Jane Was Here (20 page)

For truly we live in a little monarchy here and Mr. Philip Graynier is our King. He is owner of the glass factory, and without him there would be no town. Nearly everyone is in some fashion employed by him, even our father who is superintendent of Graynier Glass.

We hope you will not hasten from our village in spite of such rude reception. There are some here who are not as small-minded as others and who hunger for lively discourse. In our own household we were raised in the Unitarian church, which teaches tolerance and respect toward new spiritual ideas, as all paths must lead finally to God our Maker. Thus we would be honored to receive you for dinner in our home, if you would be so inclined, in this way to continue without harassment our learning about Gabriel Nation and your fascinating mission.

Please send your response by the same hand that has presented this letter to you, that of our hired girl Letty, a hand which can in addition make an excellent mutton stew!

Very respectfully yours,
Miss Rebecca Pettigrew
Miss Jane Pettigrew

Dear Mr. Trane,

Please accept our deepest apologies. We are unable, after all, to have you to dinner tonight. We regret your inconvenience. We hope you enjoy a safe passage tomorrow to your next destination.

Respectfully,
Miss Rebecca Pettigrew
Miss Jane Pettigrew

Dear Mr. Trane,

Forgive me for slipping this letter inside the foregoing note (neither Papa nor Rebecca know I have done so, dear Letty being my fortunate ally) but I could not bear your thinking that I or my older sister are capable of such cold and discourteous conduct. Indeed our father forced us to write the note. In our fervor to have the honor of your company we sent you the invitation without consulting the head of our small household, never dreaming that Papa would not share our enthusiasm, since he expressed his approval for your lecture and intended enjoying the second before it was cancelled. Alas, in the intervening time, he has paid far too serious attention to vague and dubious rumors that concern Gabriel Nation and your leader Mr. Artzuni. In short, Papa decided that further association with your ideas would be insalubrious to his womenfolk and, thus mortified, we were instructed to withdraw our gesture of friendship.

Forgive me again for addressing you in such a confiding manner when we have never met. You may think me bold, and I have been called so (as well as “impetuous,” “headstrong,” even “intractable”) but I am proud of my epithets, since they merely signal that I am a young woman of independent mind, and as such I may state frankly that you have been unfairly abused in Graynier and I greatly regret our losing you to other, more forward-thinking towns, where your message shall surely fall on more deserving ears. May the Lord bless your journey and grant you success.

Most respectfully yours,
Jane Pettigrew

Dear Mr. Trane,

Letty carried the news to us this morning of your distressing accident. (I rely upon her discretion as always to deliver this note to you in private.) It grieves me inexpressibly to hear of your injuries. It would have been more judicious to shoot Mr. Trumbull’s dog than your poor horse. Many have complained to the old gentleman of the dog’s unruly temper, asking him to secure the animal, and several times it has rushed at our own chaise and frightened our horse Betsy. Dear Mr. Trane, you must wish you had never laid eyes on Graynier for all the trouble it has brought you, and now I am told that you are forced to remain until your shoulder and leg have healed.

However, it is entirely your good fortune that Widow Seely has offered to shelter you during your convalescence, for no truer Christian nor sympathetic spirit is to be found in our town. You shall have everything you need, and more. She has long been an especial friend to me, indeed since my infancy. My mother died of the canker rash not long after my birth. Rebecca was sick with it, too, and if Mrs. Seely had not come to my father’s rescue, caring for both invalid and newborn while he mourned my mother’s passing, then I doubt you would now be reading this letter, for all the family Pettigrew would surely be in cold ground were it not for her ministrations. If your Mr. Artzuni preaches that we mortals may aspire to the station of angels, then he would certainly recognize in the good widow those angelic qualities which ensure her place in Heaven.

Thus I hope you will not be too lonely, for even if your sole companion for the next months is to be an elderly woman, yet she is the finest company, devout and very well spoken, and moreover you shall find an extensive library at your disposal. I have often borrowed some volumes from her, as books are hard to come by in Graynier, and sometimes Rebecca and I linger to read in her parlor those particular authors who are not permitted in our house. Our father does not object to young women’s education but will not sponsor our entertainment!

Please believe in my sincerest condolences and wishes for a swift recovery.

