Chapter Text
The candles burned lower on the tables as the night wore on, and Bertha struggled to keep her eyes open. She rubbed her eyes and focused on the small section of newspaper in front of her. She couldn’t study her schoolbooks anymore, she was too exhausted. She could at least browse the section of The New York Times that a patron had abandoned at his table about an hour ago. Bertha scooped it up, as she did any reading material left behind by guests in the dining room of the Inn.
Only a few more weeks of this schedule, she told herself, stifling a yawn.
Just a month or so left of teaching school and moonlighting at the Stagecoach Inn. Then the school session would be over for the summer, and she’d have her pay from the entire term in her hands. With the amount she’d earn over the summer working all hours at the restaurant in the Inn (along with a few mornings a week helping Mrs. Foster, the owner of the Inn, clean and tidy the rooms) she should have enough money saved to finally meet her goal of attending Cresthill College the following year.
She would be a different person, with a different life, by this time next year. She felt it in her bones.
“Bee, the table by the window is asking for more coffee,” said Jean, the cook, who had just run out to deliver sizzling-hot platters of steak and potatoes to a table full of men - managers of the railroad whose headquarters was two buildings over - as he brushed past her.
Jean had a thick French accent and pretended to be from France because it was more fashionable than being from French-speaking Canada, where his family actually originated.
“Thanks,” she said, reluctantly standing up and taking the coffee pot over to the table where a man and a woman sat finishing their meals.
They turned to her and smiled politely as she poured more coffee.
“Milk or sugar?” she asked them.
“Milk, please,” the woman answered primly.
After she finished taking care of the couple at the table by the window, she returned to the bar and continued reading. The bar was stocked by Henk, the man who ran the saloon on the lower level of the hotel, with bottles of wine, port, and sherry. It was quiet tonight, and they weren’t going through anything too quickly. Unlike some weekend nights, Bertha didn’t need to run down to the saloon to restock any of the wines or ports on offer.
The section of the paper that had been left behind was about finance and business. There was a small article about one railroad, the Grand Eastern, acquiring another, The Erie-Atlantic. The railroad that had been acquired happened to be the one that passed through their small town and was the only one with passenger service that bothered stopping at their backwater station.
Next to the article, a shorter piece talked about who the new railroad had appointed as its president. The lucky gentleman was a “scrappy” young man, as the article put it. Freshly graduated from a good university known for its ties to the railroad industry, Mr. Russell worked for five months under the tutelage of a railroad tycoon by the name of Mr. Starr, who had been the president of the Erie-Atlantic railroad during its heyday.
Mr. Russell was a surprise choice to be voted in as Grand Eastern’s president, owing to his young age and relative inexperience. He apparently could not have asked for a better mentor in Mr. Starr, who was a well-known name in the region and a well-established businessman. The article speculated that Russell’s appointment was a way for Mr. Starr to maintain influence over the company.
Bertha's eyelids grew heavy and she struggled to remain interested in this section of the paper. She did want to know what was going on in the world beyond the borders of their small, sleepy town of Greentor, Pennsylvania. She was willing to read just about anything so that she could learn more about what the outside world was like, for she’d never traveled more than a few towns over. She had been born in this small town just a few months after her parents arrived from Ireland. The finance section of the paper - focused on the fast-paced and surreal-sounding world of mergers and acquisitions, on buying and selling of major businesses as if they were as easy to trade as loaves of bread and baskets of eggs at the market - was mostly dull to her.
She glanced at the black and white pencil drawing of Mr. Russell next to the article. He appeared to be a young, strikingly handsome man with dark features and hair. The drawing captured him with an overly-confident smile and intense, broody eyes.
She yawned for perhaps the dozenth time, and decided to pour herself a very small cup of coffee just to get through the rest of the night. Mrs. Foster always told her to help herself to anything she needed during her shift: surplus food from Jean’s daily menu, coffee, a slice of apple or cherry pie (if it was still there when the night was over, which was not a guarantee as Jean’s pastries were favored by the regulars).
Usually, she ended up eating her fill from the hotel by time the night was over, small bites taken here and there in between serving patrons and refilling their cups of coffee, tea or port.
She took a few sips of the hot liquid then did the rounds in the dining room. The room was starting to clear out. It was late enough, and a weeknight no less. It was often quiet this early in the week. The couple by the window had left after their coffee. Bertha dutifully cleaned up their table. The biggest group in the room, however, lingered. The group consisted of six men wearing dark suits who had ordered the roast beef earlier. They were just finishing their meals and were clearly in no rush to leave. They were talking about something serious, Bertha could tell from the focused, intense look on all of their faces. Businessmen were often like that: somber, hushed, self-important. That was, until the drinks and women appeared after dinner had been cleared away.
Bertha hadn’t paid them much attention, but she decided to go over to the table to check to see if they needed anything. Glasses of Port, a fruit and cheese plate, whatever next step they may need to keep their night moving along.
The energy shifted and she felt oddly unwelcome the closer she got to the table. They seemed far too refined and polished for a place like the Stagecoach, which was really just a small town hotel meant for people passing through. The town was a former crossroads of the stagecoach, hence the Inn's name. Now it had become a little freight hub for the railroad. There were talks of a bigger station being planned for their town to help support demand for the steel and other products manufactured nearby that were destined for cities like Chicago, Cleveland, Philadelphia and New York.
No one did anything important in Greentor. They just worked at the train station or at the dozen or so businesses scattered up and down Maple Street in the center of the small town. The grain mill and paper mill that were also in town employed a lot of people, and benefitted from the railroad coming through. There were steel mills in neighboring towns as well.
The gentlemen at the table looked as though they belonged at finer accommodations than the Stagecoach, but there was no nearby alternative in the small town.
