After Julia: A Novel

By Linda D. Edwards

The Durants Victorian household operated effi ciently until a spring day in 1911 when the nanny left her cherished charge, four-yearold Julia, alone at play. Life for occupants of the Druid Heights mansion of Baltimore, Maryland permanently changed both upstairs and down following the childs death. Follow individual family members and servants for a year during which the spirit of little Julia roams, lonely and puzzled that no one can see her, hear her. She silently watches her father
grieve while both her nanny and her mother are sent away, and others come and go as their lives are altered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469173122

Linda D. Edwards

Linda D. Edwards is a minister’s wife. A biblical storyteller, she regularly teaches Bible studies and leads women’s conferences. Her articles have appeared in such publications as Church Administration Magazine and Journey. She and her husband, Billy, have been in the ministry for thirty-five years. They are from Louisiana.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

May 1, 1911

Baltimore, Maryland

Little Julia

Tea with Mrs. McBee, you and me and Mrs. McBee, four-year-old Julie Durant chirped in a tuneless singsong as she skipped across the front lawn of her parents’ Victorian house.

I’ll just be a minute, the child’s nanny called from the porch to her little charge playing below. I’ll get the lemonade and wee cakes. We’ll have a nice tea with your dolly. The pristine, overdressed lady doll, Mrs. McBee, watched silently with painted china eyes from a wicker table in a matching white chair on the veranda. The nanny scurried off to fetch the promised tea tray, feeling secure in leaving her charge briefly at play in the yard, as she had done so many times before. After all, it was private and fenced with high, decorative wrought iron befitting such a house.

Tea with— the child’s song was suddenly cut short when she tripped on an uneven decorative paver circling a maple tree and went sprawling, hitting her temple on the corner of a stone bench. Blood spurted profusely. She lay in her crumpled green-print cotton dress, multiple petticoats clustered like white rose petals encircling matching bloomers. Her high-topped, buttoned boots lay crossed casually at the ankles. Ringlets spilled over the child’s face, soaking up blood, turning strands crimson against her white cheeks drained of color.

Nanny Catherine’s tea preparations were prolonged, as they were prone to be, by a chatty conversation with the cook.

Jimmy Calhoun whistled Come Away with Me, Lucille as he hoisted his mail sack higher on his sore shoulder. Making one motion count for two, he also grabbed the bundle of Durant letters. Calhoun swung the heavy iron gate open and headed for the swirl-covered postbox on the wide porch, dotted with rockers, palms, and wicker set in the corner bow under a copula. Suddenly his pace slowed, lips still puckered, his song stuck in his throat. He tried to make sense of the green and white heap near the lounging bench in the shade of the maple. He took a hesitant step. He leaned forward, squinting, pondering.

Miss Julie? Miss Julie, you playing over there? Calhoun ran to the tiny inert body. He knelt and wiped the bloody curls away. Oh Lord! he cried just as Nanny McGee turned the corner of the veranda with her tray.

Catherine’s hands flew to her mouth when she saw the scene below. Miriam Durant’s crystal pitcher shattered, along with its two matching ice-filled glasses as they hit the veranda floor, scattering freshly baked cookies and permanently denting the silver tray landing atop the debris. Nanny stood hands over her gaping mouth, momentarily paralyzed, then sprang into action hurling down the steps crying, Baby! My baby! Julie, child! What’s happened? Reaching her charge, Catherine shoved Jimmy Calhoun aside. She gathered the limp toddler to her ample bosom, smearing her white uniform with Julie’s blood.

The mail carrier still knelt beside the two. He put a hand on Catherine’s shoulder and said, You’d best get your mistress, Catherine, and be quick about it!

A blond angel tot sat on a lower branch of the maple looking down at dear Nanny and the friendly mailman who teased her curls whenever he saw her. There was no blood soiling her hair now. Her forehead was also unblemished.

Nanny didn’t even remember her swift descent of the front steps. Now, having laid little Julie gently on the lawn and leaving her in Jimmy’s care, her ascent was considerably slower as she moaned, What will I do? What will I ever do? What will happen now? With one foot on the porch, her head flew up and she screamed, Mrs. Durant! Mrs. Durant! Come quick! It’s Miss Julia!

I’m just fine, Nanny, the angel child tried to call. Don’t worry about me.

Cook, Everett, everybody come! It’s Julie! It’s my poor, sweet, little Julie—ooooh. Suddenly she swooned into a side chair just inside the over decorated foyer, upsetting a Boston fern and its stand as she swayed.

Everett deftly caught the fern in both hands, but the tall, slender stand hit the floor. His wife Claire, the cook, righted it and looked up the curved staircase in panic. Whatever are you thinking, Everett? The Mistress is partial to this piece. Turning to the howling nurse, she shook her cohort and hissed sharply, Catherine McGee, collect yourself, woman! The mistress will hear you!

