the hired girl chapter sampler

8/20/2019 The Hired Girl Chapter Sampler

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The

Hire Gir


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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are eitherproducts of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2015 by Laura Amy Schlitzrt acknowledgments appear on page 388.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted,or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, andecording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First edition 2015

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2014955411ISBN 978-0-7636-7818-0

15 16 17 18 19 20 BVG 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in Berryville, VA, U.S.A.

This book was typeset in Kennerly.

Candlewick Press99 Dover Street

Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

visit us at www.candlewick.com


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For my mother and father

with gratitude and love


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artOne

GirlwithaCow♦ ♦

PartTwo

TheSpiritofTransportation♦ 63 ♦

PartThreeTheMaidservant♦ 0 ♦

PartFour

TheWarriorGoddessofWisdom♦ 19 ♦

artFive

JoanofArc♦ 245 ♦

PartSix

MarianaintheMoatedGrange♦ ♦

PartSeven

GirlReading♦ 3 9 ♦


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Y

Sunday, June the fourth, 1911

Today Miss Chandler gave me this beautiful book. I vow that I

wi never orget er in ness to me, an wi use t is boo as

she told me to — I will write in it with truth and refinement.

“I’m so sorry you won’t be coming back to school,” Missan er sai to me, an at t ose wor s, t e oo gates opene ,

and I wept most bitterly. I’ve been crying off and on ever since

at er to me t at rom now on ave to stay at ome an

won’t get any more education.

Dear Miss Chandler made soft murmurings of pity and

o ere me er an erc ie , w ic was per ect y aun ere ,

with three violets embroidered in one corner. I never saw a

prettier an erc ie . t seeme terrib e to cry a over it, but

I did. While I was collecting myself, Miss Chandler spoke to

me about t e specia appiness t at comes o oing one s uty

at ome, but i n t pay muc ee , because w en wipe my

eyes, I saw smears on the cloth. I knew my face was dirty, and I

was aw u morti e .


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Y Z

en a at once, s e sai somet ing t at rang out i e a

eal of church bells. “You must remember,” she said, “that dear

ar otte rontë i n t ave a superior e ucation. n yet s e

wro e Jane Eyre. I believe you have a talent for composition,

ear oan. n ee , w en use to mar stu ent essays, a ways

ut yours at t e bac o t e pi e, so cou oo orwar to

reading them. You express yourself with vigor and originality,

but you must strive or trut an re nement.

I stopped crying then, because I thought of myself writing a

boo as goo as Jane Eyre, an being amous, an getting awayrom teep e arm an being so ric cou go to urope an

see castles along the Rhine, or Notre Dame in Paris, France.

o a ter iss an er e t, vowe t at wi a ways

remember her as an inspiration, and that I will write in this book

n my best an writing, wit an .

Which last I think I lack the worst, because who could be

refined living at Steeple Farm?

Sunday, June the eleventh, 1911

o ay t oug t mig t go up to t e resbyterian — mercy,

w at a wor to spe — c urc an return iss an er s

andkerchief. It has been a bad week for writing because of

t e s eeps earing an aving to stitc up summer overa s or

the men.

was e iss an er s an erc ie very care u y an

resse it an wrappe it in brown paper so my an s wou n t

dirty it. I’m always washing my hands, but I can’t keep them

c ean. ometimes it seems to me t at everyt ing in t is ouse


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Y 5 Z

is stu e to t e seams wit t e irt t at t e men trac in. ven

though I clean the surfaces of things, underneath is all that filth,

ac ing to get oose. t sweats out t e minute turn my bac .

I scrub and sweep the floors, but the men’s boots keep bring-

ing in t e barnyar , ay a ter ay, year a ter year. u e is t e

worst because e never uses t e scraper, an w en oo at

him fierce, he smiles. He knows I hate to sweep up after him.

at er an att ew never t in about it one way or t e ot er.

Mark is my favorite brother because he wipes his feet some-

times, an w en e oesn t, e oo s sorry.ut it isn t just t e men. ey bring in t e sme s rom t e

cowshed and the pigsty, but I’m the one who has to clean out

t e c ic en ouse an scrub t e privy. y an s are a ways

dirty from blacking the stove and hauling out the ashes. They’re

as roug as t e an s o an o woman.

But this kind of writing is not refined.

put on my un ay ress an too t e pac et wit issan er s an erc ie . so ope s e wou be in c urc . t

seems a hundred years since I saw her last.

e on t go to c urc at teep e arm. en was itt e,

and Ma was alive, she used to take me to the Catholic church in

Lancaster, but that’s nine miles off, and Father says the horses

nee to rest on un ay. ey aren t resting to ay; t ey re ar-

rowing the lower field. But the Presbyterian church is less than

t ree mi es away, so can wa .

Ma married outside her Faith, but she told me Father used

to be very pious an re igious be ore was born. at s w y e

name my brot ers att ew, ar , an u e, an i been a

boy, I’d have been John, instead of Joan. When I was a baby, we

a t ree ba arvests in a row, an at er ma e up is min


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Y Z

t at re igion was ogwas . o w en at er wants to wor on

Sundays, he does, and we never go to church anymore.

n m in two min s about t is. remember ow w en

was a little thing, the services seemed so long. My legs hurt

rom sitting sti , an wasn t a owe to swing my eet.

gete , a wou put er an s on mine to stop me. ut

t. Mary’s had stained glass in the windows, and the light glow-

ng t roug t e co ors was so beauti u it ma e me ee o y

nsi e.

ter t e service a wou ig t a can e in ront o astatue o t e esse ot er, an ove her, because s e was

as slender as a girl, with a smile that looked as if she was teas-

ng someone s e ove very ear y. sti pray to er — carry a

icture of the statue in my mind — and sometimes she answers

me bac , t oug m never sure i t e voice is ers or a s, or i

the whole thing is my imagination.

