then, Dora peeled the skin from the first onion.
“Nice’n fine, now,” Mrs. Movery said.
With the very first slice, Dora’s eyes smarted and watered. And tears flowed.
As did her prayers for Mrs. Gleason. In many ways the woman was the only mother Dora knew—certainly the only mother figure she’d had since she was a girl. Dora hoped God would listen to her request— though He certainly had reason not to. Lately she’d grown lax in her prayers. She knew God hadn’t moved away; she’d done the moving. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t experienced moments of heartfelt prayer. When her sister was born sickly, she’d prayed for her health.
The baby died a week later.
Two other siblings died young… . Dora barely remembered them, as if they’d been visitors, come and gone away.
When her father died after a cart of ice fell on him, she’d prayed that she and her mother would make their way without him.
Dora had been forced to go into service at age thirteen—starting out at the Gleasons’ as a housemaid, spending endless hours polishing the silver and dusting. Her mother had gone to Canterbury when the family she’d been serving moved there. Dora hadn’t seen her mother since; letters had sufficed.
Which was why Dora thought of Mrs. Gleason in a maternal fashion. She cared for the woman and often found more to like in her than Lottie did.
Perhaps that’s the way it was with mothers and daughters—a delicate balance between love and hate that was as precarious as carrying an overfull cup of tea up an entire set of stairs. Dora hoped Mrs. Gleason’s current bout with illness would bring mother and daughter closer. Usually good came from bad—if you looked for it.
Suddenly the door leading upstairs burst open and Lottie rushed in. “Dora! There you are.”
Dora’s heart sped to her toes. “Is your mother—?”
“No, no. She’s better. Just come with me.” But instead of leading Dora back upstairs, Lottie pulled her out the kitchen door, around the side of the house, and back toward the gardens.
“Lottie! Let go! You’re going to make me fall.”
Lottie let go of her hand, which enabled both of them to fully lift their skirts to move faster. “Come on!”
The girls ran into the formal gardens behind the house, weaving their way through the maze of pruned hedges, which were looking a bit ragged from lack of care. Lottie was first through a rose-covered arbor leading to a circle of benches.
“Sit!” she commanded.
“Gladly.” Dora fell upon a bench. “Why the rush? What happened? Is your mother fully recovered? You seem so happy.”
“I am happy beyond measure. And what’s happened? The world has changed in our favor.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lottie finally planted herself in front of Dora’s bench. “Mother can’t go to America with me.”
“I’m not surprised. Does that mean you’re staying?” That would be ideal.
“Not at all. I’m going without her.”
“You’re going alone? Your parents, who will not even let you take a walk in the village alone, will let you cross an ocean?”
She shook her head. “I will have a companion.”
Dora’s heart flipped and she began an inner argument, a defense against the new hope that had been suddenly born… . “And who would that be?”
“You!” Lottie pulled Dora to standing and spun her around in a circle. “We’re going to America!”
“On a ship?”
Lottie stopped their circle and laughed. “Yes, on a ship. How else would we get there? Fly?”
Silly her.
But Lottie wasn’t through. “Yet that’s only half the news. Are you ready?”
More than ready. “Quit being so dramatic. Just tell me.”
“You are not traveling as my maid but … as my companion. You will use the other first-class ticket and we will share accommodations like bosom friends!”
Dora sought the solidity of the bench. It was incomprehensible. “Your parents suggested this?”
“It was Mother’s doing. She knows how
“Nice’n fine, now,” Mrs. Movery said.
With the very first slice, Dora’s eyes smarted and watered. And tears flowed.
As did her prayers for Mrs. Gleason. In many ways the woman was the only mother Dora knew—certainly the only mother figure she’d had since she was a girl. Dora hoped God would listen to her request— though He certainly had reason not to. Lately she’d grown lax in her prayers. She knew God hadn’t moved away; she’d done the moving. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t experienced moments of heartfelt prayer. When her sister was born sickly, she’d prayed for her health.
The baby died a week later.
Two other siblings died young… . Dora barely remembered them, as if they’d been visitors, come and gone away.
When her father died after a cart of ice fell on him, she’d prayed that she and her mother would make their way without him.
Dora had been forced to go into service at age thirteen—starting out at the Gleasons’ as a housemaid, spending endless hours polishing the silver and dusting. Her mother had gone to Canterbury when the family she’d been serving moved there. Dora hadn’t seen her mother since; letters had sufficed.
Which was why Dora thought of Mrs. Gleason in a maternal fashion. She cared for the woman and often found more to like in her than Lottie did.
Perhaps that’s the way it was with mothers and daughters—a delicate balance between love and hate that was as precarious as carrying an overfull cup of tea up an entire set of stairs. Dora hoped Mrs. Gleason’s current bout with illness would bring mother and daughter closer. Usually good came from bad—if you looked for it.
Suddenly the door leading upstairs burst open and Lottie rushed in. “Dora! There you are.”
Dora’s heart sped to her toes. “Is your mother—?”
“No, no. She’s better. Just come with me.” But instead of leading Dora back upstairs, Lottie pulled her out the kitchen door, around the side of the house, and back toward the gardens.
“Lottie! Let go! You’re going to make me fall.”
Lottie let go of her hand, which enabled both of them to fully lift their skirts to move faster. “Come on!”
The girls ran into the formal gardens behind the house, weaving their way through the maze of pruned hedges, which were looking a bit ragged from lack of care. Lottie was first through a rose-covered arbor leading to a circle of benches.
“Sit!” she commanded.
“Gladly.” Dora fell upon a bench. “Why the rush? What happened? Is your mother fully recovered? You seem so happy.”
“I am happy beyond measure. And what’s happened? The world has changed in our favor.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lottie finally planted herself in front of Dora’s bench. “Mother can’t go to America with me.”
“I’m not surprised. Does that mean you’re staying?” That would be ideal.
“Not at all. I’m going without her.”
“You’re going alone? Your parents, who will not even let you take a walk in the village alone, will let you cross an ocean?”
She shook her head. “I will have a companion.”
Dora’s heart flipped and she began an inner argument, a defense against the new hope that had been suddenly born… . “And who would that be?”
“You!” Lottie pulled Dora to standing and spun her around in a circle. “We’re going to America!”
“On a ship?”
Lottie stopped their circle and laughed. “Yes, on a ship. How else would we get there? Fly?”
Silly her.
But Lottie wasn’t through. “Yet that’s only half the news. Are you ready?”
More than ready. “Quit being so dramatic. Just tell me.”
“You are not traveling as my maid but … as my companion. You will use the other first-class ticket and we will share accommodations like bosom friends!”
Dora sought the solidity of the bench. It was incomprehensible. “Your parents suggested this?”
“It was Mother’s doing. She knows how
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