Emma Field Book I - coming of age in the changing times of the mid-19th century

Chapter XXXIII - Edmund Franklin

The man who opened the door had eyes like a pig about to be fed its morning meal. His white eyelashes blinked as his gaze darted from Emma's eyes to her waist, then to his pot-belly pushing hard against the lower buttons of his vest.

"Miss Field!" he squealed, glancing over his shoulder. "Miss Field, do come in, do come in. Children. Now children!" Three children crowded around the door. "Back up so that Miss Field may come in and I may shut the door. Children!"

Emma stepped inside. "Miss Field, these are my children. This is Dorcas, and that is Henry, hiding behind her. Fennamore, this is Fennamore," he said, pulling another boy by the ear. "And Daniel – that's Daniel over there on the floor. Say hello to Miss Field, children." Fennamore howled and tried to kick Daniel. Dorcas pushed Henry against the stairs. Mr. Franklin's face blazed but he giggled nervously.

"You will have to excuse them, Miss Field. Their mother's death was a terrible loss...Fennamore, stop that this instant! Now children! I will show you to your room, Miss Field."

Edmund Franklin was puffing by the time he had reached the fourth narrow step leading to the attic.

"Well, here we are." He took a deep breath. "It is a little warm up here in the summer...but we can open those windows. Yes, I believe...we can open those windows. My..." He inhaled deeply. A crazy quilt lay haphazardly on the narrow bed in the corner. He followed Emma's gaze. "Oh my...how the last girl didn't...keep things tidy. Terribly disorderly, terribly."

Still puffing, the man busied himself, straightening the quilt and tucking one end under the pillow. The bottom of the quilt still touched the floor. He turned to the washstand behind Emma. "Daniel, fetch that water pitcher. Miss Field will need some water to clean herself before dinner." He swung open the door of the washstand, eyed the porcelain basin, then snatched a ragged piece of grey towelling from the rack and wiped the bowl.

Adjusting his glasses on his red nose, he continued issuing orders. "Dorcas, get a fresh towel for Miss Field." Another deep breath. "My, it is good to have you here, Miss Field. I can only hope that you are able to establish order once again. Leave Miss Field be, children. Mrs. Anderson will have dinner on the table in..." he pulled a pocket watch from his coat "...in seven minutes. In the dining room. To the..." he paused, frowning, "to the right of where you came in the front door."

"Thank you, sir." Emma curtsied, uncertain about what to say, or do, fearful of what might be expected of her in something as fancy as a dining room. The children tumbled down the stairs, one thumping hard against the door.

"Daniel pushed me! Fa-ther!"

"Stand up this instant!" The door at the bottom of the stairs slammed shut.

Hot tears welled up in Emma's eyes. She flopped down on the bed, the straw crackling beneath her. She had only been here a few minutes but already she hated everything about the place. Then the door at the foot of the stairs creaked open again. Slow, heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. Emma jumped up from the bed, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"Thank you, Daniel," she said quietly as the boy deposited the pitcher on the wooden washstand. Water sloshed over the rim.

"Hmm," he mumbled before pounding down the stairs again.

Emma pulled her sleeve to her knuckles, wiped the basin and blew the remaining dirt to the floor. She poured two inches of the cold water into the bowl and splashed it over her face. Taking a deep breath, she glanced nervously toward the closed door at the bottom of the stairs then threw back the quilt to wipe her face and hands on the rough cotton sheets. She tucked the stray hairs into the bun at the base of her neck, pulled herself up straight, pressed down her skirts with her clammy hands, breathed deeply, and descended to the dining room.