made their way down Arch Street to a tidy-looking brick house. They disappeared behind a green door with a shiny brass knocker. A discreet sign hanging from the side of the door announced the name of the establishment:

  MISS HEPPLEWHITE’S

  YOUNG LADIES ACADEMY

  I nearly lost my nerve when I saw that sign, but then I remembered William’s encouraging words. I took a deep breath and walked up and knocked on the brass knocker. The sound echoed in my ears like a taunt, and my heart thumped fast.

  A young, harried-looking maid answered the door.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Miss Hepplewhite,” I said in a nervous rush.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  She looked me over and sniffed as if to say she was hardly surprised that a girl like me didn’t have an appointment. She held out her hand. “Your card, please.”

  “Card?”

  “Your calling card. You do have one, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said, feeling as if I’d failed some important test. I didn’t even know I was supposed to have a calling card.

  The maid shook her head at me in a disappointed way. “What’s your name?”

  “Jane Peck.”

  She disappeared back inside the door and reappeared a moment later. “Follow me, Miss Peck.”

  I followed the maid down a long, cool, shadowed hallway to a closed door. She told me to sit on a chair. Miss Hepplewhite would be with me shortly.

  A moment later a smooth voice called, “Come in.”

  I opened the door nervously.

  A trim-looking older woman wearing a gray silk dress was seated behind a desk, her dark brown hair bundled discreetly in a snood, her hands clasped in front of her, all efficiency. She looked as neat as a calico print.

  “Yes?” she asked, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “Are you Miss Hepplewhite?”

  “I am. How may I help you?”

  I swallowed hard. “I’m Jane Peck, and I’d like to go to your school.” As an afterthought, I whispered, “Please.”

  Miss Hepplewhite sized me up where I stood as if I were a ham she was deciding whether or not to purchase.

  “How old are you?” she asked finally.

  “Eleven. I’ll be twelve next month,” I whispered.

  Miss Hepplewhite shook her head. “It is my opinion that a girl should begin her education at a young age—nine at the very latest. You are too old. Surely your mother knows this,” she said in a disapproving voice.

  “But I don’t have a mother!” I cried.

  Miss Hepplewhite went still, her face softening slightly. “Yes, of course. You are Dr. Peck’s daughter, are you not?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t think—” she began.

  “Please!” I pleaded. “I have to be a proper young lady. Otherwise my father will never marry, and it will be all my fault because I’m a disgrace!”

  She studied me. “Have you had any education at all?”

  “I can read and write. I went to common school until I was ten!”

  Miss Hepplewhite hesitated. “Very well. I shall take you on as a special pupil.” She paused, fixing me with a serious look. “But you must promise to work very hard.”

  I nodded furiously. I would promise anything!

  “It’s settled then. I’ll expect you here tomorrow morning promptly at eight o’clock. Please have your father call on me to discuss the fees.” Then she looked down at her writing, dismissing me.

  I started toward the door.

  Miss Hepplewhite paused, pen in hand, and looked up at me. “One other thing, Miss Peck.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “A clean apron tomorrow, Miss Peck. No jam stains, understood?”

  “It’s cherry pie, Miss Hepplewhite,” I said.

  She blinked. “No cherry pie stains then, Miss Peck.”

  “Yes, ma’am. No cherry pie.”

  I didn’t mind if it meant forgoing cherry pie forever.

  After all, I would be attending Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy!

  CHAPTER TWO

  or,

  Listening Well

  Miss Hepplewhite’s was a whole new world.

  There was so much of importance to learn! We studied Etiquette, Embroidery, Watercolors, Drawing, and Music. The older girls also studied French Conversation, which Miss Hepplewhite said was crucial to a young lady’s education. I had never heard anyone speak French except the baker, who would curse in it when a stray dog stole his bread, but all the girls seemed to agree with Miss Hepplewhite on this matter.

  There were twelve students, and Miss Hepplewhite gave us lessons in the parlor room. The older girls sat in the back, but I sat in the front with the nine- and ten-year-olds, even though I was eleven. Sally Biddle, who was thirteen, sat in the very back. Sometimes I felt her eyes pressing into the back of my head, hot as embers, as if she were just waiting to burn me.

  Miss Hepplewhite gave me a book called The Young Lady’s Confidante.

  “Consider this your bible, Miss Peck. Refer to it often,” she urged, holding the small, brown-covered book as if it were a great treasure.

  I turned the pages carefully.

  “Please turn to Chapter Five or, Listening Well,” Miss Hepplewhite instructed the class. I had already missed the first four chapters as I had joined late in the term.

  She walked slowly in front of the room, her feet barely making a sound, her dove-gray petticoats swishing back and forth, soothing as a swing. The pocket watch hanging from her waist by a chain swayed slightly in time with her movements.

  “A young woman should always listen well. No matter whether you are at church, on the street, or in your very own parlor, it is most important to listen care
fully and quietly.”

  Miss Hepplewhite paused for emphasis.

  “If you listen well, you shall always do well,” she predicted.

  Miss Hepplewhite suggested that we practice Listening Well as our study assignment. When someone said something clever, we were to laugh at the appropriate moment, or perhaps nod if the subject turned grave.

  That evening supper was very quiet as I was so busy listening. Papa and William were discussing a case Papa was concerned about, an old banker whose toes looked rotten.

  “I expect we’ll have to take the foot off,” Papa said with a sigh.

  William disagreed. “The recommended therapy is to bleed the patient first.”

  “Bloodletting has taken more lives than any war,” Papa scoffed. “The man’s going to lose enough blood when I remove the foot. I won’t have him lose any more because of quackery.” Papa was something of a radical in his profession.

  “That is your opinion, of course,” William said stiffly.

  I very much wanted to announce that I once saw Papa lop off the rotten toes of a man who’d had a brick dropped on them, but I forced myself to listen well. I tried to nod and smile, but I am afraid that my smile looked more like a wince. And after a while my neck ached from all the nodding.

  “Good heavens, girl,” Papa suddenly declared. “Is there something wrong with your head? And why do you keep grimacing at us?”

  Was I to smile or nod at his remark? I couldn’t tell.

  “Speak up, Janey,” Papa said. “Why aren’t you talking?”

  “I’m supposed to listen well. That’s what Miss Hepplewhite said.”

  I looked over at William for help, but he was in the middle of a coughing fit. He had the napkin at his mouth and was making a gurgling noise.

  Papa roared with laughter so loud that the chandelier shook.

  “Janey,” he said, “is this school I’m sending you to going to turn you into one of those useless women who care for nothing but dresses?”

  “I’m trying to be a proper young lady, Papa,” I said in a small voice. Papa didn’t understand anything!

  “A worthy goal,” William said, nodding his head approvingly.

  Papa’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “You’ll be a lady in no time at all,” William added. “All that is required is dedication and single-mindedness.”