Judging by the fact that they didn’t even acknowledge her as she approached to clear their empty plates or refill their drinks, she gathered that they didn’t really want to be bothered by an ordinary waitress. She likely wasn’t even serving them according to the etiquette to which they were accustomed, though she was doing her best to be polite and keep her distance.
She scanned everyone’s faces while keeping more distance than she usually would while checking on tables. They were in deep conversation, and she really wanted to avoid interrupting them.
Then her eyes lingered on one of the men. He was the youngest man at the table.
She was hit with a sudden wave of recognition.
Just as her eyes widened, he glanced up at her and smiled.
~ * ~
He was the young man pictured in the paper who she had been reading about mere minutes ago. Mr. Russell. It had to be him. He looked young, even younger in person, but even more striking in appearance, too. He had heavy eyebrows, dark, slightly messy and tousled hair and deep, piercing eyes.
And unlike the rest of the men at the table, he was looking at her.
She smiled politely, then glanced away.
The other gentlemen continued their conversation and ignored her completely, and she slipped away back to the bar, which wasn’t far from the door into the kitchen.
Mr. Russell, however, snuck another glance at her a few minutes later. The rest of the dining room was now quiet. She seemed to have captured his attention.
She decided to slip through the door to the kitchen.
Jean and his sous-chef, Geoff, and the dishwasher, a recent Irish immigrant named Mary, were just sitting around a small table near the doorway, as they often did at the end of the night when waiting for the final table or two to leave so they could go home.
“Jean, do we have any extra desserts tonight? Or could we offer a round of drinks, or both? There’s a table full of men out there and I think we should give them something on the house.”
Mary sighed. “Don’t encourage anyone to stay any longer. How many tables are left?”
“Just the one.”
“What makes that table of men so important?” Jean asked, curious.
“They’re executives from the Grand Eastern railroad," Bertha replied.
“Eh?”
“It’s the railroad that runs through town. Here, they were in today’s paper."
She set the newspaper article that she had read earlier on the table in front of them.
“There, that’s the man who is sitting at the table. George Russell.”
“He’s young to be president of a railroad,” Geoff commented.
“He looks even younger in person. We really should acknowledge them somehow, don’t you think? Encourage them to come back here next time they’re in town...”
“I’m surprised they didn’t go to the Peacock Room,” said Mary, stating an obvious question.
The Peacock Room was a fine restaurant in town. Greentor was not flush with restaurants, but there were a few to choose from, and the Peacock was the all-around nicest and, truth be told, had the best food.
Jean flashed Mary a sharp look. “What is wrong with this? Besides, the Peacock Room isn’t open on Monday.”
Mary sheepishly stood up and returned to the sink.
“So, should I bring them something?” Bertha persisted.
“I suppose so. Let’s offer them a round of pastries, I have plenty of pie left over tonight. And maybe bug Henk to see what he recommends sending up to the table. If he has a special Claret, or something like that. I’ll also bring out a plate of things they can nibble on. Cheeses, figs. Should be enough to show that we can compete with the Peacock Room.”
“The other night Henk told me there’s a relatively new bottle of bourbon stocked in the bar, it just came in from Lexington a few weeks ago. Good stuff, strong, not diluted at all,” suggested Geoff.
“Oui, bon, pour them each a small glass of that. More fun than damn Port all of the time. I’ll bring out a little plate of cheeses and fruits. Geoff, Mary, help me prepare this plate,” Jean ordered.
“I’ll go get the bourbon,” Bertha said, pushing the kitchen door open.
~ * ~
As she stepped out of the kitchen door, she stopped abruptly when she noticed George standing on the other side of her polished oak bar.
“Hello,” he said, stepping up to it, and her stomach did a little flip.
George was taller than she thought he had been when she saw him sitting down. He had a serious expression on his face, but there was still a boyish charm in his eyes.
She felt her skin on her chest getting hot. She flushed easily there, right below her throat. She hoped he couldn’t see in the dim light.
“Can I help you with something?” She asked politely.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, his voice low and his eyes darting back to the table where his colleagues sat chatting, “You can. I need to buy those gentlemen a round of drinks to celebrate a recent success at work and I want to get them something nice. They have fine tastes. I’m personally not picky about my drinks, so I wouldn’t know what to choose. Do… you happen to have anything?”
“I do,” she said, nodding. “We have a new bottle of bourbon recently supplied to us from one of the finest distilleries in Kentucky. Can I interest you in that?”
“Wonderful,” he said, relief spreading across his face. “Could I have a round for each of us at the table. Charge it to my tab?”
“Of course,” she said, and got to work pouring out the drinks.
~ * ~
An hour later Bertha was still sitting behind the bar patiently waiting for the men to leave. Her clever idea to provide them a round of free food had backfired. Jean and Geoff sent out a beautiful tray of pastries and a platter of cheese, fruit and nuts, and she served the bourbon. They enjoyed their fine bourbon so much, they ordered another round, lingering even longer.
It was now after one in the morning, and she had to be up to go teach school by six. Bertha lingered behind the bar, sitting on a stool with her head resting in one hand, no longer even trying to look lively. In the kitchen, Jean had generously sent Geoff and Mary home, telling them he would handle the final cleanup. Bertha couldn’t go, as she was still needed in her customer-facing role. By now, she had read every article in the leftover section of newspaper and even the coffee she’d had earlier was no longer keeping her awake.
“Long day?” A voice, thick and sweet as honey spoke behind her.
A rustle of skirts signalled who was behind her.
Bertha perked up.
She was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of intoxicating French perfume, featuring the alluring scent of lotus and honey and something deeper, woodsier.
It was Sara, commonly known as Sabine, a lady who frequented the hotel - with Mrs. Foster’s knowledge and, Bertha strongly suspected, encouragement - and accompanied male guests (the ones who could afford her) to their rooms. Next to her was a slightly younger woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, who Bertha didn’t recognize. She was also dressed up, wearing makeup and feathers on her dress and smelling of nice perfume.