She must, Catherine hiccupped, her chest heaving. God help us, she must. It’s my baby. It’s my little Julie.

The tiny figure stood in the open door, her green dress unrumpled. I’m all right, really. Don’t fret.

"What on earth is all of this caterwauling?" Miriam Durant demanded from the curve of her magnificent stair. She was trim and fashionable in her morning dress of airy green cotton lawn.

Jennifer Hensley, Miriam Durant’s personal maid, peeked down from the top of the stair. She held a hairbrush and green velvet ribbon in anticipation of completing Madam’s coiffure.

Meanwhile the little figure raced up the stair to join her parent. Hush, Mama. Don’t be mad with Nanny. Hush now.

William and Claire Everett each stepped away from Catherine McGee, thus exposing her mussed appearance to their mistress’ glare. All three stared, silent.

Nanny, why are you sitting there when you should be supervising Miss Julia? Where is she? Miriam Durant insisted as she moved toward the cluster of her employees, her maid timidly trailing at a distance.

The child moved with her mother. I’m here, right here. See?

If you have left her alone again, I will fire you. Receiving no response, she added, Without a reference! The mistress of the house was irate by their collective silence. She stopped before Catherine McGee, who shot up and stood trembling. Then she spotted the bright red smears on Catherine’s uniform. Stunned, Miriam Durant stepped forward and extended an uncertain hand, nearly touching the offending scarlet. What does this mean? she asked in a voice that was scarcely a whisper.

A tiny hand touched the red spot with a phantom stroke.

Nurse Nanny Catherine McGee turned her white face toward the door, gesturing with a trembling hand. There’s been an accident, Mum, she hiccupped. Little Julie, I mean Miss Julia… Nanny’s blood-smeared hand dropped, then she grabbed her apron to cover her yawning mouth as another great sob escaped.

Hands on her hips, the little angel said, I just fell down. I’ve fallen before, ever-so-many times, for goodness sakes. Look! I’m not hurt.

Staring at the blood, this time Miriam Durant clutched both of the woman’s hands and breathed, Where is… ? She rushed out the double doors but stopped at the porch’s edge.

Julia rejoined her friend, Jimmy Calhoun on the lawn.

The mailman sat, dejected, beside the body of the child who was now flat on her back. He was seated on the ground, leaned against the bench, his head in his hands, which rested on his knees.

She patted his arm, trying to comfort her pal.

Taking the porch stair slowly, Mrs. Durant tried to decipher the sight. Suddenly noting blood on her daughter’s hair and forehead and on the man’s hands, she screamed, What have you done? What have you done to my daughter? Rushing forward, she fairly danced between the man and the child, hands flailing.

Julia tried to intercede. Reaching for her hand, she said, Look, Mother, look here at me. I’m not hurt.

Calhoun jumped up, alarm spread across this long, narrow face. No, Mrs. Durant, no! It wasn’t me! I done nothing. The little girl fell. Look! He pointed to a splotch of blood on the corner of the offending bench. It was an accident. She fell. She hit her head, mum. Won’t nobody’s fault. By now, Miriam Durant had dropped to her knees and hovered over her child, not daring to touch her.

The child stood beside them, looking at mother and inert child in sympathy.

Remembering, he pointed to the envelopes peppered over the velvet lawn. Calhoun gathered the mail and handed it off to Everett, who had accompanied his wife and Nanny outside. They were standing a respectful distance from their employer.

I’ll get Murphy, the mailman said to them, referring to the beat cop. I saw him down the street as I turned the corner. Then I need to be about my rounds. He pulled his sack back on his tender shoulder and exited the expensive gate shaking his head.

Angel Julia turned and waved—a gesture he did not see.

CHAPTER 2

May 1911

Druid Heights

Nanny Banished

Julia leaned unfelt against her beloved nurse, resting her blond curls on the uniformed shoulder, listening for someone to speak.

Nanny, Cook, and Butler sat around the basement kitchen table, nursing strong tea and nibbling broken cookies, rejects from the Durant’s tray. Catherine McGee’s face blotched, eyes swollen from hours of crying. William Everett sat ramrod straight, drumming the fingers of one hand unconsciously and grasping, but ignoring, the evening paper in the other. Claire Everett bustled, which was hard to do while seated. She brushed at imaginary crumbs, straightened the salt and peppershakers and vinegar cruet, centering them on a ceramic platter that was already squarely in the middle of the round table. Catherine McGee echoed her heavy sigh.

Everett had had the presence of mind to go immediately for Dr. Woodsy, who had given Miriam Durant a sedative. She lay within nearly closed curtains surrounding her high, four-poster bed. Matching draperies closed out the bright summer day.