It was warm this morning. I tried not to walk too fast, because i n t want to oo re ace an ot w en saw

Miss Chandler. My Sunday dress this year is heavy cotton. I

ec are, t at ress is a sore spot wit me. at er a ways as s

the storekeeper what’s cheap, and that’s what he buys. This

year what was cheap was a chocolate- brown twill with little

bunc es o purp e owers on it. omet ing went wrong wit

the printing, and the flowers are all blotched and don’t look like

owers at a . ecause t e pattern was spoi e , t e c ot was

so cheap that Father bought the rest of the bolt and says it can

be next year s new ress, too. was so espairing t at went

upstairs to cry. ne o my boo s, Dom ey an Son, is about a

girl named Florence and her awful father that she loves even

t oug e never pays any attention to er. ut orence as


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Y 7 Z

pretty c ot es an s e oesn t ave to wor as ar as o, so

guess it’s easier for her to love her father.

at er says grow so ast t ere s no use wasting money on

my clothes. He calls me an ox of a girl, and I wish he wouldn’t,

because w en oo in t e mirror, t at s w at see. wis

weren t so ta an coarse- i e. ven my air is ox co ore ,

reddish brown and neither curly nor straight, but each strand

in e an t ic an stan ing away rom t e ot ers. y brai s

are almost as thick as my wrists, and my wrists are all thick and

musc e rom scrubbing.e resbyterian c urc isn t as pretty as t. ary s,

because there is no colored glass. But it’s very clean and bright

insi e, an t e morning was ne, an t e a ies wore t eir best

hats. I looked for Miss Chandler’s hat, which has the wing of

an arctic tern on it, but cou n t see it. saw two gir s rom

school, Alice Marsh and Lucy Watkins. I sat down in the

back and was glad they couldn’t see me. Alice isn’t so bad; shewi spea to me quite p easant y i ucy an aze ry aren t

with her, and she doesn’t tease. But I think Alice is a coward,

because s e ets ucy an aze eci e w o er rien s s ou

be. I wouldn’t let another girl make up my mind for me like that.

I can never decide whether to be grateful to Alice because she

is in er t an t e ot ers, or w et er oug t to espise er or

being such a poltroon. So I do both.

hate ucy at ins an aze ry. ter a ie i n t

do the washing as regular as I might because there was so much

e se a to o — a t e coo ing an putting oo by. e men

i n t seem to min so muc i was be in wit t e aun ry,

and I guess that first year I looked slatternly, because Ma wasn’t

t ere to e p me wit my c ot es. at was w en t e ot er gir s


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Y Z

set t eir aces against me. remember we a to rea a poem by

William Shakespeare, and the part about spring was so beau-

ti u , wit owers ca e a y s-smoc s painting t e mea ow

with delight. But the second part of the poem was about win-

ter, not spring, an it was about someone ca e reasy oan

ee ing t e pot, an t at s w en ucy at ins starte gigg ing,

and the other girls joined in. At recess they called me Greasy

oan. to t e teac er. t was iss ang t en, an ove er

dearly, though not so much as dear Miss Chandler. Miss Lang

sai t at now t at was growing up to be a young a y, mustwor ar to eep my air neat an my c ot es presse . e

said — I remember how she lowered her voice when she said

it — t at my t ings were not so res as t ey mig t be. new

she meant to be kind. But I also knew that what she meant was

t at sme e ba . was rea u y as ame , an never e t

the same toward Miss Lang after that. She must have rebuked

Lucy and Hazel, and she made them stop calling me Greasyoan. ut sometimes t ey put t eir ea s toget er an gigg e,

and I knew they were still thinking it.

t was warm in t e c urc , an trie to eep my min on

the sermon, though my conscience was not too bad troubled

when I couldn’t, because I am a Catholic, not a Presbyterian.

en won ere i t e esse ot er wou be angry wit

me for being in a Presbyterian church, instead of St. Mary’s.

o sai a ai ary to er insi e my ea , an to er was

sorry. I explained that I wasn’t there because I was going to turn

rotestant, but because wante to see ear iss an er.

e esse ot er sai s e wasn t worrie about me turn-

ng Protestant, but she thought I might stop working so hard at

ating ucy at ins an aze ry. t oug t about t at an


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Y Z

suppose it was true. t s not goo to ate peop e in a o y

place, when you’re asking God to forgive you the same way

you orgive t e ones w o trespass against you. ut it seems to

me that if I stop hating Lucy Watkins and Hazel Fry, I might

ose somet ing. eci e wou stop ating t em uring t e

service an ta e it up again a ter got out. as e t e esse

Mother if that would be all right, and she said it would be an

improvement. o wit t at sett e , trie to x my min on

what the minister was trying to say.

e minister was a pin - ace man an e ta e s ow.e spo e about t e ear o reat rice, an t en e starte

talking about treasure and how where our treasure was, our

earts s ou be. t oug t about ow i n t go to t. ary s

because it was nine miles off and how if I was a Christian

martyr, as at er or t e orses, even t oug e be

unkind. Maybe I’d walk, even. I started to repent, but then the

minister gave is sermon anot er twist, an it turne out w ate was rea y a ter was more money in t e co ection p ate.