“You could say that,” Bertha said, unable to resist yet another yawn.
She was friendly with Sara, a fact that her parents could never know. Her mother would be horrified if she knew her eldest daughter was working alongside a woman whose principal business took place at night. Sara was only slightly older than her, and rather intelligent and cheerful, which is not something that could be said of everyone Bertha encountered.
“I had school as always, then came here to serve dinner, and then this table over here,” she nodded to the men, “has been eating for hours. Everyone else left long ago.”
“Tomorrow is only Tuesday. You need to go home and get some sleep,” Sara said, concern in her voice. “Don’t worry. We can break up that party for you. Clara - that’s Clara - and I are here upon request of at least two of those gentleman, maybe a third…”
Bertha blushed. She didn’t have a problem with being friends with Sara, but getting into discussions about who Sara was going to entertain that night with her friend was a little more than she cared to know.
She quickly wondered if the handsome young man - Mr. Russell - would be seeing one of them. She was surprised that her tired brain mustered a twinge of jealousy at the thought.
“Oh? Well, I would appreciate being able to go home. If there’s anyone who could get them to move along, it would be you two,” she said, smiling sleepily.
“You can count on us. You’ll be on your way in 5 minutes. Come on, Clara,” Sara said confidently, and gave Bertha a quick peck goodnight on the cheek and, with a swish of her skirts, glided across the room on a cloud of her heady perfume.
Bertha watched out of her peripheral vision as Sara greeted the table. All of the men, who appeared to be getting sleepy themselves, perked up when they saw the two ladies. Both Sara and Clara giggled girlishly as they were welcomed with open arms into the circle of men.
Sara sat in the lap of one of the older men, and Clara in another. Bertha was strangely relieved they didn’t sit on Mr. Russell’s lap.
Mr. Russell politely greeted the women, but she watched him keep a distance as the other men engaged with them. After a beat, Sara was on the arms of two gentlemen and Clara had a third man stand up and offer her arm, and the five of them disappeared upstairs.
Relieved, Bertha watched as the remaining men, including Mr. Russell, stood up and solemnly shook hands with each other. They put on their hats, took their walking sticks, and paid their bill. Bertha accepted the money, including a generous tip.
Mr. Russell was the last one to leave the dining room.
“Thanks for your advice, they were impressed by my knowledge of bourbon,” he winked at her. “Please give me my complements to your chef for dinner, and I give my complements to you, Miss…?“
“O'Brien,” Bertha said.
“Have a good night, Ms. O'Brien,” he said, tipping his hat. “I’ll see you again.”
~*~
Feeling somewhat lighter on her feet, and momentarily recovered from her fatigue, Bertha cleaned up the table as quickly as possible. Jean had already cleaned the kitchen for the night, so they just had to wash up the remaining plates and glasses from the gentlemen. The inn was quiet now, the dining room was dark and silent. Bertha could go home.
She said goodnight to Jean, who was locking up the kitchen and dining room for the night, and stepped out into the cool night air. The moon was up… it was just the sliver of a waning moon hanging over the tips of the trees. It would be a new moon in a day or so.
She had to hurry the three blocks home. She hated being out at night. It was so dark, especially when there wasn’t really any moonlight. Her parents didn’t live far. They had a tiny flat, just below the train tracks, not far from the downtown stretch where the inn was located.
Bertha didn’t run into anyone, or any stray dogs for that matter, and was home within a few minutes.
She opened the door, cringing as it creaked loudly, and stepped inside as quietly as possible. Their apartment would be a comfortable size if they were a small family. They were not. The apartment had four rooms, all in a row. Two rooms - the “double parlor” as her mother most generously called it - were open to each other in the front divided only by a pocket door. There were two rooms in the back, also divided by the sliding pocket door, and then a kitchen in the very back, with a big black stove and a rickety old pine table. There was a storage room just behind the kitchen, with a coal shoot, where someone delivered them coal from a laneway. In the back of the house was a privy, which you reached through a back door in the kitchen.
Bertha got some warm water off of the stove in the kitchen to wash up with. She made her way to one of the two interior rooms that her family used as bedrooms. With four sisters and brothers ranging in age from two years younger than herself - her sister Monica was 16 - all the way down to her youngest sister, Catherine, age 2 - her family barely had room for anything. They lay their mattresses every which way in the two interior rooms. Bertha shared her bed, which was a larger mattress, with Brigid, though if Catherine had nightmares sometimes she got up off of her tiny, thin mattress in the corner and joined them in their big bed.
It was crowded and stuffy in the apartment. They had very little furniture and few luxuries. It was lit by gas lamps, which were off now, as the family was asleep. Bertha still found her way around, using a small nub of a candle in a jar that she had hastily lit when she arrived home to provide herself a bit of light so she wouldn’t trip over anything.
After Bertha washed up in the kitchen with the basin and the pitcher full of warm water that her mother had left for her on the stove, she stripped to her shift and crawled into bed. Monica was already asleep, facing the wall, and Catherine was next to her, asleep on her stomach, breathing softly. Trying hard not to disturb either one of them, Bertha crawled into the bed as quietly and as quickly as possible, and within seconds was fast asleep.
~ * ~
Bertha repeated her same gruelling schedule the next day: she woke up before anyone else except her mother, right at dawn. Her mother was just adding coal to the stove so she could make breakfast and start on the cooking and boiling hot water for the day. As her mother quietly worked in the dark of the early morning, Bertha rummaged around and found a bit of bread and cheese and a dried apple in the kitchen to eat. She also packed a small lunch with some bread that her mother gave her from the night before, a bit of dried fruit and nuts, a boiled egg, and a bit of dried and salted fish. She was washed, dressed and out the door to go teach school by half after six in the morning.
The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon as she walked the two blocks to the tiny little schoolhouse near the Ceres grain mill.
