The Room Beside Hers

The rain had stopped perhaps twenty minutes before Lenora Ashford’s carriage reached the eastern boundary of Rosemere, although the road still shone black beneath the dying light, its wheel ruts filled with copper-colored reflections of the sunset, and Lenora, who had spent three tedious days in Charleston listening to bankers explain matters she understood considerably better than they did, had already closed her eyes and begun imagining the bath waiting upstairs when the carriage lurched sharply to the left. She opened them at once. “Thomas?” The driver pulled hard on the reins. “Something in the road, ma’am.” “Something?” “A person, I think.” Lenora was already reaching for the door. “Madam,” Thomas called down, “the road is mud from one side to the other.” “I possess other shoes.” She stepped down before he could argue further. Thomas, a broad-shouldered white man who had driven the Ashford carriages for nearly fifteen years, climbed from his seat and raised the lantern, and in its yellow light they saw the woman lying half in the ditch. She was white, perhaps not yet thirty, although hunger had sharpened her face enough to make age difficult to guess, and the remains of a pale dress clung to her body in wet, torn folds, one sleeve almost entirely gone, her bare feet black with mud, her hair tangled across her face. Lenora knelt. “Miss?” Nothing. She touched two fingers beneath the woman’s jaw. There was a pulse. Weak, but there. “Thomas.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Get the blankets.” He hesitated. “Should we send for the constable?” Lenora looked up at him. “To do what?” “Well…” “To admire her before she dies?” Thomas lowered his eyes. “No, ma’am.” “Blankets.” “Yes, ma’am.” The woman stirred when Lenora lifted her head. Her eyelids fluttered. “No,” she whispered. Lenora leaned closer. “No what?” “Don’t…take me back.” “To whom?” The woman’s eyes opened just enough to find Lenora’s face, and for one strange second she seemed utterly confused by what she saw. “A lady,” she murmured. “I have been accused of it.” The woman tried to move. Pain crossed her expression. “Please.” “You are safe.” “No one is safe.” Lenora looked at the bruises along her arms, then at the raw skin around one ankle where something had rubbed against it for many days. Her voice changed. “You are now.” The woman did not remember arriving at Rosemere. She remembered warmth. She remembered a spoon touching her lips and a voice saying, “Only a little.” She remembered waking once and seeing white women in servants’ uniforms moving quietly around the room while a Black physician stood at the foot of the bed speaking to Lenora in a low voice. She remembered Lenora saying, “No, Doctor, I do not care what it costs.” Then sleep swallowed her again. When she finally woke properly, morning sunlight filled a room larger than any place she had slept in since childhood, and Lenora sat near the window reading correspondence. The woman stared at her. Lenora looked up. “Good morning.” The woman immediately tried to sit. “Don’t.” “I have to go.” “No.” “I cannot stay here.” “You can barely sit upright.” “I can work.” “I did not ask you to.” “I can clean. I can cook some. I can mend.” Lenora closed the letter in her hand. “What is your name?” The woman hesitated. “Emmeline.” “Emmeline what?” “Shaw.” “Very well, Miss Shaw. I am Lenora Ashford.” “I know.” That surprised her. “You do?” “Everybody knows Rosemere.” There was no admiration in the words. Lenora noticed. “And what does everybody say about Rosemere?” “That you own three thousand acres.” “Twenty-seven hundred.” “That you own the mill.” “Half of it.” “That your husband died and left you richer than any man who keeps calling upon you.” Lenora smiled slightly. “That part is largely true.” Emmeline lowered her eyes. “And that you don’t need anybody.” Lenora studied her for several seconds. “That part,” she said, “is largely nonsense.” A maid entered carrying tea. She was a thin white woman in her forties named Martha, and she stopped when she noticed Emmeline awake. “Mrs. Ashford, shall I—” “Set it here, please.” Martha obeyed, although her eyes traveled quickly over Emmeline. Emmeline saw it. So did Lenora. After Martha had gone, Emmeline whispered, “She doesn’t want me here.” “Martha dislikes unexpected things.” “I am an unexpected thing.” “Extremely.” For the first time, Emmeline almost smiled. Lenora poured tea. “Drink.” “I cannot pay you.” “I did not send an invoice.” “You don’t understand.” “I understand perfectly. You believe every kindness produces a debt.” Emmeline looked at her. “Usually it does.” Lenora handed her the cup. “Then consider this your first experience with a badly managed account.” For nearly two