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Authors: Ann Rinaldi
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you."
"Then perhaps we can have a new start," he said. "Perhaps you will do me the honor of coming to my house for a luncheon tomorrow."
I looked up into his warm brown eyes. They were so earnest. They even twinkled. "Yes," I said. It felt good saying it. I was my own person now, making my own decisions. Mama was gone. I had to think for myself. I felt a certain freedom, doing so.
"I'll be there," I said.
7. The House on J Street
U NCLE V ALENTINE sent a hack for me the next day. I knew what Mama would have said. "It's a grandiose gesture. It has no substance." But I was grateful for it.
I took Mrs. Lincoln's gown with me and asked the driver to stop at Mrs. Keckley's, where I dropped it off. She was out. I was disappointed. I knew she'd just returned from a trip on the James River with the Lincolns. The president had met with his generals to discuss the war's end. The gown was needed, her assistant said. The Lincolns were going to Ford's Theater tonight.
I went on to Uncle Valentine's house. When I
stepped out of the hack at 128 J Street, my spirits lifted. It was Good Friday, a marvelous spring day. I stood looking up at the three-story stone structure. Each floor had its own tower jutting out from the right-hand side. The windows in those towers seemed to sparkle like jewels in the sun.
Why,
I thought,
that top tower could be where the miller's daughter is sitting, crying because she cannot spin her flax into gold.
It reminded me of the Brothers Grimm. Some kind of vine crawled up the wall of the house on the side of the garden. In the middle of the garden I could see a small pond, and behind it a stone shed, which in itself looked like a fairy-tale cottage. The whole place was enclosed by a tall black wrought-iron fence. Brass lanterns on either side of the double-glass front doors gleamed. There was something solid and permanent, yet something forbidding, about it, too.
Mama had always hated the house. "It's the putting on of gold and costly apparel," she'd said. She always went after Uncle Valentine with quotes from the Bible. But I didn't think that described the house. Or Uncle Valentine.
The door opened. A young girl stood there holding a cut-glass bowl of candy, and I thought her the most beautiful and delicate thing I had ever seen.
She was wearing gray bombazine with a white apron and a lace collar. Her hair was tucked under a white kerchief, but wisps of it peeked out. It was a burnished brown.
"Come in, do. We're so glad to have you. Let me take your wrap."
I handed over my light shawl. From the back reaches of the house came the sound of children shrieking and laughing. "Is this the right house?"
She laughed. "They're from the Ebenezer Free School. I'm their teacher. We're pulling taffy today." She held out the bowl of candy. "Have one?"
I took one. They were nougats. Then she thrust out a slender hand. "I'm Marietta."
Her grip was cool, firm. "Your uncle isn't here yet. He's been detained. Come, let me show you the house."
"Are you kin to Uncle Valentine?"
She laughed again, a light, musical sound. "Kin? Hardly. Until last week I lived here. On the third floor. In the tower room."
The miller's daughter,
I thought.
"No, my father wasn't a miller. He owned a plantation below Richmond."
I hadn't said it aloud, I was sure of it. Oh, I must watch myself.
She raised delicate eyebrows, indicating the floors above. "Someone else lives in that room now."
"How did you come to know my uncle?"
"He saved my life."
I stared at her. Nor
another one,
I thought. But how? She was no more than twenty and in charge of herself. "How does someone like you need your life saved?" I asked.
"Come, I'll show you the house." She smiled at me. "I tried to drown myself," she said as she led me through the wide hall. The floors were highly polished, the place smelled of beeswax. There was a grouping of more strange-looking flowers in a bowl on a gateleg table. "Yuccas," she said. "All day the flowers hang down
"Then perhaps we can have a new start," he said. "Perhaps you will do me the honor of coming to my house for a luncheon tomorrow."
I looked up into his warm brown eyes. They were so earnest. They even twinkled. "Yes," I said. It felt good saying it. I was my own person now, making my own decisions. Mama was gone. I had to think for myself. I felt a certain freedom, doing so.
"I'll be there," I said.
7. The House on J Street
U NCLE V ALENTINE sent a hack for me the next day. I knew what Mama would have said. "It's a grandiose gesture. It has no substance." But I was grateful for it.
I took Mrs. Lincoln's gown with me and asked the driver to stop at Mrs. Keckley's, where I dropped it off. She was out. I was disappointed. I knew she'd just returned from a trip on the James River with the Lincolns. The president had met with his generals to discuss the war's end. The gown was needed, her assistant said. The Lincolns were going to Ford's Theater tonight.
I went on to Uncle Valentine's house. When I
stepped out of the hack at 128 J Street, my spirits lifted. It was Good Friday, a marvelous spring day. I stood looking up at the three-story stone structure. Each floor had its own tower jutting out from the right-hand side. The windows in those towers seemed to sparkle like jewels in the sun.
Why,
I thought,
that top tower could be where the miller's daughter is sitting, crying because she cannot spin her flax into gold.
It reminded me of the Brothers Grimm. Some kind of vine crawled up the wall of the house on the side of the garden. In the middle of the garden I could see a small pond, and behind it a stone shed, which in itself looked like a fairy-tale cottage. The whole place was enclosed by a tall black wrought-iron fence. Brass lanterns on either side of the double-glass front doors gleamed. There was something solid and permanent, yet something forbidding, about it, too.
Mama had always hated the house. "It's the putting on of gold and costly apparel," she'd said. She always went after Uncle Valentine with quotes from the Bible. But I didn't think that described the house. Or Uncle Valentine.
The door opened. A young girl stood there holding a cut-glass bowl of candy, and I thought her the most beautiful and delicate thing I had ever seen.
She was wearing gray bombazine with a white apron and a lace collar. Her hair was tucked under a white kerchief, but wisps of it peeked out. It was a burnished brown.
"Come in, do. We're so glad to have you. Let me take your wrap."
I handed over my light shawl. From the back reaches of the house came the sound of children shrieking and laughing. "Is this the right house?"
She laughed. "They're from the Ebenezer Free School. I'm their teacher. We're pulling taffy today." She held out the bowl of candy. "Have one?"
I took one. They were nougats. Then she thrust out a slender hand. "I'm Marietta."
Her grip was cool, firm. "Your uncle isn't here yet. He's been detained. Come, let me show you the house."
"Are you kin to Uncle Valentine?"
She laughed again, a light, musical sound. "Kin? Hardly. Until last week I lived here. On the third floor. In the tower room."
The miller's daughter,
I thought.
"No, my father wasn't a miller. He owned a plantation below Richmond."
I hadn't said it aloud, I was sure of it. Oh, I must watch myself.
She raised delicate eyebrows, indicating the floors above. "Someone else lives in that room now."
"How did you come to know my uncle?"
"He saved my life."
I stared at her. Nor
another one,
I thought. But how? She was no more than twenty and in charge of herself. "How does someone like you need your life saved?" I asked.
"Come, I'll show you the house." She smiled at me. "I tried to drown myself," she said as she led me through the wide hall. The floors were highly polished, the place smelled of beeswax. There was a grouping of more strange-looking flowers in a bowl on a gateleg table. "Yuccas," she said. "All day the flowers hang down
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