She taught school mostly to the mill workers’ children. It wasn’t a desirable school to teach at, as the children mostly arrived at school hungry, tired, sometimes dirty, sometimes sick. Yet, Bertha was happy that she had the job at all. Between her day job teaching and nights spent working at the hotel, she was earning real money, money that could buy her way out of this endless cycle of never having quite enough that she had been born into.
She had to leave her own schooling last year, after barely managing to balance school and working at the inn for years. Her parents had wanted her to quit school once she turned 13 so she could focus on working and bringing in more money for the family, but Bertha was determined to stay in school and become as educated as possible. She had always wanted to be like the gentlewomen she had seen around town: well spoken, smart, dressed beautifully. They had successful husbands who owned shops or were managers at the mill or in the railroad office. So she somehow managed to talk her parents into letting her remain in school for a few more years, and she also picked up her evening job at the inn to bring in the added income her parents needed.
She knew if she left school at too young of an age, she’d likely end up married and with children within just a few short years. Staying so close to home, she had no chance of meeting anyone more interesting than the immigrants and labourers who she was surrounded by at church and in the immediate neighborhood where she lived. She didn't like that prospect.
“Your mother and I only attended school a few years, until we were eight,” her father had tried reasoning with her.
“It was different back then,” Bertha had protested. “I want to be at school long enough to be taken seriously, to be considered educated.”
“Your brothers are going to leave school soon to work at the mill with me,” her father said. “As soon as John is 14.”
“But they want to work,” Bertha replied angrily. “I want to work and go to school.”
“She’s shown us she’s able to work at the inn and attend the school,” her mother pointed out.
Her father relented.
“We’ll talk about this again in a few months,” is all he had said.
Bertha had gotten the job at the hotel from Mrs Foster, who went to church with them and had simply mentioned to Bertha and her mother that she was looking for help at the hotel and that Bertha was the right age to work for her.
Her mother and father, knowing the Fosters from church and therefore trusting the offer, took it at face value that the job would be fine for Bertha. They had never stayed at a hotel themselves in their entire lives and so didn’t really know what it would entail.
Bertha herself had almost caved to her parents’ pressure after starting the job. It was tempting to want to work all day, every day, instead of continuing with school. What choice did she have? She felt she owed her parents her support, and she liked working hard and enjoyed feeling like she was contributing to something larger than herself.
However, just as she had been mulling all of that over, it had been her attentive and kind school teacher, Mr. Brown, who had suggested something to her that changed her mind, deciding to remain in school until she was eighteen.
“You are one of the most clever pupils I’ve had in a long time. Quick to have an answer, observant, conscientious. I’d hate for you to end your schooling now. Why don’t you continue a few more months and then take the test given by the county that would certify you as a teacher?”
He had suggested this to her one day at the end of the schoolday as the other pupils were putting on jackets and getting ready to go home.
“You think I could be a schoolteacher?” She had asked in amazement.
“I do. An excellent one at that. And you could use teaching as an opportunity to further your own studies, reading and doing your own work either independently in the evenings, perhaps even saving up and going to college one day.”
“Do you think I could get into college?” The thought had never even crossed her mind.
“Of course,” he said, acting surprised that she would even ask. “You’re an excellent student. I could write you a letter of reference. So you would have nothing stopping you from going, as long as you can afford the tuition. Which, after a few terms of teaching, I believe you should be able to, depending on the college you choose. There is a ladies’ college here in Pennsylvania that I know of, Cresthill.”
His suggestions set new things in motion. Bertha did everything he had recommended: she finished another term of school despite her parents’ protests, she continued to study on her own in the evenings (on the rare nights she wasn’t working at the hotel, that is). Finally, the May before she turned eighteen, she passed the teacher certification test, which meant she could easily get a job at one of the small schools in town that was perpetually lacking reliable teachers.
She was hired at the school near the grain mill. The school had been built by the owners of the flour & grain company itself, most likely so the mill could garner more positive public perception after a devastating fire that had killed several workers, including two younger boys, the year prior. The school had been built by the owners as an act of goodwill - or perhaps contrition - towards the workers and their families, who all lived in the blocks near the mill and had grown restless after the fire.
With the school's location, the children would have an easier time getting to class and back home on their own, which meant, in theory, that children of the workers would be more likely to attend school. Before the school was built, they had to walk nearly a half hour to reach a school in a neighboring town that would accept them, as most of the mill workers - and thus their children - were of Scots-Irish descent, and were therefore not welcome at other schools in town.
The children who came to her school had parents who tried to do a lot with little. Bertha noticed that, not unlike herself going up, the children had raggedy clothes that had been patched and mended many times, and wore worn-out shoes and brought meagre lunches to eat. For the most part, however, the children, who were ages ranging from 5 to 18, were generally very willing and eager to learn. The job paid well, since it was bankrolled by the mill.
She learned how to manage a room full of students, keeping children busy with their studies and work so they wouldn’t turn on each other and cause trouble, or worse, turn against her and cause trouble. She also learned how to put forth an air of confidence even though she really had no clue what she was doing, especially in those first few weeks.
~ * ~
That day, Bertha was eating lunch at her desk. Two of her pupils who were almost her age - Nancy and Charlotte - were also in the schoolroom, eating their lunches while reading and catching up with their studies. They often asked questions at this time of day, when Bertha could give them more feedback on their higher level studies than she could when all of the students, at all ages, were in front of her and inevitably the younger children were swallowing up more of her focus.
Halfway through the lunch hour, the door to the schoolroom opened and they all looked up from what they were reading. A little girl with ribbons in her hair ran up to her desk in tears.
It was little Grace, or Gracie as she was known to most. She had been eating lunch outside with her friends. It was a nice day, and a small group of children had gathered under the oak tree next to the schoolhouse to eat their packed lunches rather than return home for their meal.
“Ms. O'Brien,” the girl sobbed, tears running down her cheeks.