Then I felt awkward because I hadn’t brought any money with

me, an was worrie t at peop e wou stare at me w en t e

plate went round. Father never gives me any money because

he says what does a girl who is given everything want with

money. en a was a ive t e egg money was ers, an m

the one who cleans the chicken house and gathers the eggs and

ma es t e mas or t e ens. ut at er won t et me ave t e

egg money.

e into a ay ream about w at o i t e egg money

was mine. buy c ot or a new ress. stripe wou be best

because if you match the stripes and set them right, you can

ma e your waist oo sma er. t in cou get it rig t i


19/38

Y 10 Z

trie . buy boo s, too. ere s a store in ancaster t at as

books that only cost a nickel. Miss Chandler says those books

are trivia an unw o esome an s e opes wi never rea

them. I wonder what’s in them. I have three books — the ones

s e gave me — p us a s ib e, an just ac e to rea more.

iss an er use to en me boo s. ope t at i gave

back her handkerchief she might say we could go on being

rien s, even i can t come to sc oo anymore.

Miss Chandler has a little bookcase full of books in her

rooms. t t e en o sc oo , s e invite a us o er gir s — ucyan aze an ice an itt e ebecca reen, w o as con-

sumption but wasn’t too sick to come — to her boardinghouse.

e a c ic en sa a an ice cream an oo e at p otograp s

of Europe on the stereopticon. And we passed around a beau-

ti u poem ca e e ve o t. gnes an rea it a ou , an

thought it was the most wonderful poem I ever read. Even

Lucy and Hazel were civil to me, and I wished the eveningwou never come to an en .

But of course it did. And now I can’t go back to school. And

iss an er wasn t in t e c urc , not t is wee . waite

under the oak tree and watched everyone come out to be sure.

Alice waved to me, and I waved back, but I didn’t go forward

to spea to er. went ome an xe inner or t e men.

e nes ay, une t e ourteent , 1911

i n t t in it wou be so ar to write in t is iary every

day. Late spring is always busy on the farm. I spend my days

rus ing rom one ave-to to t e next ave-to. en can


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Y 11 Z

snatc a moment between t em, rea one o ear iss

Chandler’s books. I’d rather read than write.

y boo s aren t exact y prize boo s, because our sc oo

doesn’t hand out prize books. But for the past three years, Miss

an er as ta en me asi e, private y, an given me a boo

at t e en o t e year. to er we a none at ome, an

think she was sorry for me. The books she gave me are bound

in so t, imp eat er, wit t in paper, go e ge an e egant,

like Bible pages. I have Jane Eyre — that was the first year — and

Dombey and Son — t at was t e secon year — an Ivanhoe t at was ast year. ve rea an rerea t em a , but Jane Eyre s

the best, because it’s the most exciting and Jane is just like me.

Ivanhoe as u patc es, but it s very t ri ing w en rian e

Bois-Guilbert carries off the noble Jewess Rebecca because of

is unbri e passion. Dombey and Son is goo , but it ma es me

feel guilty because I’m not as good as Florence Dombey. I like

best t e part w ere er at er stri es er an s e runs awayto aptain utt e. e ta es suc goo care o er. ometimes

at night I like to pretend I’m Florence Dombey, lying beauti-

u y as eep in a c ean w ite be , wit aptain utt e tiptoeing

around, making me a roasted fowl.

ut at er never stri es me, t an eavens. e use to

w ip t e boys w en t ey were younger, but a wou n t et

him lay a hand on me. She said it wasn’t modest for a man to

w ip a gir . o at er never i , but e sai was too big or

my britches even though I didn’t wear any. That’s his idea of

umor — to say somet ing insu ting an unre ne . wis

a n t written it in t is boo .

Today I will contemplate the view from the kitchen window

an escribe t e beauties o nature. guess t at s re ne enoug


21/38

Y 12 Z

or anybo y. m sitting on t e itc en tab e because just gave

the floor a good scrub, and it’s still wet. Father is in town buy-

ng a part or one o is mac ines, an t e boys are wor ing

n the lower field. I can watch them from the window, so they

won t come bac to t e ouse an catc me i ing.

e panorama rom t e itc en win ow is very stri ing

because the ground falls away from the house and the barnyard

on a si es. ur ouse an barns rest on t e top o a steep i .

The hill is so steep that the land wasn’t too dear, and my great-

gran at er got a bargain w en e boug t it. e name it teepi arm, but a ter a time it became teep e — t ere isn t any

steeple nearby, so the name would be confusing to strangers,

except t at strangers se om come t is way. e arm is our-

teen acres and has been in the family for nigh on eighty years.

e youngest son is a ways t e one to in erit t e property.

