The Hired Girl(25)

I decided it was an omen. I told myself I was the Spirit of Transportation and that Father was the man at the far left of the sculpture, the one who couldn’t control his oxen. I saw myself leaving him far behind, processing in triumph and majesty toward the future.

I have decided to give myself a new name. This is only practical, but it will also be a symbol of my new self. (Besides, I have always detested my last name.) I have long felt that the two most beautiful names in the world are Isabella and Damaris. But after consideration, I decided not to use them, because I can’t imagine my future mistress calling me Isabella or Damaris. They don’t sound like hired girls’ names. Isabella might be shortened to Izzy — which is dreadful — and Damaris can’t be shortened because that would be profane.

And besides, if I am to have a new name, it ought to be close enough to my old name so that if someone calls me, I’ll lift my head and look sharp.

So I decided on Janet, which is close to Joan, but ever so much prettier, and not too fancy for a hired girl. Mr. Rochester often calls Jane Eyre Janet when he’s feeling especially fond of her. For my last name, I chose Lovelace — because I do love lace, or would if I had some, so it isn’t even a lie.

Janet Lovelace! bound for Baltimore, a new servitude, and the wide, wide world!



Monday, July the third, 1911

I have so much to write and so little time! I haven’t yet asked permission to take a candle upstairs at night, and my room is growing dark. Amazing circumstance that I should be living in a house with electric lights! Electricity is a beautiful thing, so clean and easy; you don’t have the work you have with kerosene lamps, trimming the wicks and cleaning the chimneys. But of course there’s no electricity in the servants’ rooms.

All that must be told later. For now, I take up the thread of my tale.

When I left Philadelphia and set off for Baltimore, the train was crowded, and it was mostly gentlemen on board. I couldn’t find a seat next to a lady, and I didn’t want to sit by a man. I pressed forward until I found two empty seats, put my suitcase in the rack, and slid into the window seat. Then a gentleman — no, he was not a gentleman, and I will not dignify him with that name — came and sat next to me. He was young, with hair as yellow as sawdust; stout in a puffy, undistinguished sort of way.

He nodded to me and touched the brim of his hat, but I turned and gazed out the window, so that he would understand that I wasn’t the sort of girl who talks to strange men. He didn’t pursue the matter, for which I was grateful, and by and by I forgot about him. I began to regret having had such a big breakfast and drunk so much coffee. I knew that a three-hour journey lay ahead of me, and I became very uncomfortable. (Oh, forgive me, Miss Chandler, but I must be vulgar one last time!) I wondered if there might be a ladies’ washroom on the train. I thought there ought to be — goodness, people spend whole nights on trains! — but I felt bashful about asking where it was. Also, I was afraid that if I left my seat, the yellow-haired man might guess where I was going, and that would be just too mortifying.

So I sat and suffered and tried not to think about how uncomfortable I was. After some time, it seemed to me that at least two hours must have gone by — we had passed Wilmington, Delaware — so there was only one more hour to go. But then the train stopped, with squealing brakes and a great jolt, and it didn’t start up again. Outside the window was a cornfield. Presently the passengers began to murmur, and the yellow-haired man got to his feet. “I wonder what’s up,” he said under his breath. He set off down the aisle.

I seized the opportunity to leave my seat. I found one of the porters and whispered my question to him — I’m sure I was as red as a poppy, but he nodded and said, “This way, Miss,” and showed me to the ladies’ washroom. He was so calm about it, so gracious and discreet. For my money, he was a gentleman, though he wasn’t a white man.

Afterward, I hurried back to my seat. The yellow-haired man hadn’t come back, so I congratulated myself on that. But then I began to worry, because it seemed to me that we’d been standing still for some time, and I didn’t want to arrive too late in Baltimore. I knew I’d have to find a boardinghouse where I could spend the night. And then, first thing the next day, I’d have to buy a newspaper and look for work.

I was just imagining a kindly landlady who would help me find my way when the yellow-haired man came back. He sat down, and I suppose the next part was my fault, because without thinking I raised my eyes to his. He answered my unspoken question. “Another train broke down in front of us,” he explained. “They’re trying to fix it. Until that train moves, we’re stuck.”