Her maid, Jennifer, attended from the corner where she sat in a straight back chair, disappointed that her rendezvous with Pete, the stable hand, would not happen.

The little angel leaned her chin on cupped hand, her elbow resting on the silk coverlet. She wished she might comfort her mama, but because no one responded to her, she was beginning to understand her limitations.

Sloan Durant arrived home within minutes of Officer Murphy’s summons. How could his beloved Julia be dead? He’d laid down his pen, left his books wide open, and walked out of his office in a daze. Morgan, his assistant, trailed after him, attempting to assist Sloan into his pinstripe suit jacket. It was an act akin to dressing a moving manikin. Morgan instructed Griffin to leave his post at the bank’s main door and drive Mr. Durant home. Meanwhile, Morgan dashed back to his boss’s office to secure the sensitive papers he’d abandoned so uncharacteristically. Poor man, Morgan silently sympathized.

Still in shock, Sloan Durant sat in his darkened library, head in his left hand, leaning against the wing of his distressed leather chair. He’d forgotten the stout whiskey in his right hand, which was tipping precariously, threatening the exquisite Oriental rug. He’d dealt with his hysterical household in his quiet, dignified way and then sought solitude.

He was unaware of his cherished child, perched on the matching ottoman, was murmuring, "Poor Papa. I’m here. I’m not hurt. I wish you could see me! She rested her chin on both fists. Everybody’s so sad!"

First, he’d sent his distraught Miriam upstairs with Dr. Woodsy and an obedient Jennifer. Next, he’d listened to his man, Everett, who had calmly related the tragic events. As Everett left his employer’s library, he ushered in a trembling Catherine McGee, as instructed. Cook hovered with a tray of strong coffee, which her husband doubted Mr. Durant would touch, having already left a cut glass tumbler of his favorite Kentucky whiskey on a silver plate beside his wing chair.

Julia looked on from the leather footstool.

Miss McGee, please try to control yourself, he said in a voice even he did not recognize.

Julia sat up straighter.

This situation is—his voice broke, but he continued—um, difficult for everyone, for the entire household. He turned to the cold fireplace to deal with a threatening tear. Placing a hand on the mantle to steady himself, he went on, Mrs. Durant is most emphatic that you be dismissed.

Oh no. Don’t send Nanny away. I love her."

Catherine sucked in a sob. Sir, was all she could utter.

From what Everett, Cook, Calhoun, and Officer Murphy tell me… the… the tragedy was entirely an accident. I cannot blame you, but Miriam, Mrs. Durant, cannot, will not bear your presence. He turned to the destroyed woman who had been a faithful nurse, a companion to his child since birth. Miss McGee. He drew a resolute breath. You understand that a nanny is unnecessary in a childless—his hand flew to his brow—in a house without a child.

Julia sprang up and stomped her little foot. "But I’m here! Right here. She pointed to herself. Don’t make Nanny go away."

Yes, sir, came a timid reply. Will I… ? Will you… Mrs. Durant said she wouldn’t give me a reference.

She was distraught, as we all are. I’ll give you a reference. He looked up at the attractive middle-aged woman. Strands of fair hair loosed from her bun fell into her troubled, tearstained face. He added, A good reference, but you must pack and leave this house early tomorrow morning so that Mrs. Durant does not see you again. Agreed?

She gave a barely discernable positive nod and crept away.

Please, Papa, Nanny can’t go. Talk to Mama. She ran from one adult to the other until the library door clicked shut.

Back in Claire Everett’s immaculate kitchen, the three servants sat numbly over their cold tea. William Everett had been summoned and had delivered Nanny’s reference letter and two month’s severance pay.

Her little charge stood just beside the butler’s pantry door, listening.

Where will you go, Catherine? Cook asked her friend of four years.

I don’t know, Claire. Who will hire me now?

I mean immediately—tomorrow morning.

Maybe my sister, Maeve, will keep me for a few days. She heaved a deep sigh. I hate to show up on her doorstep, sacked, begging for charity. Her chin quivered, threatening another cloudburst.

Sure, she’ll have you, William Everett spoke up, reassuring her. You’re family. Count on it, Catherine. Go to her and have a few weeks’ rest while you see what employment is on the horizon, he advised.

Yes, yes. That I’ll do. Maeve’s husband is a good fellow. I will help her with her housework and her brood. Catherine sat up straighter. She doubted all the while that her younger sister would be glad to have her.

Stepping forward, Julia rested her small hand on Catherine’s sleeve. May I come too—to visit, to know where you are?