Luke will have Steeple Farm some day, though Father says he’s

azy and a disappointment.e strawberries are c ose to ripe just now. a ancy

can smell them, sitting here by the open window, with my

iary on my nee. e breeze is very re res ing. e s y is

ofty and celestial blue, with gossamer clouds o’erhead, and

the wind chasing them all over the sky. The fields are verdant

green, an —

ater t at evening

, o , o am in t e most miserab e ain y w o e ace is

swollen and throbbing and I would cry my eyes out, except that

screwing up my ace pu s my stitc es. n o , ow orrib e


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Y 1 Z

oo am accurse — t e un uc iest gir w o ever ive ave

often thought so, but this proves it.

ow contente was, writing in my boo an contemp at-

ing the view of Steeple Farm from the kitchen window! How

itt e reame t at t is was t e beginning o anot er mis or-

tune oo e out t e win ow an saw t at ressy, t e ersey

cow, had escaped from the cow pasture and was heading up the

i to t e armyar .

It would be Cressy, of course. Luke says Cressy and I are

a i e — bot o us too smart or our own goo . ows weremeant to be stupi creatures, u e says, an so were women,

but Cressy and I are the exceptions that prove the rule. I abom-

inate u e or saying t at, but agree wit im about ressy.

She’s a bad cow. She never stays where you put her. She’ll find

t e wea est section o ence an ean er at re rump against

it, swaying back and forth until she works the top rail loose.

I’ve seen her do it. Last year she got out and trampled thestrawberry be an t ere were no strawberries to se . at er

was awful angry.

eape o t e tab e an ran out t e oor to catc er.

didn’t think to put my boots on — I was in the slovenly slippers

I wear around the house. I seized her by the halter and started

to rag er bac to t e pasture. e ba e . e gaze at me as

if she couldn’t imagine what I wanted.

wante to s ap er, because s e new per ect y we .

Of all the cows in the world, she’s not stupid. But I said,

us , cus , in my best cow voice, an tugge er a ter, an

s e starte orwar — on y er great, eavy oo came own on

my foot. Heaven knows it’s not the first time a horse or a cow

as tro on me, an it won t be t e ast, but on t reco ect


23/38

Y 1 Z

t e ot er times urting so ba . guess it was part y my s ippers

and partly the way her hoof came down. I yelled with pain and

s appe er s ou er, an s e b in e at me wit t ose ong

cow-y eyelashes, playing stupid. I leaned on her and shouted at

er an trie to ma e er get o , but s e was i e a stone cow,

s e was so sti — an a t e w i e my oot e t as i every bone

was splintering.

at i next was stupi . won t say it wasn t. bent

over and tugged at that leg of hers, as if I could pull her off my

oot. t was a brain ess t ing to o, because a cow s strengt isever so muc greater t an a gir s, an even i it weren t, cows

egs don’t move sideways. But I guess I startled Cressy, tugging

on er eg i e t at. o s e eci e to move orwar , an er

other front leg came forward, swift as lightning, and kneed me

n t e eye.

I screamed. There was blood everywhere, and I screamed

so loud that Cressy took off. I put my hands to my face and atonce t ey were coate s ic wit b oo , an b oo was running

down my cheek and inside the collar of my dress. I didn’t know

my eyeba a been noc e out o t e soc et or i was

going to be blind. I couldn’t know, and I couldn’t think. I only

knew I hurt and there was too much blood, so I kept scream-

ng. t was ar w o got to me rst, t an o , an e urt

me, swiping the blood away with his rough sleeve and shouting

at me, eman ing to now w at appene . ina y ear im

say, “ Thank God, Sis, it’s not your eye. It’s the skin above it. It’s

not your eye. n t en, as i e cou n t quite be ieve it, e

covere my goo eye wit is an an as e , an you see

I could. My eyelashes were sticky with blood, and already


24/38

Y 15 Z

my eye was swe ing up so t at t e wor oo e bizarre. t was

too colorful, the green grass and the blue sky and the blood

bea s on my eye as es. gu pe , es, an ar put is arms

around me. It was just for the moment, but I loved him for it.

e ast time e e me i e t at was t e ay o a s unera .

n e sai , an o , t an o .

Then Matthew and Luke were there, and Mark said I ought

to ave a octor, an u e too o i e a s ot to bri e a orse,

and Matthew went to catch Cressy. Mark took me inside and

trie to stop t e b ee ing wit a rag ippe in co water. vent oug was in pain an terrib y rig tene , remembere

left my diary on the table. I made Mark wash his hands and

i e it un er t e is towe s.

When Dr. Fosse came, the wound was still bleeding. He

wante to stitc it — r. osse s a great one or stitc ing — but

I couldn’t bear the thought of a needle so close to my eye. Dr.

Fosse said not to make a fuss, and he told me how earlier thiswee e put teen stitc es into t e arm o a seven-year-o

boy, and the boy never shed a tear. That shamed me, but I still

cou n t stan it. u e e me own wit one nee an ar

held my head still, and Dr. Fosse stitched me up, and all the

while he was going on about that seven-year-old boy and ask-

ing w y cou n t be brave i e im. it a my eart, ate

that nasty, unnatural, unfeeling little boy. But at last the stitches

were a one, an r. osse wipe my ace c ean an c ec e

to see if my toes were broken. None of them were.

terwar , was orrib y as ame t at ye e so ou .

u e sai baw e i e a ei er. ave a ways t oug t t at i

something dreadful happened, I would be very brave, but when


25/38

Y 1 Z

someone as a nee e next to your eye, it s i erent. mig t

ave been brave if it hadn’t been my eye. All the same, I was

morti e because ebecca in Ivanhoe wou n t ave carrie on

ike that, and I don’t believe Jane Eyre would have, either. But

orence ombey wou ve. e cries er way t roug a eig t

un re pages o Dom ey an Son. ust because s e s un ove .