“Yes, Grace?” Bertha said, setting down the hard-boiled egg she was eating.
“The-the-the other girls, outside, were writing a list of the 10 most important people in our school. The ones that they’ll invite to every party and every event they hold someday. And… I - I - I thought they were my friends, but they didn’t put me on the list. I can’t go to their parties. They say I am not good enough to spend time with them because my shoes have holes in them.”
Normally Bertha drew the line at showing any affection for her students, but the level of distress that the young Gracie was clearly experiencing over this schoolroom bullying was genuine, however silly the claims were. For one thing, no pupil at the school could afford to hold parties or events. These were all hypothetical scenarios, imagined up by mean-spirited schoolgirls.
Bertha got out of her chair, kneeled in front of the little girl, offered her her clean handkerchief to wipe her eyes and nose.
“It’s all right,” she said, laying her hands on the girl’s shoulders reassuringly. “It’s not real, they probably won’t even remember the list in a day or two.”
Of course, she knew the situation was very real to such a young girl.
Gracie stopped sobbing after a moment, calming down.
“W-wh-what do I do,” she moaned. “I don’t think I have any friends.”
Bertha pursed her lips, thought for a moment, then took a breath.
“Well,” she said. “First you must make new friends. Better friends. Then you and your new friends can write your own list. You can put anyone on it that you want. You don’t have to live according to someone else’s rules. You can make your own up! Who’s to say you won’t have better parties than them, anyways?”
Grace looked up at her, amazed by this revelation. Amused, and perhaps a little interested in where this was headed, Nancy and Charlotte also listened in.
“It might not happen today, or tomorrow, but eventually, someday, you could lead your own group of friends.” Bertha promised her, smiling. “I recommend that, unlike those girls, who are very shortsighted if you ask me, you welcome everyone into your circle. Even your enemies. That’s how you keep them from causing you trouble later: by making even the meanest of people think that you’re friends with them.”
Gracie smiled, hardly understanding any of what she was suggesting, but liking the prospect that someday she might be the one who held parties.
“You sound experienced in the matter,” Charlotte commented lightly.
“I might have had some experience,” said Bertha.
Or at least, her family had had experience being outcasts. They were outcasts at most churches because they were Scots-Irish and could only attend the Irish one near their house. Her mother would have also been ostracized for being Catholic if she she hadn’t pretended to be Protestant as soon as she met her father and before stepping foot into America, so no one was any the wiser now.
Her father was not quite as outcast for being a Scots-Irish Presbyterian, for that seemed to be marginally more accepted in America. Plus, his dark brown hair and mild hazel eyes - compared to her mother’s flaming red hair and vivid blue eyes - were also more acceptable. It masked both of her parents’ wild Celtic origins, which were somehow, to the elite no matter whether you were in Ireland or America, always lesser than the genteel Anglo-Saxons.
Her parents’ Irish lilt were also a dead giveaway that they didn’t belong in most circles. Bertha had painstakingly made sure that the way her parents spoke never bled over into her own speech. As a young child, she’d sounded Irish. Going to school in America, at least, had prevented her from ever adopting her parents’ singsong way of speaking.
Yes, hiding, masking, pretending, glossing over who she was had been ingrained in her since birth.
Besides, both of her parents were outcasts in their own families for marrying each other after meeting on the boat over to America. She supposed her parents must have been relieved to tell their families from the safety of being far away that they’d each married outside of their religion. She knew that both her parents been told in letters that, under no uncertain terms, did their families approved of the marriage.
No matter. Her parents were an ocean away from their families. They would never seen them in person again.
So, absolutely. Bertha had some insights into what it was like to be rejected and outcast.
She hated to see this young girl be subject to silly bullying already. Why did all of this have to start at such a young age? Gracie would probably be subject to enough of it when she was older, as a poor mill worker’s daughter with the telltale red hair, freckles and green eyes of Irish immigrant stock.
Gracie was wiping tears from her face now. Nancy was offering her a small piece of oat cake from her lunch.
Then, Bertha had an idea. She had a few spare buttons in her desk that she had collected, either found on the schoolroom floor or as small purchases she’d made at her favorite shop. She opened her desk drawer and took out the small glass jar of buttons. Inside, she found a wooden button with a little bird motif carved on it.
“Here, this is for you. It’s a lucky token,” she explained to the little girl. “I’ve always thought that birds symbolize freedom. This can remind you that you are free, and someday, you can use your freedom to be whatever you want and rewrite all of the rules.”
Grace smiled, her tears finally dried from her cheeks. “I think you are the best teacher I’ve ever had.”
“Here, you each can take one, too,” she said to Charlotte and Nancy, who smiled and each took a button from the jar. “A lucky token for both of you, too.”
~ * ~
After school, Bertha had a small amount of time before she needed to get to the Inn for the dinner crowd. She needed a few odds and ends, including a new pincushion and a few new needles to mend her clothes (and she had promised Catherine she’d fix a hole in the dress she wore almost every day, a fact that had upset her last Sunday). Bertha also needed a new comb, as hers had broken, and a pad of paper for some ideas she wanted to take down for school.
She could quickly walk the few blocks over to Main Street where a big general store was located, called Wolf’s. Owned by a family from Bohemia, their surname Wolfova was a bit too exotic for local tastes. Therefore they were known more casually as the Wolf family.
Wolf’s was a big storefront, taking up the whole main floor of the building where it was located, which spanned a block in length. They carried a little bit of everything: food, jewelry and fashions, household items, hardware supplies. Bertha enjoyed browsing, especially looking through the off the rack clothes and flipping through the special order fashion catalogues.
Today, the bell on the door cheerfully announced her arrival. She could hear the son, Andrei, and his father talking to a customer. Both men had a slight accent, though Mr. Wolf's was much thicker.