weeks Emmeline answered every question with as little truth as possible. Lenora did not press. She learned instead that Emmeline hated milk, loved strong tea, could read better than most clerks Lenora employed, knew enough arithmetic to catch an error in a household account, and became frightened whenever a man raised his voice anywhere within hearing distance. By the third week she could walk through the library without support. One evening Lenora found her standing before the fire. “You should be resting.” “I have done nothing but rest.” “You nearly died.” “That was weeks ago.” “Three.” “Exactly.” Lenora sat. Emmeline remained standing. “Sit down.” “I prefer standing.” “That is unfortunate. I prefer not craning my neck.” Emmeline gave her a look, then sat opposite her. For several minutes neither spoke. Finally Emmeline said, “My father died when I was seventeen.” Lenora said nothing. “My mother had already been dead four years. He had debts. More than I knew. The farm went first.” She twisted her hands together. “Then everything else.” Lenora waited. “There are labor houses outside Richmond,” Emmeline continued, “where white girls without family can sign contracts for factory work.” “I know them.” “I signed for one year.” Lenora’s mouth tightened. “They changed the contract?” Emmeline looked up sharply. “You know?” “I know how certain men conduct business.” “Three years. They said the first paper had only been preliminary.” “And you could not read the replacement?” “I could read it. They simply did not let me keep it long enough.” Her voice became flatter as she continued. “I worked twelve hours a day. Sometimes fourteen. When the factory closed, the owner sold our contracts to a tobacco warehouse.” Lenora’s expression hardened. “Employment contracts cannot legally be sold.” Emmeline laughed once. “No. They are transferred.” “Convenient language.” “Very.” “And after that?” Emmeline looked toward the fire. “There was a man named Pike.” Lenora waited again. “He managed the warehouse. He decided I was troublesome because I complained when they docked our wages for food we never received.” “What did he do?” “He extended the contract.” “On what grounds?” “He invented some.” Lenora’s hands had become very still. “How long?” “Five more years.” “Good God.” “I left.” “You escaped.” “I left.” Lenora understood the distinction. “How long were you walking?” “Eight days.” “And the marks on your ankle?” Emmeline’s face went pale. Lenora did not ask again. After a long silence, Emmeline said, “There were others who couldn’t leave.” “I know.” “You cannot fix everything.” “No.” “You look as though you intend to.” “I intend,” Lenora replied quietly, “to make Mr. Pike regret having a name.” Emmeline stared at her. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was the first real laugh Lenora had heard from her. “You cannot ruin a man because he mistreated one insignificant white laborer.” Lenora leaned forward. “Miss Shaw, I can ruin a man because I dislike the shape of his hat.” Emmeline laughed harder. Lenora smiled. “And you are not insignificant.” The laughter stopped. Something changed between them then, something neither woman named. By autumn Emmeline was entirely recovered. That presented a problem. She found Lenora in the morning room one Tuesday and stood in front of the desk until Lenora finally looked up. “What?” “I need work.” Lenora returned to her papers. “No.” “Mrs. Ashford.” “No.” “I cannot live here indefinitely.” “You appear to be managing it admirably.” “I mean it.” “So do I.” Emmeline folded her arms. “Then I shall leave.” Lenora’s pen stopped. She looked up slowly. “Where?” “I don’t know.” “Excellent plan.” “It is still my life.” “Yes.” The answer surprised Emmeline. Lenora put down her pen. “And because it is your life, I will not stop you. But if what you actually want is employment, say so.” “I want employment.” “What kind?” “Anything.” “No.” “You just told me—” “I said employment. Not servitude disguised as gratitude.” Emmeline stared. Lenora leaned back. “You can read, write, keep accounts, sew, organize a room, remember everything anybody says, and frighten Martha by reorganizing cupboards she has controlled since the Grant administration.” “I apologized.” “Martha has not.” Emmeline bit back a smile. Lenora continued. “My personal attendant left last month to marry a carpenter in Savannah.” “I heard.” “I need another.” Emmeline blinked. “You mean…me?” “If you want it.” “As your maid?” “My attendant.” “That is a maid.” “It pays considerably better.” “How much?” Lenora told her. Emmeline stared. “That is absurd.” “It is my money.” “For doing what?” “Helping me dress. Managing my private rooms. Accompanying me when necessary. Keeping appointments. Handling