The Hired Girl(41)

She said, “I’m sure you don’t mean to be rude, Janet, but I’m afraid you’re rather impetuous.” I nodded agreement and tried to look penitent — though I like the idea of being impetuous. It sounds like a heroine. I’d rather be impetuous than placid any day.

After a moment she relented. “My husband’s store has an excellent selection of books,” she said. Then her brows came together. “Though you may find them costly. They’re hardcover books, not dime novels.”

I saw in a flash what she meant. She thought because I was a servant, I’d want to read trash. It made me hot under the collar — I guess I am impetuous. “I’m not in the market for dime novels,” I said haughtily. “I don’t think I would find them edifying or ennobling.”

I think maybe I shouldn’t have said the ennobling part. Mrs. Rosenbach’s mouth twitched as if she wanted to laugh. Only for a minute, though. Then she said, “I beg your pardon, Janet. I had forgotten your fondness for Ivanhoe. If you’re interested in reading the classics, you might borrow from our library.”

“Might I?” I exclaimed. I think Mrs. Rosenbach might have regretted her kindness then, because she went on to say that reading mustn’t interfere with my duties, and that the books mustn’t be taken down to the kitchen, where they might get soiled, and that I should borrow only one at a time.

I assured her that I would treat her books with the greatest possible care. I promised that I’d make sure my hands were extra clean, and that I would never, never stretch the bindings or dog-ear the pages.

She rose and went into the library. When she came back, she had a book in her hand. It was bound in black leather, with the title in gold: DANIEL DERONDA. It was the kind of book that has a silk ribbon inside, to serve as a bookmark. I love those silk ribbons.

“Perhaps this will edify you,” she said, and she handed it to me with a smile that was both sphinx-like and motherly kind.



Wednesday, July the twelfth, 1911

Today I spoke to Mr. Solomon. It wasn’t one bit the way I’d imagined it would be. In the sacred privacy of these pages, I’ve written how I hoped to see him again. Ever since he rescued me, he’s seemed like a hero to me, and I’ve been waiting to thank him. Also — oh, accursed vanity, I should blush to write these words, but they are true! — I’ve wanted him to see me. The bruise on my forehead has faded, and my new clothes make me look ever so much prettier.

I thought I was looking my best this morning. I had on the blue print with the rosebuds, and my apron was starched and pressed. I was going up the stairs and Mr. Solomon was coming down. (I shouldn’t have been on the front staircase, but I forgot.)

It reminded me of the night of the party in Jane Eyre, when Mr. Rochester spoke to Jane on the stairs, except that Mr. Solomon scarcely glanced at me. I ventured, “Good morning, sir.”

He looked a little startled. Then he smiled. “Good morning”— he paused —“Jane. It is Jane, isn’t it?”

“No, sir,” I said, “it’s Janet.” And I guess I seemed crestfallen, because he looked contrite.

“Janet,” he corrected himself. “Of course. I understand you’re doing well.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and I launched into the speech I’d planned for him. It was all about how he’d rescued me, like one of King Arthur’s knights, and how grateful I was, and how I’d vowed to mention his name in my prayers every night. I tried to express my thanks in elegant phrases, so that he’d understand that even though I’m a hired girl, I’m not just a hired girl.

But I forgot the beginning of my speech. I plunged into the middle, and had to go back and stick the beginning back in. I could feel my face getting red. The awful thing was that I could tell that Mr. Solomon wanted me to stop talking. He looked as awkward as I felt. “I’m glad everything’s worked out so well,” he said when I paused for breath. “For your sake, and for Malka’s.” And with that, he brushed past me and went down the stairs.

For my sake, and for Malka’s. That’s when the truth sank in: to Mr. Solomon, I’m just a servant like Malka. In fact, I’m much less to him than Malka is, because he’s known Malka all his life. He’s her pet among the Rosenbach children, and she calls him Shlomo; Malka’s almost like his grandmother. But I’m just a servant. The dress that made me feel so pretty is a servant’s dress.