As soon as Andrei saw her, he beamed and waved. Bertha hung back, finding her comb and sewing kit off of the shelves in the beauty section, waiting for her turn.
Andrei came over as soon as he could wrap up with a customer.
“Hi,” he said.
“How are you?” She smiled warmly.
“Good. Very good, now with you here. Are you looking for something?”
She held up the items in here hand. “I’ve found them.”
“All right. Anything else you’re looking for?”
“I was looking for you. To say hello,” she replied.
He grinned, and as he did, his ears pulled back a little bit. Bertha thought he looked a bit like a happy puppy dog, albeit one who wore glasses.
“And I was hoping you’d step in one of these days. It’s been a while.”
“I know. But I’ve been busy. As always.”
“I realize. Please, come visit more.”
“I will try to. The school term is over soon. So some of my time will free up.”
“Good,” he said. “Come at lunch time someday and we can eat together in my parents’ courtyard behind the store.”
“I would like that,” she said. “I unfortunately can’t stay long today. I just need these.”
“Ah,” he said, “of course.”
He took them from her and went over to the cash register. As he was about to ring them up, he studied them. Just a small comb and sewing kit, hardly any cost to the store.
“You know,” he said slowly, “A client actually had us order this comb for her, but when it arrived she didn’t like it. We could give it to you at no cost. It was really just floating around the store.”
“Oh,” Bertha said, thinking that there had been other combs on the shelf, and it would be unlikely that she happened to choose that particular one.
“And the sewing kit is on me,” he said, smiling at her as he put both items in a small paper bag, and quickly handed the bag to her.
She took it, surprised.
“I don’t know if I can-“ she started.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “A treat for you coming by on a busy day.”
“I…” she wondered how much she should protest.
She didn’t like owing anyone anything. But she caught a glimpse of the time on a clock behind Andrei and realized she was running late. She didn’t have time to linger and sort it out.
“Thank you,” she said simply, and left.
~ * ~
That night, Mr. Russell was back at the Inn.
This time, he was only with two others. Not the gentlemen that had been with Sara and Clara the night before. Perhaps they were recovering, Bertha thought wryly.
She shouldn’t think such things. Though, to be fair, she had heard Sara brag many times before about tiring some men out just so they wouldn’t bother or harass any more women for a few weeks.
Sara seemed to take great pride in that aspect of her work.
Not that Bertha had been harassed by many men at the inn or in the restaurant, but she didn’t exactly mind it when certain patrons who lingered so long at dinner didn’t show up again the next night. Hopefully she’d get home by a decent hour tonight.
Mr. Russell and his two dining companions were more approachable than the large group had been the previous night. Bertha went right up to the table soon after they arrived.
“Good evening Mr. Russell,” Bertha said confidently when they had settled into their table, also greeting the other two.
“Nice to see you,” Mr. Russell said, all businesslike.
“Here are the menus,” she said, handing them each the evening’s card with Jean’s specials written out in her best penmanship.
“The roasts last night were incredible, I’m tempted to get one again,” Mr. Russell said, and the other men murmured their agreement. “But tell me, is there a house specialty? What would you recommend, Ms. O'Brien?”
“Our chef, Jean, is French, and does an excellent job with most of the dishes on the nightly menu,” she said proudly. “Tonight he has created an excellent leg of mutton and capers that many of our other guests have enjoyed, with your choice of side dishes. We also have a haddock with pommes de terre - it comes with a fresh ketchup on the side - and a potage au puree de pois."
Bertha didn't know why she bothered to make the restaurant seem fancy to the men, but Jean had taught her the words and put them on the menu that way, so she rolled with it.
“I’ll have the mutton,” Mr. Russell announced, and the other two men ordered the same.
Bertha nodded politely.
“Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
“We’ll have some of that fine bourbon after dinner if you still have it,” one of the men said.
“Though to start, I’ll order a bottle of Chateau Margeaux Claret for the table,” Mr. Russell cut in.
The men didn’t linger at the table as long as they had the previous night. When they were done with their main courses, Bertha cleared the table and offered coffee and asked if they wanted an apple pudding, pie, or a dessert plate of nuts, fruits, cheese and cake.
“I’ll just have some fruit and nuts for dessert,” Mr. Russell requested. “And I’ll have some coffee. I think I changed my mind about wanting more after that large - and delicious - meal. However tempting the pudding sounds.”
The other two sitting at the table followed suit.
“I need to prepare some fresh coffee, so it may be a minute,” she said, apologizing and returning to the kitchen.
She was busy measuring out the coffee into the pot at the bar when she heard someone approach.
It was Mr. Russell.
“Mind if I keep you company while you brew the coffee?” He asked. “The gentlemen I am with - Mr. Franks and Mr. Ives - are a bit of a bore, I am afraid. I told them I knew you, and wanted to say hello.”
She laughed. “So I am your excuse for you to take a breather from your dull colleagues?”
She poured some coffee beans into the little mill and began grinding.
“You’re more than that, of course,” he said smoothly, and her smiled faltered a bit as she caught the edge of flirtation in his voice.
She didn’t know what to say, so she looked down and focused on the coffee grinder.
“Here, let me do that,” he offered.
She looked back up at him, surprised by the offer of help. No other diners were looking her way, and Jean and the others were in the kitchen. She didn’t suppose she would get caught having a customer assist her.
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely flattered at this gentleman’s gesture, handing over the grinder.
“So,” he said as he cranked the grinder at a quicker pace than she would have mustered. “I’m curious. How did you recognize me last night? I don’t believe we’d ever met before.”
“I read the papers,” she said. “It helps me pass the time when my shift goes long, if I’m not otherwise occupied, of course. Anyways, I was reading The New York TImes someone left behind last night and you were very prominently featured in the finance section.”
“Ah. Yes, I was in a few papers yesterday. It’s been a big week.”
“I can only imagine. Congratulations, by the way."
