Chapter Three
“Don’t remove your shoes. We’re going out.
” Mamma says it as soon as I open the door.
I am surprised to find her up and dressed, my little brother bundled beside her in a scarf, mittens, a cap, and an overcoat.
I walk straight to Kit, sliding my arms open to reveal the flash of orange, which appears even brighter in here against the drab colors of our cramped room.
Kit’s eyes go wide, and then he exclaims, “Gee, that’s bully!
” He has the same big brown eyes as me, and I see them all full of tenderness now, so I nudge the trembling little cat toward my brother’s open hands.
Five years younger than me, Kit had even less time with Daddy, and that reality always hits me with a pang that I try to combat by showing him any extra kindness I can.
If this stinky stray tabby can give him some joy on this Christmas Day and the days going forward, it’ll make me happy.
I figure it’s the only gift either of us will get today.
“What is the meaning of this, Florence?” Mamma, in contrast, does not appear overjoyed, and she addresses me with the formal name I loathe—the name that no one in the world uses except for her.
I turn to her now with a mask of innocence as I ask: “Isn’t she sweet, Mamma?
I figured she could be our Christmas present, plus my birthday. ”
This catches Mamma by surprise; I see it in the way her features hitch upward. Mamma has forgotten my birthday. Maybe even Christmas, too. And this opens a small window of hope inside me. “Can’t we keep the poor thing?” I plead. Kit joins in.
Mamma lets out a slow, beleaguered exhale, and with that, I see the fight seep out of her. I press on, asking my brother: “Kit, what should we name this little lady? Something a bit grander than Muddy Paws. Do you remember Muddy Paws?”
I can see from my brother’s crinkled expression that he doesn’t, so I continue: “Muddy Paws was our cat back in Tarentum. All white except for the four brown paws that looked like he’d just stepped in the mud.
Daddy let me name him. And do you remember, Mamma, how that kitten used to rile up our chickens?
” I’m trying my best to keep my tone bright, in the hopes that some cheer might become contagious in this room, but my mother lowers her eyes without a reply.
I lean toward my brother and say, “Muddy was always pestering the chickens, and they’d fight back with their feet so fierce that Mamma took pity on the poor kitten and sewed small leather shoes for each of her hens.
To make the fights less scrappy while everyone learned how to get along. ”
“Never mind all that, Florence.” Mamma’s tone is as brittle as the cold air outside, and she waves a hand toward the shivering little body in my brother’s arms. “I’ll deal with this later. The creature can stay for a bit while we go out. Now fetch your coat.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, as I give the cat one final stroke across its matted fur.
“Stonehurst,” Mamma answers. Then, seeing my confusion, she adds: “The Thorne mansion, on Beechwood Boulevard.”
Beechwood? That’s a part of town into which we never venture. “Are we picking up their washing?” I ask.
Mamma flicks her eyes toward the doorway, irritated by my questions. “More like wishing them a Merry Christmas. All three of us, together. Now let’s go. Kit, put that thing down before the night gets dark as pitch.”
Outside it’s the dusk of Christmas evening, the last thin tendrils of weak winter sunlight slipping through the gaps between the buildings.
Mamma sets off at a brisk pace, her features pinched tight against the cold.
I’m brimming with questions about the nature of our unusual outing, but I keep quiet and stay close to Mamma while she clutches Kit’s hand on her other side.
At the corner of the street, we pause and await a break in the horse and carriage traffic.
The sleigh bells of a passing hansom lend a cheerful ring to the air as they mingle with the laughter of the passengers riding within.
I wish I could climb in and go wherever it is they’re going, I think as the hansom is swallowed into the night. But I’d never dare to say it.
Instead I see Mamma’s breath when she speaks: “I hear that Mrs. Thorne is a churchgoing woman. I imagine that if we show up on her step at Christmas, she might be moved to some Christian kindness. Perhaps a warm plate of supper. Maybe even a few…”
A break in the traffic, and Mamma pulls us forward.
I don’t press her for more information, and I don’t dawdle, knowing that to do either would mean catching a scolding.
I keep with Mamma’s pace as she crosses the street and leads us up the broad avenue, the buildings growing grander and farther apart as we make our way through their shadows.
It’s a long walk, and with the winter sun setting, it’s only getting colder.