correspondence when I dictate. Preventing people I dislike from reaching me.” “I would be excellent at that.” “I suspect you would.” Emmeline’s expression changed. “What are the terms?” “One-year contract, terminable by you at any time. Wages paid monthly. Your room and meals are included. You keep every penny you earn.” “And if I leave?” “You leave.” “No penalty?” “None.” “No debt?” “None.” “No repayment for the doctor?” “No.” “For the clothes?” “No.” “For anything?” Lenora’s eyes softened. “Emmeline.” “Yes?” “You owe me nothing.” Emmeline looked away. “That may take some getting used to.” “You have time.” She accepted the position that afternoon. Within a month it became difficult for either woman to remember how Lenora had managed without her. Rosemere employed almost sixty people during the busiest seasons, most of them white laborers, stable hands, gardeners, kitchen workers, maids, laundresses, field workers and mechanics, and gossip traveled among them considerably faster than any horse owned by the estate. At first they whispered because Emmeline had arrived from nowhere. Then they whispered because Lenora trusted her. Then they whispered because Emmeline entered rooms other servants did not. And eventually they whispered because Lenora Ashford, one of the wealthiest widows in the state, continued refusing every eligible Black gentleman who crossed Rosemere’s threshold. Mr. Henry Calhoun lasted three dinners. Mr. Samuel Dupré lasted two. Judge Harrison Bell lasted forty minutes. Emmeline was serving tea on the veranda when Bell made his proposal. “Lenora,” he said, “we are not children.” “No,” Lenora replied. “You are thirty-eight.” “I was aware.” “You need companionship.” “I have companionship.” Bell glanced around. “Servants do not count.” Emmeline’s hand froze over the tea tray. Lenora noticed. Her voice cooled. “Then perhaps you should leave before mine throw you out.” Bell laughed. “You cannot be serious.” “I am rarely more serious.” He stood. “You will regret growing old alone.” Lenora took her tea. “I suspect I would regret growing old with you considerably more.” After he left, Emmeline carried the tray inside. Lenora followed. “You are angry.” “No.” “You are carrying that tray as though you intend to murder someone with it.” “I am considering the possibilities.” Lenora laughed. Emmeline set it down too hard. “He spoke to you as though you were a piece of property.” “Men often do.” “And he spoke about me as though I were furniture.” “Men frequently do that as well.” “Why do you tolerate them?” “I don’t.” “You invite them here.” “Society invites them here. I simply provide chairs.” Emmeline turned toward her. “Why do you reject all of them?” Lenora became very still. Emmeline immediately regretted the question. “I’m sorry.” “No.” “That was not my place.” “What is your place?” Emmeline looked confused. “Here.” “No. You said something was not your place. I am asking where your place is.” Emmeline stared at her. “Beside you, apparently.” The words came out before she could stop them. Lenora’s expression changed. Emmeline flushed. “I meant professionally.” “Of course.” Silence. Then Emmeline said, “You didn’t answer.” Lenora stepped closer. “Perhaps I haven’t met anyone I wanted.” “Not one?” “Not one man.” Emmeline looked at her. Lenora held her gaze. Understanding moved slowly between them. “Oh,” Emmeline whispered. Lenora turned away. “That will be all for tonight.” Emmeline remained where she was. “Lenora.” It was the first time she had used her given name. Lenora closed her eyes. “Please,” she said. Emmeline left. For four days they behaved impeccably. It was unbearable. “Your correspondence.” “Thank you.” “Your blue dress has been pressed.” “Thank you.” “The carriage is ordered for two.” “Thank you.” “Would you like anything else?” “No.” “Very well.” On the fifth day Lenora nearly shouted. “Stop saying ‘very well.’” Emmeline turned from the wardrobe. “What would you prefer?” “Anything.” “Anything?” “Yes.” “You have been impossible all week.” Lenora stared at her. “That will do.” “And you are avoiding me.” “I am attempting not to take advantage of you.” Emmeline stopped. “What?” Lenora stood. “You work for me.” “Yes.” “You live under my roof.” “Yes.” “You came here with nothing.” “Yes.” “And if I misunderstand what happened the other evening, then anything I say to you carries weight it should not.” Emmeline watched her. “So you have been waiting for me to say something.” “Yes.” “For five days?” “Yes.” “You ridiculous woman.” Lenora blinked. Emmeline walked out. “Emmeline?” The door shut behind her. Lenora stood alone in the room. “Excellent,” she muttered. “Very dignified.” That night she dismissed the servants early, read the same page of a novel nine