“Thank you. I suppose the workdays here are long,” he said. “Sorry we lingered so long at dinner. I realize you must have had to stay extra late because of that.”
“I did. This is my second job of the day. I teach at the school - a little one over by the flour mill.”
“You’re also a teacher?” He seemed impressed.
She nodded. “I work at a school run by Ceres, the grain company. The schoolhouse is near their mill, so just about every student has a father or brother who works there.”
“Mr. Millhouse, the owner of Ceres, is he the one who runs your school?”
“Technically, yes. But it is his secretary who oversees the school, so he’s the one I got the job from. A Mr. Bradley.”
“Are you in touch with Mr. Bradley?”
She hesitated. She really didn't have any avenues to contact Mr. Bradley. He was too high up at Ceres, too busy to concern himself with the day to day happenings of the little school. She saw him only rarely when he checked in with her, usually at the start and end of the terms.
“Well, he sends me my pay each term. And I see him from time to time. He even stops in sometimes,” she said vaguely.
“Is there any chance you could introduce us? I’ve been trying to get a meeting with Mr. Millhouse for months but I am always being blocked. If I could at least meet with his secretary, maybe I’d make some inroads. Bumping into them here would be a tremendous help.”
“I can try,” she said.
He gazed at her for a moment as she put the coffee grounds into the coffee pot. He seemed to be considering something.
“Do you know a lot of the people who regularly come in here?” He asked.
“Well, we get a lot of visitors traveling through town who stay at the inn and I of course wouldn't know them. Unless they’ve recently been featured in a newspaper, of course. Otherwise, yes, I make it my business to not only know all of the regulars who come in, but know what they all do for a living, what is happening with their families or children, that sort of thing,” she replied, then she leaned over to whisper the rest close to his ear. “Better tips that way.”
“I see. Well, you are in line to receive even better tips if you would let me know whenever there’s someone here who owns a large local business, or who is high up at a factory or at a mill. Or, if you see a town councillor, someone with a lot of local influence."
“Those types of people have been known to make an appearance here from time to time,” she confirmed.
“If you see anyone noteworthy come in, would you be willing to send a message to me at the Adams Hotel down the street? To the attention of George Russell. That’s where I’m staying for the next week or two. I will make it well worth your time if you do.”
It was an odd request, unlike anything anyone had ever asked her to do before. It felt almost like spying. However, it was certainly something she could do and she couldn't think of a reason to say no.
“All right. I can do that. I can’t guarantee someone important will come in every night. Or even every week.”
“That’s fine. Just let me know if and when someone does.”
“Forgive me for asking, but why do you need me to do this?”
“Because,” he said, leaning in to answer her quietly, “The company I work for already owns the railroad that is controlling all of the lines in this part of the state, thanks in part to my work. But I have other business interests in mind, and the capital and backing to buy up even more businesses that might support my ambitions and goals. I might be interested in a flour mill, or steel factory, or whatever else. Everything is, ultimately, connected in some way.”
“It seems like there must be other places that have more opportunities than a small town like Greentor. I’m surprised you’re so interested in things here.”
“There are plenty of other places with opportunities. Aside from already controlling a railroad here, which makes me fairly invested in this local economy and community already, I can be a big fish in a small sea here. Elsewhere, I am still a small fish in the big sea. For now, at least. In a few years, I don’t think I’ll be saying that anymore.”
“I hope you find what you are looking for here, Mr. Russell," Bertha said.
“Call me George.”
She was taken aback by the intimacy of the request. Her guests usually didn’t get that friendly with her, unless they were drunk.
“We’ve chatted a few times. And we must be around the same age. We don’t need such formalities between us,” he expanded.
“All right,” she conceded. “George. You can call me Bertha.”
“Now, I should get back to my table so I can wrap up my conversation with tonight’s gentlemen, then I’m off to bed. Early morning tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll do my best to get them out of here so they won’t cost you another late night.”
“No dessert?” She asked.
“I suppose I did agree to coffee and a fruit plate.”
“You know, we have cherry pie tonight. It’s good.”
“Really? That’s my favorite.”
“Is it really? You’re not just saying that?”
“It really is.”
“Then I’ll get a piece for you. It’s on the house,” Bertha said.
It was really on her. There was no such thing as “on the house.” She just wanted to motivate him to come back to the restaurant.
“Thank you,” he said, and returned to the table so she could finish making the coffee and fetch the desserts.
~ * ~
He left after two pieces of cherry pie and she cleared his table. Then, she reached back into her pocket to separate out the difference between the amount he owed for dinner versus the tip he left her. That’s when she was flummoxed to discover that he’d tipped her double the price of the meal.
She glanced over at the empty table where he’d been, and then her eyes darted to the door, wondering if there had been a mistake. He was gone now, and she couldn’t run after him because there were still other tables and guests to attend to.
She pocketed the tip, minus the amount for the two slices of cherry pie, which she added to the total to leave for the restaurant. The rest of the night, for once, seemed to fly by, as her mind was occupied with thoughts of George.
~ * ~
George came into the hotel dining room almost every night for the remaining two weeks he was in town. Unfortunately for them, no one too noteworthy showed up during the time, but Bertha pointed out a few of the regulars who worked in higher positions at banks, at the mill, even someone who was known for owning and breeding fine racehorses in an adjacent town.
“You never know when a racehorse breeder might come in handy,” he said to her.
She sensed sarcasm, and laughed.
She lingered at his table when he was there on his own, which was the majority of the nights he came in. The remainder of his colleagues had to go back to their head office in Manhattan. She also chatted with him whenever she had a bit of breathing time in between serving other tables. He sometimes joined her at the bar as she prepped coffee or tea for other patrons.
On his final night in town, she apologized for not having had the opportunity to point out anyone too exciting to him, as no one really noteworthy had come by.
“No, not at all, your information was still valuable. I hope you will still be here to help me out in a few weeks when I’m back in town.”
