Читать книгу America's First Female Serial Killer - Mary Kay McBrayer - Страница 12

CHAPTER 1

The faces of the indentured wards and their families stared up from the scrapbook at Mrs. Ann C. Toppan. All were in the fashion of early photographs, each young, expressionless face a shade of the one before it. She waited in the parlor office of the Boston Female Asylum on a blush velvet sofa. Though it was obviously inferior to her own, the décor impressed her, and the service of the ward who let her in—though much older and more beautiful than she had anticipated—overmatched her expectations as well. The girl reentered the parlor office with a tray of tea and cookies and placed it by the scrapbook on the coffee table. “Cream and sugar, madam?” the ward asked as she streamed tea into the cup. Mrs. Toppan noted the arc of the liquid, how not a drop was spared, how the girl lifted the pot with a strong wrist, from the shoulder, and she straightened her mouth when she replied, “No. Thank you.”

The ward bobbed a quick curtsy, asked if she could provide Mrs. Toppan with anything while she waited, and then exited with imperceptible footsteps to find the matron.

Mrs. Toppan studied the parlor while she waited, and studied the dress of the families in the photographs. They were always significantly more indulgent than that of their wards’ plain maid dress, and she decided that she was in good company among them when the thin-drawn countenance of the matron entered. Her dress was of low-quality gray cotton, unfashionably practical, but pressed and clean as a woman of her position would require. Mrs. Toppan, Matron Greene noticed, was far overdressed for the occasion, which in her experience meant overcompensation, that she needed to appear wealthier than she actually was.

“Mrs. Toppan, so lovely to have you in our residence. I hope you’ve found the service amenable. I’m Matron Greene, and I see you’ve met Fiona.” The women pinched their fingertips together.

“Yes, she’s much older than I thought she would be.” Mrs. Toppan was not in the habit of hedging her criticisms among her inferiors, especially not those meant to serve her.

“Fiona is one of our eldest wards. She has not been indentured, and she will be emancipated next month.” She crossed opposite the mahogany coffee table and perched rigid on the edge of a wingback chair. “Are you familiar with the Boston Female Asylum, Mrs. Toppan? May I tell you about our mission?” Mrs. Toppan nodded once for her to continue. “When Reverend and Mrs. Stillman founded our asylum in 1799, we were refuge only to those girls who had neither father nor mother, but since then, we have opened our doors to any suffering child—”

“Pardon, Mrs. Greene—”

“Matron Greene.”

Mrs. Toppan paused, taken aback, and waited for Matron Greene to sputter an apology which Mrs. Toppan would begrudgingly accept. When Matron Greene offered none, Mrs. Toppan continued, quite stern. “I was led to believe that all your wards were parentless. I do not care to deal with parents interfering with the way we run our home.”

Matron Greene turned up the corners of her mouth in a gesture meant to reassure, but the rest of her face did not change. Instead it looked as if someone had briefly smeared her portrait. “For your purposes, indeed the children are parentless. Each parent signs a form of surrender in which they relinquish all right and claim to their daughter. They promise with their signature that they will not interfere with the management of her in any respect whatsoever. It is in every way as if the parents do not exist.”

Mrs. Toppan laughed. “I didn’t know their parents could read. How could you be sure they understood what they are signing?”

Matron Greene’s face remained motionless for she was used to women like Mrs. Toppan, once of significant means and now unsettled in their class because of industry, widowhood, or some such thing that threatened their unseating. Matron Greene did not sympathize with such women. She guarded her girls against them: their insecurities made them cruel. She continued her explanation without flourish: “I assure you that we take very disciplined precautions to ensure that each parent understands the requirements of surrender. If they cannot write their own signature, we help them leave their mark.

“Each girl under our care at the Boston Female Asylum receives traditional education only as far as is necessary for her class. Most of their education is in the skills of homemaking; sewing, knitting, cooking, mending, laundering, all the necessary housekeeping skills. When each girl turns eleven, we do our best to place them into homes that will treat them kindly.” Mrs. Toppan blinked placidly. “In exchange for this kind treatment, room, and board, we promise you will receive a well-trained girl to keep your house for you. She will be contractually bound to you until she is eighteen years old, at which point you are to release her from her service and grant her fifty dollars on which to live while she finds other employment—”

“Fifty dollars?” Mrs. Toppan interrupted.

Matron Greene said nothing.

“That’s a significant sum.”

The Matron dipped her chin once. “After their seven years of service many girls decide to stay on, working for the family to which they are indentured even after they turn eighteen. At this point, it would be up to the ward to negotiate her wages, as she would then be an adult.”

“Do they not marry?”

“Some do. Many do not. Because they are of no stature, name, family, and engage in little social interaction, marriages are uncommon. They also feel indebted to the family who has given them so much opportunity, and the world outside of the home can be a terrifying place to a young girl of limited means. Most of our wards already know this, and they are not eager to return to it.”

Mrs. Toppan paused while Matron Greene stared at her. She let her gaze wander to Fiona while she schemed. “Matron Greene, may I be frank?”

“Certainly.”

“I have a daughter, Elizabeth, of sweet and fragile disposition. She’s at a tender age, very impressionable. I don’t want to bring a girl in the house to rival her. I need someone younger than she is. Someone who wouldn’t be old enough to be jealous. Someone who wouldn’t think of my daughter as her peer…do you have any younger girls with enough training to be placed already?”

Matron Greene blinked slowly. Because she could tell that Matron Greene soon would rise at the attempted exploitation and dismiss Mrs. Toppan, Fiona interrupted despite certain punishment. “Excuse me, madam,” Fiona said. “Pardon me. I may know of someone to fit Mrs. Toppan’s needs. Excuse me.”

Matron Greene’s narrow eyes flicked over to Fiona to silence her. Fiona’s shoulders jumped as if struck, and her hands wrung where they were clasped behind her back.

“You do?” Mrs. Toppan said, turning to Fiona. “Please. Go on.”

Fiona looked at the matron with apology. “Madam, her name is Nora Kelley—”

“She’s Irish?” Mrs. Toppan exclaimed.

“Madam, her parents only. She works better than the other girls. She likes when you tell her what a good job she’s done. She tells the most magical stories—”

“The ‘gift of gab.’”

Matron Greene interjected, “Honora is much younger than we place out.”

“How old is she?” Mrs. Toppan asked Fiona.

“Eight. Nearly nine, madam. But if anyone deserves the kind treatment of the Toppan house, it’s a sweet, hard worker like Nora. She would fit right in with the family. Everyone loves her. I’m sure Miss Elizabeth would, too.”

Mrs. Toppan turned to Matron Greene. “I’ll take Honora Kelley.”

“Do you have arrangements to house an indentured servant at this moment in your home?”

“Indeed I do. I would not have shown my face here if I was of limited means.”

“I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Toppan. Many of our patrons are merely unaware of the speed at which we prefer to place our wards. Fiona, gather Honora and her clothes.” She stood as Fiona exited and walked to the marble-top stand by the sofa on which Mrs. Toppan sat. From the drawer beneath the lamp she produced a starched document and went to the secretary desk in the back of the parlor. She saw Mrs. Toppan hesitate once when she saw that Peter Kelley was still living, and said sharply, “I wouldn’t worry about the living relatives. They won’t be coming for her. If they were to find her by the hand of God, she would not go back to them. We rescued the Kelleys from a truly miserable home.”

Mrs. Toppan signed, flowery, spindly, and illegibly.