times, poured herself brandy she did not drink, and finally went upstairs shortly before eleven. At half past eleven someone knocked on her bedroom door. Lenora did not move. Another knock. She crossed the room. When she opened the door, Emmeline stood there in a simple white nightdress and robe, her hair loose over her shoulders. Neither woman spoke. Finally Lenora said, “You should not be here.” “I know.” “You work for me.” “I know.” “You can walk away from this door.” “I know.” “You can leave Rosemere tomorrow if you wish.” “I know.” “You can refuse anything I ever ask of you.” “I know.” Lenora’s voice became almost a whisper. “Then why are you here?” Emmeline swallowed. “Because I have spent five days waiting for you to ask me.” “I wasn’t going to.” “I know that too.” Lenora looked at her for a very long time. “You are certain?” Emmeline stepped closer. “No.” Lenora frowned. Emmeline smiled. “I am terrified.” “That is not the same thing.” “No.” “Do you want to come inside?” “Yes.” Lenora stepped aside. Emmeline crossed the threshold. Lenora closed the door. For several moments they simply stood facing one another. Then Emmeline laughed nervously. “I had imagined this differently.” “How?” “You were going to say something clever.” “I appear to have misplaced every word I know.” “That is reassuring.” “It should not be.” “It is.” Lenora reached up slowly and touched a strand of hair near Emmeline’s cheek. Emmeline closed her eyes. “You can still leave,” Lenora whispered. Emmeline opened them again. “Do you want me to?” “No.” “Then stop telling me where the door is.” Lenora smiled. And kissed her. It was not hurried. There had been too much waiting for that. Emmeline’s hands rested first against Lenora’s shoulders, uncertainly, almost formally, until Lenora drew her closer, and the second kiss contained none of the hesitation of the first. When they parted, Emmeline whispered, “You really were waiting.” “Every night.” “For how long?” Lenora gave her a look. “Longer than five days.” “How much longer?” “I refuse to answer.” Emmeline laughed. “Months?” Lenora said nothing. “Oh, dear God. Months.” “Be quiet.” “You wealthy, terrifying, impossible woman.” “Emmeline.” “Yes?” “Kiss me again.” So she did. And long after the lamps had been extinguished, they continued talking in the darkness, sometimes seriously, sometimes laughing into the pillows like girls much younger than either of them, until eventually there was nothing left to say. Emmeline stayed until morning. Sunlight woke them. Emmeline was curled against Lenora, one hand resting loosely over her waist. Neither moved. Finally Emmeline said, “We have made a terrible mistake.” Lenora’s eyes opened. Emmeline continued. “I should have knocked sooner.” Lenora burst out laughing. The sound startled a maid outside the door. They heard footsteps stop. Emmeline clapped a hand over her mouth. Lenora whispered, “Now we have a problem.” “The servants?” “The servants.” “They already gossip.” “They will now achieve religion.” Emmeline buried her face against Lenora’s shoulder. “What do we do?” Lenora considered. “There is a small chamber beside this room.” “The old dressing room?” “Yes.” “No one uses it.” “They will now.” Emmeline lifted her head. “You want me to move there?” “For appearances.” Her expression faltered slightly. Lenora touched her face. “I said appearances.” “Oh.” “You may sleep there whenever you wish.” “And when I do not wish?” Lenora smiled. “There is a door between the rooms.” Emmeline smiled back. “How practical.” “I am known for efficient household management.” By afternoon the chamber had been furnished. A narrow bed. A washstand. A wardrobe. A little writing desk. Martha looked at the arrangement with naked suspicion. “Mrs. Ashford,” she said, “Miss Shaw’s previous room was considerably larger.” “I know.” “And farther away.” “I know.” “And quieter.” “Martha.” “Yes, ma’am?” Lenora raised one eyebrow. Martha sighed. “I shall have her linens moved.” “Thank you.” As she walked away, Emmeline whispered, “She knows.” “She suspects.” “She knows.” “Then she may enjoy knowing silently.” But Martha was not the problem. Jealousy was. Some servants resented Emmeline because she was paid more. Others resented her because Lenora trusted her. Still others disliked the way Lenora spoke to her—not like a servant, but like an equal temporarily wearing an apron. One laundress muttered that Emmeline had found “a convenient road to fall on.” Emmeline heard about it. Lenora heard about it ten minutes later. “No,” Emmeline said firmly when Lenora summoned the housekeeper. “No?” “You are not dismissing anyone.” “She insulted you.” “So?” “She insulted you in my house.” “She is jealous.” “That does not excuse cruelty.” “No,” Emmeline said, “but