I ignore the ache in my toes and silently hope this quest will be worth it.
Finally, the sign for Beechwood Boulevard appears before us in the flickering light of the elegant streetlamps; it’s clear we’ve arrived in the wealthiest part of town.
Even without reading the street name I would have been able to tell, for these are no longer houses tucked back above the wide boulevard, these are castles.
And Stonehurst is exactly what you might expect from its name, and from the Thorne family that built it—the richest family in Pittsburgh, with the biggest residence on Millionaire’s Row.
It’s more than a house, more than a castle even, it’s a fortress, set back from Beechwood Boulevard behind a wrought iron fence and an imposing row of tall, winter-stripped trees.
Our cold little trio huddles before the pea-gravel lane, looking up at the hulking shape of the house, the quiet property draped in thick winter shadows.
“Looks haunted,” Kit remarks. He’s got that right.
Nestled in the gloom of the December dusk, the massive house is wrapped in a thick casing of climbing ivy.
And yet, inside, the rooms are aglow. Probably even warm.
I can tell because I squint my eyes and stare through the gracious floor-to-ceiling windows that pierce the ground floor, where I spy rich cranberry-colored drapes and, beyond them, the twinkling candles of countless sconces and what appears to be a very ornate chandelier.
Not that we have a prayer of being invited into the Thornes’ warm drawing room, with its dark wood paneling and blazing fire.
Mamma, however, appears undeterred. Wearing the grim expression of a general poised to ride into battle, she stares at the wide stone steps that lead upward toward the Stonehurst front door, and I see how she pulls back her shoulders.
Then, gripping my hand on one side and Kit’s on the other, she states aloud to the cold night: “We are not urchins, nor are we beggars. We are honest, hardworking people. We’ve just had a spell of bad luck since, well…
If she can’t find it in her heart to show us some kindness on Christmas Day, then she’s not the fine lady I’ve heard her to be.
” With that, we march up the lane, a determined little phalanx, the gravel crunching beneath our steps.
When we reach the front, Mamma pauses, fixing me with a stern gaze.
“Now, Florence, when the butler answers, you stay right beside me, and you be sure to offer him your most polite smile, you hear?”
I nod. Mamma studies me for a moment, her eyes sweeping from my heels to my head. She adjusts my wool hat, pulling a tendril of my dark hair over my left shoulder, and then she turns and raps the Thornes’ cold brass knocker.
A moment later a silver-haired man in a formal tuxedo pulls the door back and appears in a sliver of light at the threshold.
Surely this must be the man of the house?
Would a servant be sporting a tuxedo? Perhaps in a home as fine as this, even the servants dress like this.
Remembering my orders, I smile and throw in a small curtsy—just in case this fellow is someone as important as he appears to be.
But I can tell I’m not the only one who’s perplexed: the gentleman looks at me, then Kit, then his eyes land on Mamma. “How may I help you?” he asks.
Mamma takes a step forward. “Good evening. I’m Mrs. Goodwin Talbot.
” Hearing her mention Daddy’s name, my throat tightens.
I ignore that feeling, keeping the smile plastered on my face because men are more inclined to do a favor for a sweet face than a sour one, Mamma has told me more times than I can count.
I want to look to Kit, but I resist that urge.
Mamma goes on, saying, “I’m here to call on Mrs. Thorne. ”
A faint sound, the gentleman quickly clearing his throat, and then, arching an eyebrow, he responds with a question: “And Mrs. Thorne is expecting you?”
“I don’t believe she is.” If Mamma feels nervous, she’s doing some job of hiding it.
“Very well, Mrs. Talbot,” he says. “Have you a card which I may present to Mrs. Thorne?” So then he is the butler.
“I’m afraid…” Mamma shifts from one foot to the other. “I’ve left my calling cards at home.”
“I see.” The man’s eyes slide once more from Mamma to me, then to Kit, then back to Mamma, and in his expression I detect two fleeting feelings—just a flash of each, before he’s remembered his implacable mask of propriety, but I’ve seen them both: the willed patience of a well-trained servant, and the thin but undeniable undergirding of derision, or perhaps it’s even pity.
A thought flies into my mind, and I can’t help but wonder: What number are we today? How many other supplicants have appeared on this grand doorstep?