Read Online In Need of a Good Wife by Kelly O'Connor McNees - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly O'Connor McNees
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of perfectly good, hardworking men of all classes, and I should think your time would be better spent looking to make a match here.”
Elsa shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the stiff corner of the letter press into her ankle. She had only ever laid eyes on Mrs. Channing a handful of times, and each time she was struck by how little the matron resembled the women who worked for her. Even Mrs. Channing’s smooth, carefully pinned hair and alabaster skin seemed the characteristics of an entirely different species of woman, a woman who bore no marks of the world’s rubbing up against her: no calluses, no scars from childhood burns, no broken teeth or limp or deafness in one ear. The experience and significance of luxury was something Elsa had been able only to imagine, despite living right below it for the last twenty-nine years. When she saw Mrs. Channing, whose pristine tatted shawl hovered around her shoulders like spun sugar, whose collarbone was draped with three strings of garnets, Elsa felt as baffled by her as she might have felt seeing a zebra prance down Broadway. In truth, she felt only pity for the woman. Woe unto you that are rich, for ye have received your consolation.
“Heed my word, girls. I can’t stop any of you from pursuing this dangerous course. But you should know that, should you try and fail to find happiness in Nebraska, as you no doubt will, do not come back to the Channing residence looking for a position, for we shall not take you back. We have no use for your sort of women around here.”
Mrs. Channing was defensive now, though no one had challenged her right to speak her mind on matters of the management of her own home. She stomped out of the room in a huff and up the stairs.
So that would be it , then , Elsa thought. It may already be, if any of these girls start whispering about who was at Miss Bixby’s meeting. It suddenly mattered very little to her what the letter in her boot contained. She was going to go to Nebraska, for Mrs. Channing’s disdainful speech had made plain what Elsa supposed she had known for a long time: There was nothing for her here.
She had come off the boat as a girl and lived in one cluttered room with her Tante , helping with the sewing Gretchen took in and washing dishes in the rooming house kitchen for their board, until the homesick woman died in her sleep. The landlady found Elsa hiding under the bed when they came to take the body out. She gripped the girl’s shoulder, stood her up and brushed the dust out of her hair, and said, “You’ll go to work for Mrs. Channing.”
Elsa was sixteen. Since then she had washed every article of clothing that the wealthy woman wore against her bare skin, and yet Mrs. Channing had not once called Elsa by name. For twenty-nine years, Elsa’s stunted life had played out in the basement of this mansion, and it had hardly occurred to her to feel something as presuming as dissatisfaction. This was the only life she had ever known; what other life could there be?
But something was changing in Elsa. Her age had begun to make her impatient. The previous winter she had contracted a fever that didn’t subside for a week, and though she finally did recover, she realized that she might not have so many years left. She didn’t care to spend them here. Mrs. Channing’s warning to the workers made Elsa feel something so unfamiliar it took her a moment to name it. Anger. The wealthy woman’s withered fingers were reaching just a little too far into the private sphere of Elsa’s imaginings of what her life could be. And Elsa saw now that she simply wouldn’t allow Mrs. Channing to do it.
Later, when the day’s work was done, Elsa closed the door of her chamber and moved quickly in her bedtime preparations: pulling on the wool slippers, smoothing the blanket on her lap, lighting the nub of candle on the bedside table. Finally, finally, she opened the letter, bracing herself for anything, repeating her
Elsa shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the stiff corner of the letter press into her ankle. She had only ever laid eyes on Mrs. Channing a handful of times, and each time she was struck by how little the matron resembled the women who worked for her. Even Mrs. Channing’s smooth, carefully pinned hair and alabaster skin seemed the characteristics of an entirely different species of woman, a woman who bore no marks of the world’s rubbing up against her: no calluses, no scars from childhood burns, no broken teeth or limp or deafness in one ear. The experience and significance of luxury was something Elsa had been able only to imagine, despite living right below it for the last twenty-nine years. When she saw Mrs. Channing, whose pristine tatted shawl hovered around her shoulders like spun sugar, whose collarbone was draped with three strings of garnets, Elsa felt as baffled by her as she might have felt seeing a zebra prance down Broadway. In truth, she felt only pity for the woman. Woe unto you that are rich, for ye have received your consolation.
“Heed my word, girls. I can’t stop any of you from pursuing this dangerous course. But you should know that, should you try and fail to find happiness in Nebraska, as you no doubt will, do not come back to the Channing residence looking for a position, for we shall not take you back. We have no use for your sort of women around here.”
Mrs. Channing was defensive now, though no one had challenged her right to speak her mind on matters of the management of her own home. She stomped out of the room in a huff and up the stairs.
So that would be it , then , Elsa thought. It may already be, if any of these girls start whispering about who was at Miss Bixby’s meeting. It suddenly mattered very little to her what the letter in her boot contained. She was going to go to Nebraska, for Mrs. Channing’s disdainful speech had made plain what Elsa supposed she had known for a long time: There was nothing for her here.
She had come off the boat as a girl and lived in one cluttered room with her Tante , helping with the sewing Gretchen took in and washing dishes in the rooming house kitchen for their board, until the homesick woman died in her sleep. The landlady found Elsa hiding under the bed when they came to take the body out. She gripped the girl’s shoulder, stood her up and brushed the dust out of her hair, and said, “You’ll go to work for Mrs. Channing.”
Elsa was sixteen. Since then she had washed every article of clothing that the wealthy woman wore against her bare skin, and yet Mrs. Channing had not once called Elsa by name. For twenty-nine years, Elsa’s stunted life had played out in the basement of this mansion, and it had hardly occurred to her to feel something as presuming as dissatisfaction. This was the only life she had ever known; what other life could there be?
But something was changing in Elsa. Her age had begun to make her impatient. The previous winter she had contracted a fever that didn’t subside for a week, and though she finally did recover, she realized that she might not have so many years left. She didn’t care to spend them here. Mrs. Channing’s warning to the workers made Elsa feel something so unfamiliar it took her a moment to name it. Anger. The wealthy woman’s withered fingers were reaching just a little too far into the private sphere of Elsa’s imaginings of what her life could be. And Elsa saw now that she simply wouldn’t allow Mrs. Channing to do it.
Later, when the day’s work was done, Elsa closed the door of her chamber and moved quickly in her bedtime preparations: pulling on the wool slippers, smoothing the blanket on her lap, lighting the nub of candle on the bedside table. Finally, finally, she opened the letter, bracing herself for anything, repeating her
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