if you dismiss everyone who dislikes me, we shall be washing our own sheets by Christmas.” Lenora looked at her. “You cannot possibly know how to wash sheets.” “I worked in a laundry for six months.” Lenora’s expression softened. “I forget sometimes.” “I know.” “What?” “That there was a life before this.” Lenora took her hand. “I wish there hadn’t been.” Emmeline shook her head. “No.” “No?” “If there hadn’t been, I would never have been on that road.” Lenora understood. “No,” she said quietly. “I suppose you wouldn’t.” Winter passed. Then spring. Society accepted the arrangement because society accepted almost anything if it could be given a respectable name. Emmeline Shaw was Mrs. Ashford’s personal attendant. She accompanied Lenora to dinners. She managed her correspondence. She traveled with her. Her small chamber remained beside Lenora’s bedroom. And every night, sometime after the household became quiet, one of the connecting doors opened. Sometimes Emmeline slept in Lenora’s bed. Sometimes Lenora slept in hers simply because the narrow mattress made Emmeline laugh every time Lenora complained about it. Sometimes they sat awake until two in the morning discussing books, politics, money, the mill, or whether Lenora’s cook deliberately overcooked asparagus because she disliked it. They quarreled, too. “You cannot buy every farm between here and Savannah.” “I can.” “That was not my point.” “Then choose a more accurate sentence.” “You are impossible.” “You have mentioned that.” “And you enjoy it.” “Very much.” They also learned how to touch without anyone noticing. A hand at the small of the back as they passed through a doorway. Fingers brushing beneath a table. A glance across a crowded room. The quiet intimacy of being known. One evening in May, they walked through the garden as the last workers finished for the day. A white stable hand led a horse toward the barn. Two gardeners carried tools toward the sheds. A maid crossed the rear veranda with folded linens. From the upper floor of Rosemere, two windows glowed beside one another—Lenora’s large bedroom and the little chamber everyone believed belonged solely to Emmeline. They reached the hedge beyond the view of the house. Lenora took Emmeline’s hand. “You are doing that in daylight.” “The sun has nearly set.” “Scandalous.” “I have become reckless.” Emmeline smiled. “Mrs. Ashford.” “Yes, Miss Shaw?” “Do you ever regret stopping the carriage?” Lenora looked at her as though the question were absurd. “Every day.” Emmeline stopped walking. Lenora continued solemnly. “You reorganized my library.” “You said it was badly arranged.” “You threw away six neck ribbons.” “They were hideous.” “You contradicted my accountant.” “He was wrong.” “You frightened Judge Bell.” “He deserved it.” “You occupy half my wardrobe.” “That is simply untrue.” “Three quarters.” “Lenora.” “And,” Lenora continued, stepping closer, “you steal the blankets.” Emmeline narrowed her eyes. “So you regret me.” “Completely.” “Then perhaps I should return to my little chamber tonight.” Lenora tightened her grip on her hand. “You wouldn’t dare.” “I might.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because that room is a fiction.” Emmeline’s teasing expression disappeared. Lenora looked toward the mansion. “That little bed, that little wardrobe, that ridiculous washstand—it exists for everyone else.” She looked back at Emmeline. “But you live with me.” Emmeline’s eyes filled unexpectedly. Lenora touched her cheek. “You understand?” “Yes.” “Say it.” “I live with you.” “No.” Emmeline smiled through the tears. “I live with the richest, most arrogant woman in three counties.” “Better.” “And she loves me.” Lenora became still. They had never said it aloud. Emmeline realized what she had done. “Oh.” Lenora stepped closer. “You cannot simply insert that into a sentence and continue walking.” “I suppose I just did.” “Emmeline.” “Yes?” Lenora’s voice softened. “She does.” Emmeline swallowed. “She does?” “Hopelessly.” Emmeline leaned her forehead against hers. “Good.” “Good?” “Because I love her too.” For a moment the world beyond the hedge did not matter. Not the servants. Not the gossip. Not the gentlemen who would continue appearing at Rosemere believing Lenora simply had not yet met the correct man. Not the laws and customs that placed one woman high in society and the other far beneath her. Those things still existed. They would exist tomorrow. But tonight the garden smelled of jasmine, the lamps of Rosemere had begun glowing against the violet sky, and the woman once found dying in the road stood holding the hand of the woman who had stopped for her. “Come inside,” Lenora whispered. “Which room?” Lenora smiled. “Ours.” And together they walked home.