After the doctor left, I went to my room and slept a short

w i e, but t en att ew rappe on my oor. e sai it was

suppertime and they’d all agreed to make do with a cold meal,

because o my eye. e seeme to t in t at was an some ot em, w ic aggravate me. t oug t about not answering, pre-

tending to be asleep, and not coming down. But then I remem-

bere ast winter, w en a t e grippe an cou n t get out o

bed for four days. The men made an awful mess of the kitchen.

ey e t t e irty is es in t e sin , an everyt ing was stic y

and greasy and crumby by the time I was well enough to come

downstairs. And in four days they never once cleaned therivy. , ear eavens, t at is vu gar again ut ow am to

be anything but vulgar, living in such a house?

went ownstairs an s ice am an brea an c eese an

made sandwiches. I put out jelly and pickles and cold baked

beans. I couldn’t chew, because my face was too sore, but I

a a g ass o mi an some o t e beans. at er oo e at me

and said, “That eye’s near swollen shut. Maybe that’ll keep you

rom rea ing instea o oing your c ores. ow eart ess e

s! He was vexed with Mark for sending for the doctor, because

t e woun mig t ave men e wit out stitc ing, an now

t ere be a bi to pay.

All through supper, Father reminded Mark of the

expenses we ve a t is spring. ar i n t answer bac . e


26/38

Y 17 Z

just s ove e in is oo . very now an t en at er wou a

silent, and we’d think it was over, but then he’d start up again.

t was an unp easant mea , even or teep e arm. ut t e

men ate just as much as usual. When I stood up to clear away

t e p ates, e t rai an s a y. won ere ow muc b oo

ost an i it was enoug to ma e me aint. wis e cou

faint, right in front of everyone. But I didn’t. I cleared up the

is es an s ippe my iary out rom un er t e is towe s an

brought it upstairs.

oo e at myse in t e mirror, an o , wante to cry.y ace is a swo en an out o s ape, an brig t purp e, an

then there are those four black stitches, each one crusted with

ar -re scabs. t oug t about praying, but wasn t sure w at

o pray or because what’s done is done. I said, “Dear Mother

o o , an or a moment imagine t e esse ot er s i t-

ing the baby Jesus into the crook of her arm, so that she could

reach out and lay her soft hand on my cheek. I imagined hersaying, ere, now, t e way a use to o, an a at once

missed Ma so much I couldn’t stand it.

en was very pat etic. went to my c est an too out

Belinda, the rag doll Ma made for my sixth birthday. I crawled

into bed with Belinda in my lap and rocked her. When I was

six, t oug t e in a was t e most beauti u o in t e wor ,

better than any wax or china-faced doll. Now that I’m fourteen,

won er ow a manage er. e in a s pigtai s are merino

wool, and Ma made her wig so beautifully you can’t see her

sca p t roug t e yarn. n e in a s ress is si , w ic a

embroi ere wit owers. e si must ave been a remnant,

but even so, Ma must have spent a lot of her egg money to

buy it. t e time t at went into ma ing me t at o — er


27/38

Y 1 Z

petticoat is trimme wit t ree rows o ru es, an t ere are

more ruffles on her apron. Oh, Ma loved me; that much is sure

an certain.

One thing about Belinda is a secret. Under the ruffles, her

apron is sti . t s sti because a sewe money insi e t e

em — o ar bi s. on t now ow many; rom t e sti ness,

t might be ten or even fifteen. The summer before she died,

a to me s e was going to stitc t e money insi e e in a s

apron, and that money was just for me, for a time when I really

nee e it. ot or toys, s e w ispere , an remember owot an s arp er w isper e t against my ear. ot or toys

or clothes or candy or pretty things. That money’s for some-

t ing important. m ever not ere to e p you, remember t at

money’s there for you, right in Belinda’s apron.”

was nine years o , an scare . i n t i e er ta ing

about a time when she wouldn’t be around to help me. I sup-

ose new even t en t at a wasn t strong. e was tooe icate to be a armer s wi e. e a terrib e ea ac es, an

sometimes she’d stop working because she couldn’t get her

breat . ven at nine, was stronger t an s e was. ometimes

at the end of a day, she’d say, “I’ve worked you too hard,” but

then she would smile and touch my cheek and say, “but never

min , you re a strong gir an a goo gir an a great e p to me.

That’s the thing you’ve got to remember.” And I did remember

t, a ter s e ie .

I wish I looked like Ma. She always said she wasn’t pretty,

but s e was sma an t in an quic in er movements — i e

ane yre, maybe. i e to oo in t e mirror an see a s ace

nstead of my own. But the only thing I inherited from Ma was

er b ue eyes. or t e rest o it, oo i e at er, wit a ace


28/38

Y 1 Z

as wi e as a s ove , an broa s ou ers an a big mout . t s

not such a bad look for the men — Luke is even handsome —

but it s wrong or a gir . rat er oo i e a, more e icate

and refined. But oh! just now I caught a glimpse of myself in the

mirror — a swo en an purp e an gob in-is — an give

just about anyt ing to oo i e myse again.