Catherine McGee didn’t sleep that night. She thought she might never sleep again. Instead, she wept as she packed her few possessions into her wicker satchel and canvas valise, carried them into Cook’s kitchen, and tried to soothe her heavy heart through the night with the constant motion of Claire Everett’s pine rocking chair. Inky darkness gave way to the cloudy overcast of dawn. Meanwhile, her original questions echoed over and over in her devastation. What will happen to me? What will I do? Who will hire me?

The immediate answer to her predicament was both obvious and distasteful—her sister, Maeve. Younger, prettier, gifted, lucky—Maeve had been the object of both parents’ blatant partiality. All her life, she was declared too young to do the housework or field work required of Catherine and their siblings. A slip of a girl, their mother declared Maeve a delight to sew for in contrast to Catherine’s buxom bust and thick waist since age twelve.

These bitter memories were interrupted when Claire bustled into the faint light, which crept through the high, wide kitchen windows. Cook felt for the overhead rope to lower and light the multiple oil lamps centered over her worktable. Catherine remained inert. She vaguely watched her friend’s progress.

Cook’s sharp intake of breath was followed by, My god, Catherine! You scared the daylights out of me! Peering closely at the woman’s pale, drawn face, she asked, How long have you been sitting there?

Catherine shrugged. Cook walked the few steps to Nanny’s vacated room and took in the austerity and abandonment. She noted the full laundry basket beside her door and asked, Didn’t you go to bed at all?

Nanny’s vacant eyes moved from her lap to her friend. No, Claire. I stripped the bed first thing—before packing. She gestured at the pitiful pile of luggage.

Little Julia rubbed angel sleep from her sad eyes and eavesdropped from her bottom step. You mustn’t go, she wanted to tell her second mother.

Peter O’Shea tapped at the kitchen door and entered without invitation. It’s goin’ a be a sweltering trip, Cath… ah, Miss McGee, and a bumpy one over those country roads on that old buckboard the boss told me to use.

The two women stared forlornly at the brusque young stable hand.

So, is this all you have then? he asked, hoisting the two parcels and making for the door. We’ll be off, he called over his shoulder.

Still the two women did not move and only looked at each other. William Everett’s entrance broke their silence. He walked over and took Nanny’s hand, gently pulling her to her feet. Oh, Catherine, we will miss you, he said as he led her to the door.

Claire Everett mopped her eyes with the corner of her huge apron. Write to us, Catherine. Send your address as it changes. Don’t let’s lose touch, my dear.

Catherine could only nod, dry eyed, as she allowed Everett to deposit her onto the wagon seat. She did not look back as Pete whipped the pair into action.

Unseen, little Julia stood in the door, feeling abandoned as she watched her lifelong nurse and companion round the corner out of their lives. I want to go with you, Nanny. Take me with you, she pleaded.

All the starch had melted from Catherine McGee’s print dress and from her proud posture during the long, tiresome trip that O’Shea predicted. His freckles multiplied and his red hair glistened in the sun. The horse-drawn wagon bumped over miles of dirt ruts across Maryland’s countryside and over the cobblestones in the small village of Ames where Aaron Ryan, Maeve’s husband, was the hamlet’s constable.

Peter pulled in front of the modest white clapboard house that Catherine pointed out. He did not bother to offer his passenger a hand down. Impatiently he hefted her two pieces of luggage onto the narrow doorstep. The gray door jerked open. The woman of the house snapped, "And what’s this?" She glared first at the bags and then at her older sister. She pressed against her door jam to begrudgingly allow her unexpected intruder to pass inside.

Peter O’Shea had already turned the vehicle around and was making progress down the lane by the time Catherine secured a bag in each hand and entered where she felt the sting of being so clearly unwelcome.

Fired! Maeve hissed to Aaron with a jerk of her head toward her sister, who was tenderly engaged with the Ryans’ infant while reading to four-year-old son, Jeffery.

Aaron watched his sister-in-law and murmured with sympathy, But isn’t she grand with the babes? You should enjoy her help for a while, love.

"Don’t tell me what I should be about, Aaron Ryan!" Narrowing her eyes first at her husband, then at her sister.

CHAPTER 3

June 1911

Ames, Maryland

From Discord to Destination

Tell her she has to go! I’ll not stand her here any longer. I won’t. Maeve flicked her dishrag out with a pop and scoured her table furiously.

Ah, Maeve, my dear, Catherine has only been here these ten days. Surely you’ll not turn her out before she finds employment.

An overheard conversation between the mayor and a visiting dignitary ultimately solved Aaron Ryan’s household dilemma. The stranger from Virginia was recently widowed and was in the hamlet, in fact, for his wife’s funeral. At the very moment that they were passing Constable Ryan on duty at the family cemetery, he heard the bereaved fellow say, I am utterly helpless, Mayor, left far from home with my motherless brood of five. Our nurse succumbed to the same influenza epidemic that took my Adele.

Later that very