Your unmet friend,
Jane Pettigrew

Dear Mr. Trane,

How kind you are to send such a prompt response with Letty, and how fortunate I am that the accident did not injure your writing arm! (I do not mean to make light of your ill adventure; indeed I am very sorry for your discomfort.) I shall now repay your favor by attempting to dispel the lassitude which you report has invaded your spirits. You are hereby enjoined to follow my prescription, sir.

Wake early tomorrow and ask Widow Seely to seat you on the green velvet divan in the front parlor, near the window which affords a view of Graynier Avenue. Once advantageously positioned, you shall glimpse the flow of characters who comprise Graynier, in their natural order of appearance.

The first face to cleave the morning air is Captain Stallings, now north of ninety years on this earth (though only ten of these in Graynier – he came to live with his grandson who owns the dry-goods store). The old captain still takes pains to powder his hair, as you shall see from the white flurry on the shoulders of his greatcoat; and although his step is faltering and his future frail, he patrols Graynier Avenue, stem to stern, back and forth, from daybreak until his noonday dinner. If you should call a greeting to him, he will not answer, for he is deaf as a haddock (so Letty likes to say).

Now resume stirring your tea. By the time you look up, Sarah Jessup will be hurrying past with her basket of eggs and fresh butter to sell to the grocer. They will grace the larders of many in town, but not the Pettigrews, for we have our own chickens, and a cow, Emerald, who occupies a small shelter Papa built in the back. As a child, when my ceaseless chatter had driven all in the house to distraction, I went outside to sit on the milking stool and continue my prating, often giving her lessons from my McGuffey Reader. Thus Emerald learned her grammar and subtractions at nearly the same time I did. And when one day I was pronounced “precocious” (with disparagement), then I ran to tell her that she must be “prekishes” too. We both bear our scholarship with pride!

Only last month, dear Emerald produced no milk, and Papa began to talk of relieving her from earthly toil, until we discovered that someone was creeping into our yard before dawn and squeezing his own refreshment. Papa stayed up all night to apprehend the thief. It was a poor miserable Irish fellow from the shanty village, which you may have noted when you rode into Graynier. It is heartrending to contemplate how these people live. They came for the ready work at Graynier Glass, but the wages Mr. Graynier pays them are not enough to afford them even the meagerest improvements. Papa, who is the factory’s head gaffer, has tried to persuade Mr. Graynier that healthy well-paid workers would increase his own prosperity, but His Majesty is unmoved.

Still, they stay on in their sorry matchstick dwellings. No one knows how many children are there, since so many die. Our thief needed Emerald’s milk for his newborn baby, whose mother had passed away for lack of a doctor. Rebecca and I have been so upset by this that Papa now allows us to visit the shanties (in the company of one of the Ladies’ Benevolent Society) to bring them food and clothes, the overflow of our God-given abundance, His name be praised.

But you must not listen to my digressions, or you will miss the next player to cross the stage: following Sarah Jessup with her egg basket comes a swarthy man with pendulous mustaches, Signor Iacovucci by name, who is the gravestone carver. He hastens to meeting, arriving at morning services before Reverend Duckworth has even opened the church doors. He greets each and every arrival with an elegant bow and warm smile, for he knows they shall all need him one day, and how much less anxiety they shall feel when they entrust their loved ones’ epitaph to someone who seems almost a friend. They need not worry: truly Signor Iacovucci is an artist, creating from hard stone such soft images as drooping roses and weeping willows and hearts entwined. Papa had him inset a beautiful cameo of my mother for a new gravestone last year, crowned with a Bible verse. (I had chosen a lovely verse from “The Lament of Tasso” but my father would not hear of it, believing Lord Byron to be a reprobate. I vow only to marry a man who cherishes my beloved Byron as I do! Do have Mrs. Seeley lend you “The Bride of Abydos” if you have not read it.)

Not long after Signor Iacovucci disappears, you will see his countryman Signor Bruno stride by. He was the best cutter at Graynier Glass, having brought his skills all the way from Florence, but when he fell ill with quinsy, Mr. Graynier dismissed him. Now he carries a hand organ on his shoulder, and he will set himself outside the general store, where come the children who have been promised candy in return for sitting quietly in the church. He knows all manner of tunes to set them dancing, and whatever coins have not been squandered on sweets will find their way into his rumpled hat.