on ay, une t e nineteent , 1911

o ay was was ay. t was rea u y ot, an t an e o

when I finished with the boiling water and moved on to the

rinsing stage. was wringing out at er s trousers w en saw

someone coming up the hill. It was a lady in a dove-gray suit and

a eg orn at. raise my an to s a e my eyes, to ma e sure

it wasn’t a mirage of some kind. But it was dear Miss Chandler,

and there could be no doubt that she was coming to see me. roppe at er s trousers an race own t e i to meet

her. Joy gave my feet wings; I felt like the Roman god Mercury.

e on y t ing was, orgot about my ace. y bruise toes

were all right, but my face hurt something awful when I lit off

like that. Never mind: I clamped one hand over my stitches

an boun e i e a eer. n an instant was at er si e. iss

Chandler!” I panted, and I would have clasped her hands,

except t ey were u . iss an er

She gazed at me searchingly. She was out of breath from

c imbing t e i , an er c ee s were pin . e was carrying

a big arm u o snowba b ossoms, wrappe in wet newspaper,

and the satchel she brings to school. The idea flashed through

my ea — it was brig t an quic , i e a s ooting star — t at


29/38

Y 20 Z

s e mig t ave boo s or me in er satc e . en e t a pang o

shame because it was miracle enough that Miss Chandler had

come to visit me. s ou n t ave t oug t beyon t at.

“Dear Joan,” said Miss Chandler, “are you quite well?”

orgotten ow aw u oo . e bruises ave c ange

co or since e nes ay. ey aren t brig t purp e an s iny

anymore; they’re a sort of thunder color. The swelling on my

ore ea ma es a pu e -up ri ge t at oo s i e a t ir eye-

brow. When Miss Chandler gazed into my face, she winced,

an remembere ow rig t u oo . course, ould bewearing my o est ress — a oose ot er ubbar t at use

to be blue; it’s a nasty shade of yellow-gray now — and my feet

were bare. oo e aw u an new it, but it s been so ot a

week. And who puts on a good dress to do the laundry?

a an acci ent, began, an toget er we turne to

climb the hill. I made my steps short to match hers. I walked

backward in front of her, so I could feast my eyes on her face.t s a curious t ing, but a ways remember iss an er

as being taller than she is. She’s really a little woman, but I

t in o er as being bigger t an me, so w en see er, it s a

surprise. She’s beautiful, though, for an older lady. Even though

she was warm and out of breath, she looked perfectly lovely.

er snow-w ite air was one up just rig t, an er suit t so

elegant. Ma used to say that if I became a schoolteacher one

ay, ave pretty c ot es. ey ave suits or gir s my age —

Peter Thompson suits, they’re called — but I’ve never had one.

aze ry as two: a ar - b ue one or every ay an a pa e- b ue

inen or goo .

It turns out Miss Chandler knew about my accident. Dr.

osse to is wi e about it, an t eir ire gir , etty, is sister


30/38

Y 21 Z

to mi y, t e gir w o wor s at iss an er s boar ing-

house. “Then it’s true, Joan?” Miss Chandler stopped to rest

un er t e s a e o a map e tree. ou were ic e in t e ace

by a cow

nee is more i e, sai , an acte it out or er. e

oo e so worrie t at ma e un o myse as to t e ta e.

clowned for her, heaving away at the leg of an imaginary cow.

iss an er was sti us e rom c imbing t e i , but s e

smiled, and something smoothed out in her face.

ut even as was te ing my story, ma ing it unny to seter min at ease, was worrying. a a y pays a ca on you,

you ask her in, of course, but I didn’t want Miss Chandler to

see insi e our ouse. veryt ing s so coarse- oo ing an o -

fashioned and falling apart. And I didn’t know what to give her

to rin . t s too ot or a cup o co ee. e prettiest t ing to

give her would be a glass of lemonade, but we never buy lem-

ons. There’s a tin of tea in the pantry, but it’s awfully old. Mawas t e one t at ran tea; at er i es on y co ee an beer.

Then an idea came to me, and I was so excited I interrupted

ear iss an er, w o was saying ow provi entia it was

that my eyesight hadn’t been damaged. “We can have a picnic!”

I said. “Wait here, and I’ll fetch you a chair to sit on. It’s cooler

in t e s a e t an in t e ouse.

“I mustn’t stay,” Miss Chandler said, and I saw her eyes

pass over t e e s. won ere i s e was oo ing or at er.

“Please,” I begged, “just for a little while! I have a surprise

or you. n sti ave your an erc ie , wit t e vio ets on

it. ease stay.

I could see in her face that she wasn’t sure if she wanted

to stay. ut s e aug e a itt e an an e me t e owers.


31/38

Y 22 Z

broug t you t ese, s e sai . rs. ansing at t e boar ing-

ouse said I might pick them. She sends her best wishes and

opes you soon be ee ing better.

I said, “How very kind” in my best manner, but I wanted

to aug . cou see t at iss an er a imagine me i e

an inva i in a boo , ying in be an aving owers broug t

to me. Instead I was up and doing the wash. Why, I cleaned

t e c ic en ouse t e ay a ter t e acci ent — gure i was

going to be miserable, I might as well get the chicken house

c eane at t e same time. ate t at job. too t e snowba s into t e ouse an set t em in t e

sink. I smoothed out the pieces of wet newspaper, to read later

on, an as e out wit one o t e itc en c airs. set it in t e

shade for Miss Chandler, and I went back in to prepare our pic-

nic. an eavens a t e strawberries ipe strawberries

and real cream are good enough for anybody. If the Queen of

England came to Steeple Farm, I shouldn’t be ashamed to giveer our strawberries an cream.