“It would be my pleasure,” she said, smiling, hoping she could identify someone of interest by the next time he returned.
He still tipped her extremely generously despite the minimal help she'd given him. Thanks to his tips, on the nights he was there, she was making far more money in a single day as a waitress than she could in two weeks of teaching.
~ * ~
Sara was around a few of the nights that George had come in. Bertha would ask her about anyone in the dining room whom she didn’t recognize, because Sara knew everyone.
“Why have you been asking me questions about who's who the past couple of days?” She asked after Bertha had questioned her about a group of well-dressed men seated at a corner table ordering expensive food and wine.
“Because you have unparalleled knowledge of who is who in town,” she replied nonchalantly, her gaze wandering to the table where George sat that evening. “I get better tips if I know who they are and can welcome them personally. I might ask them something intelligent about their day or their work. Or even mention something about their industry. You know, personalize the service a bit.”
Sara, however, was not at all dim. She followed Bertha’s gaze over to George and smiled knowingly.
“You mean you mostly personalize your service for that table,” she said, “and wondered if it would work for others.”
Bertha blushed. Sara giggled.
“You forget what my job is,” she teased her. “I spend all night flattering men. 90% of my job is satiating their desires for unbridled admiration and worship. How do you think I became such a walking, living, breathing encyclopedia of all of the people who come in here, day after day? I, too, had to find out everything about all of them.”
Bertha took her by the arm and led her into the kitchen. Jean and Geoff were busy at work and ignored them.
“How do you do it?” Bertha asked as they both sat down at a little desk, momentarily relaxing away from the prying eyes of the dining room. “How do you get men to be interested in you? And how do you keep their attention?”
“Well, it’s all about the mind,” she said. “You start there. You capture their imagination. Maybe it’s with a look, or a little joke you say. A story you tell. Or you tell them something you know that they don’t.”
She paused, and brushed her hand softly against Bertha’s. “Or maybe it’s with a part of your body that they like and you draw their attention to it so that it's all their mind can fixate on for the rest of the night.”
Sara winked, and Bertha looked down, blushing.
Bertha admired Sara’s confidence and wished she could borrow a bit of it. She felt so shy and so uninformed next to her.
“The key is to capture their imagination,” Sara said in a serious tone.
“And then what next?”
“Once you have managed to intrigue them, you find out what motivates them most. Do they want flattery and admiration? Do they wish for you to softly brush your arm or your hand against theirs so they feel just a whisper of your skin? Perhaps they would prefer that you do something for them… serve them tea, bring them their hat. Or perhaps, you ignore them. Let them think you’re not interested, and then let them tap deep into their primal hunter instinct and enjoy chasing you down.”
Bertha laughed nervously.
“I don’t think I’d be good at that.”
“Some men want the chase. But not all men are this way, so be careful. Other men would be all too happy to let you go if you run.”
They both giggled.
“And then what? After you capture their imagination and regularly flatter them in the way they want?”
She gave her a little teasing smile. “My dear, if you want to get into that topic, we could, but it will have to be somewhere else, and some other time. I’m not talking to you about all of that in the kitchen during your shift.”
Bertha blushed, then glanced anxiously back to the kitchen door. She needed to get back out to the dining room, keep doing the rounds, taking orders, cleaning up.
“At the end of the day,” Sara said, “Most of the time I spend with men, 75% of the time, I’d say, they just want to be seen. Heard. Talk. Or not talk. They want company. Companionship. Love, even. Just like women. We’re all human, after all.”
“It seems as though love is a balancing act of many different elements,” Bertha summarized.
“Oh of course. And then there are men will want none of what I’ve mentioned so far. They are looking for something else… someone clever, a confidante, someone to share interests or stories with. Perhaps even a woman who will give them wise advice,” she said, nudging Bertha.
“This type of man is a bit rarer, in my experience, but they’re out there,” she continued. “I learned a lot about music and poetry specifically so I could appeal to this type of client. These men not only want you to capture their imagination, they truly want you to capture their mind, too.”
“And that’s another reason to go to college,” Bertha said quietly.
This type of man, an intelligent, well-read man, appealed to her more than someone who liked to chase women or who thrived on pure flattery. She wanted a man who could see her as his partner. Such a man no doubt would want a very well educated and well-mannered woman. Probably well-bred, too. She’d have to work doubly hard to make up for that particular deficit.
Sara read her thoughts. She knew who Bertha was thinking about.
“Oh yes, he is that type of man, I think. I am guessing that he may like some flattery, but that’s not all he wants. He’s ambitious. He wants someone who will relentlessly go to battle for him, follow him wherever he goes, at whatever cost.”
“And what I want is to get out of my parents’ clutches, to go as far away as possible, and into a dress that is as beautiful as yours. And have somewhere to wear it to. Flattering a man and supporting him at all costs seems like a small price to pay.”
Sara smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
“He may be ambitious and want a woman with a good name, good breeding. That I cannot offer,” Bertha said morosely.
Sara shrugged. “You never know. It’s important to some, not so important to others.”
“He’s building an empire right now. Would he even give me the time of day?” Bertha mused.
“I don’t think he spends a lot of time thinking about women, to be honest, at least compared to some men his age. For now, it seems he’s obsessed with his work,” said Sara, craning his neck to see around a couple who had just sat down.
Bertha nodded.
“But someday, his mind will turn to thoughts of a wife, a relentless supporter, and the children who will be his legacy. All men eventually get there. Whoever is clever enough to capture his mind and imagination will need to be there when he’s ready for it.”
Bertha went to the doorway leading back out into the dining room and pushed it open. George was deep in conversation with two other men who had joined him.
“I believe I can be that person,” Bertha said, glancing back at Sara, and took a deep breath and stepped back out into the dining room. “And if not him, I at least want someone else like him, who wants to rise up in life and take me right along."