I charged upstairs to Ma’s hope chest. There were linen

nap ins insi e — emstitc e — an itt e c ina bow s wit

roses on them, too fragile for everyday. I found silver spoons

and rubbed the tarnish off them as quick as ever I could. The

itc en tray s a scratc e an staine oo ing, but covere

t with a napkin, and I sugared the berries well — brown sugar

s tastier, but w ite is aintier, so use w ite. en poure

on the cream. For a moment it puzzled me what the tray would

sit on, because t e itc en tab e s too eavy to rag out oors.

ut pic e up a stoo , an set t e tray on t at, an carrie t e

whole kit and caboodle out to the elm tree.

ere s t e surprise, sai , an set own t e stoo an t e


32/38

Y 2 Z

tray. pic e t e strawberries just t is morning, an t e cream

came from the cow that kicked me in the face.”

iss an er aug e . e as suc a sweet aug , not

loud like mine, and she looked quite happily at the strawberries

an cream. ey i oo ove y.

m a rai interrupte your wor , s e sai , an you ave

no chair.”

on t nee one, sai , an sat own at er eet. a most

forgot and sat cross-legged, which I do when I’m on my bed,

but in t e nic o time san own grace u y an tuc e myeet un er my s irt. t t at moment — wit my own bow o

strawberries and cream, knowing that Miss Chandler had come

to see me because was urt, an nowing but trying not to

think about the books she might have brought me — I was per-

ect y appy.

But I didn’t stay happy. Not perfectly happy, anyway. The

first trouble was that I couldn’t think of what to say to Missan er. sua y saw er in sc oo , w ere s e was a ways

teaching me something, and I could think of tons of things to

say — my opinions about poetry an amous writers an so

forth. But she’d never come to call before, and I felt shy. I think

s e i , too, because t ere were pauses between everyt ing we

sai . en s e began to te me about a new pupi s e met

at an ice-cream social: “One who reminds me of yourself, dear

oan. is new gir is name vy i espie, an iss an er

says she is like me: “A regular bookworm and, I think, quite

clever. y joy was poisone by jea ousy as imagine vy

i espie going to sc oo w en can t, an iss an er i -

ing her better than me.

t seems to me t at teac ers are a itt e bit eart ess. ey


33/38

Y 2 Z

greet eac new wave o pupi s an c oose w ic ones t ey

ike best, and then, when the students grow up and leave

sc oo , t ey orget a about t em an turn to t e next wave.

thought those thoughts and I was in a kind of panic, because I

was sore wit envy. i n t want to be. iss an er was sit-

ting t ere rig t in ront o me, an s e mig t never come again,

and if I couldn’t enjoy myself having strawberries and cream

wit er — we , i n t now w at was t e matter wit me.

Then I noticed Miss Chandler looking over my shoulder,

nervous- i e. turne to see w at s e was oo ing at, an t erewas at er, coming up t e i . orgot a about vy i espie

and worried about Father. I could tell from the set of his shoul-

ers e wasn t in a goo umor, an a at once reco ecte t at

hadn’t finished the laundry, and his trousers were lying on the

grass. new at er wou n t i e seeing a s si ver spoons or

the little china bowls. Or the strawberries, either, because most

of those we sell.ut t ere wasn t anyt ing cou o. cou n t i e t e pic-

nic things or make Miss Chandler vanish into thin air. I stopped

istening to iss an er an starte to pray. oly Mother of

God, I thought, don’t let Father be ugly to Miss Chandler.

His footfalls came closer. At last I couldn’t stand waiting

any onger. got to my eet an turne to ace im. saw im

with Miss Chandler’s eyes. Father’s a powerful man, and big.

e was wearing is barn c ot es, an you cou sme t em. is

shirt was soaked with sweat and he had his sleeves rolled up,

an e i n t smi e. at er, sai , t is is iss an er. e

came to ca on me. e i n t say anyt ing, t e way e oes, so

added, “My teacher.”


34/38

Y 25 Z

ou on t go to sc oo , at er sai curt y. e turne is

head and spoke direct to Miss Chandler. “My daughter won’t

be coming bac to sc oo . e s nee e at ome.

“I understand. Of course,” said Miss Chandler. She sounded

uttery. oan to me about er uties ere. ope you on t

t in t at wou try to come between a gir an er uty.

It flashed through my mind that I wished someone would

try to come between me an my uty. ut t ere wasn t time to

mull over that. I was watching Father’s face. He looked from

t e tray an t e empty bow s over to w ere t e was tub stoo ,as i to say iss an er was eeping me rom my uty t is

very m nute.

e i it so pointe y t at iss an er caug t on. er

cheeks turned pink, and she looked flustered. I stiffened my

spine an sai , t was very goo o iss an er to ca on

me. She heard I was hurt, and she brought me flowers.”

Miss Chandler picked up her satchel. She started to fumbleat t e atc . t oug t per aps oan mig t be ai up in be .

brought her some books to help pass the time.”

e rew out t e boo s. ere were t ree o t em —

two small reddish- brown books, one of them right thick, and

a bigger book that was green, with gold letters on the spine.

reac e or t em. cou n t e p myse . new t at iss

Chandler was in a hurry to leave, and that Father might go into

one o is tempers any moment. wante t ose boo s in my

arms, safe.

ut at er was too quic or me. is arm as e out, ma -

ing a barrier between iss an er s boo s an my an s.

She flinched and stepped back, clutching the books to her


35/38

Y 2 Z

breast. at er s arm is as ar as iron, an s e was as rig tene

as if he’d struck her. The way he moved, so fast and strong and

angry — it wasn t proper to treat a a y ca er i e t at.

“She don’t need books to pass the time.” His voice was thick

wit scorn. e can waste time wit out you e ping er,

guess. e rea s too muc as it is.

“I don’t,” I began indignantly. “I only read at night — mostly.”

oan as a great t irst or now e ge, iss an er sai .

er voice was shaky, but she was taking up for me. My heart

swe e wit ove. ut at t e same time, wis e s e woustop. t never oes any goo to spea against at er. ve never

ad a brighter student, or one who works harder. I’m not saying

s e must return to sc oo , but a gir can better erse i s e as

books. I’d like to help Joan.” She was trembling, but she spoke

wit suc neness an ignity — ve never seen anyone so

brave and so ladylike at the same time. “I know that some

people think that a girl becomes less womanly if her intellect isover eve ope , but it is my be ie t at a gir is better tte or

marriage and motherhood —”

at er aug e . t wasn t a natura soun , or a appy one.

When most people laugh, it’s like water splashing over the lip

of a pitcher. The thing happens easily, and it wants to go on.

at er s aug was i e coug ing up somet ing rom t e bac o

is throat.

arriage an mot er oo e sai . e jer e is ea

toward me. “Who’s going to marry her ? No one’s going to take

er o my an s. e on t nee boo s to t er or marriage

an mot er oo .

Miss Chandler glanced at me. It was a quick look, but I saw

t at s e was sorry or me, an was as ame . ometimes m


36/38

Y 27 Z

g a w en peop e are sorry or me, but t is was i erent.

Father never said before that no one would want to marry me. I

i n t now e t oug t it t roug .

“If Joan does not marry,” Miss Chandler said tremulously,

s e wi nee an e ucation more t an ever. un erstan t at

er mot er —

Father’s face darkened. “Her ma filled her head with non-

sense, e sai . e wante oan to be a sc oo teac er. e ,

she can’t be a schoolteacher, because she’s needed at home.

e s got wor to o ere, wor s e s t or. e xe iseyes on t e trousers, t en oo e ar at iss an er. ou

needn’t come back,” he said, and went up the path to the house.

stoo umbstruc . cou n t be ieve t at e spo en to

Miss Chandler that way — to Miss Chandler. I heard her take in

er breat , an t e way s e i it, i n t ave to oo to now

she was almost crying. I understood. There’s something about

at er t at wea ens you. t s t e c o e - own anger insi eim. t s i e stagnant water, eavy an mur y an sic ening.

Whenever I have words with Father, I feel poisoned, even two

or t ree ays a ter.

And of course, Miss Chandler isn’t used to being treated

like that. Everyone in these parts knows she’s a good teacher

an a rea a y. put out my an to touc er s eeve. ease —

I didn’t rightly know what I was saying please or. Please don’t

cry, maybe. r: Please don’t let him keep you from coming again. ut

she said under her breath, “I’d better leave,” and her hands were

s a ing as s e jamme t e boo s bac in er satc e .

o owe er own t e i . oun myse jabbering, say-

ing that Father hadn’t meant what he said, that it was just one

o is umors. to er s e must come again an to er t e


37/38

Y 2 Z

times w en at er is usua y out. ut s e wasn t istening. e

wanted to get away so bad. She hadn’t even fastened the satchel

roper y, an t roug t e open part saw t e go etters on

the green book. The Mill on the Floss. Miss Chandler had told

me about t at one, an so wante to rea it. e t t e sting

o t at oss, an s ame swept over me, because was t in ing

about myself, instead of Miss Chandler. It isn’t that I don’t love

iss an er. o — o — wit a my eart t s just t at

couldn’t help seeing the title on the book.

gave up pursuing er w en we reac e t e spot w eret e i eve e out. e wasn t answering me, or even istening,

because she was too busy pretending she wasn’t crying. I ought

to ave t an e er or a er in ness, but i n t t in o it.

Thank you goes with good-bye, an wasn t rea y to say goo -

bye. ut at ast b urte out t at wou never orget er. n

then we separated, and both of us were weeping.

ues ay, une t e twentiet , 1911

t’s past midnight and I can’t sleep. I can’t lie still. My face aches

an can t stop ating at er. ese past two ours, ve one

not ing but toss an turn. ve been p umping an o ing my

illow, trying to make it cradle my head, but it won’t. My hatred

as craw e into t e pi ow s ip an ma e a ump.

So I’ve left my bed and lit a candle to write in this book —

dear iss an er s boo . remember ow w en s e gave it

to me, a a notion t at mig t one ay write somet ing very

eloquent and beautiful in it, something I could show her. Now I

now never see er again.


38/38

The Hired Girl

Laura Amy Schlitz

www.candlewick.com
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-hired-girl-laura-amy-schlitz/1121377483?ean=9780763678180http://www.amazon.com/Hired-Girl-Laura-Amy-Schlitz/dp/076367818X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1429722095&sr=1-1&keywords=the+hired+girlhttp://www.indiebound.org/book/9780763678180

the hired girl chapter sampler

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