Why Are You Weeping, Sister?

Chapter 2

August, 1909

Gawd, but Gwendolyn hated this house! Within twenty-four hours of burying her father, she had been forced to move with her mother into Baltimore City. They went from living in a two story home, with five bedrooms and lots of sunlight, to living in a narrow rowhouse near Mount Vernon. There was no yard to speak of, no room for more than the pampered Persian cat her mother seemed to have acquired somewhere, and the new Irish maid-of-all-work.

No matter what she did, Gwendolyn felt closed in. There was constant traffic outside the house, constant noise, no matter where she went or what she did. The closest Gwendolyn had to privacy was in her tiny, third floor bedroom.

Her mother had taken the large bedroom on the second floor for herself, of course. The second bedroom next to it, she had made into a private sitting room. There were two rooms on the third floor. Gwendolyn opted for the smallest room at the back of the house over the kitchen, because it had a large south-facing window. Yes, it meant the room would be cold in winter. She didn't care. It meant she could at least look outside, and, in the morning, she could be greeted by the rising run. She allowed the new maid, whom her mother insisted on addressing as "Bridget" (even though the girl's name was Mary Kathleen), to have the larger of the two rooms.

At least Gwendolyn had convinced her mother not to force her to attend the snooty boarding school. Instead, she had been allowed to enroll in the Roland Park Country School. It was just as snooty, but at least it was a day school. Gwendolyn took the streetcar home every afternoon. It wasn't bad, and riding that open car was her only real chance to get outside in the fresh air without having her mother constantly haranguing her about something. She mustn't go out without a hat, or a parasol, or gloves, or a jacket. She had to be covered from nose to toes. Heaven forfend she actually allowed the sun to touch her unsullied skin

That always made Gwendolyn laugh out loud. On the farm, she used to ride out with her father every single day. She wore what was comfortable, what allowed her ease and freedom of movement. The sun never did her any harm. Unlike her own mother.

Today, the last Saturday in August, had dawned sunny and warm. She had intended to catch the streetcar and ride out to Druid Hill Park. She rang for Mary Kathleen to come help her dress. Her mother insisted she wear corsets now, every single day, along with a corset cover, camisole, chemise, petticoats, with proper stockings and buttoned shoes. Gwendolyn still couldn't get the hang of all these layers, nor could she see the sense. She longed to have her own bicycle, like some of the girls with whom she attended school. Zenobia wouldn't allow that. In fact, it was all Gwendolyn could do to convince her mother to permit to go to the zoological park today, to hear the last band concert of the year. As it was, she had to drag poor Mary Kathleen with her.

She picked up her straw hat, and remembered to grab the letter she had written to Jon. Her mother didn't know she maintained any correspondence with him. True to his word, Jon and his parents had spoken to Zenobia about Gwendolyn staying with them, at least until she was old enough for the two young people to marry. Not only did Zenobia refuse, but forbade her daughter from having any further contact with the Millers. So Gwendolyn wrote to Jon several times a month, and he would write back, using another neighbor's name instead of his own. Gwendolyn hated using such subterfuge, but she considered it a small sin, compared to those committed by her mother this last year.

After rejecting the Miller's proposal for her only daughter, she had held no qualms about taking Mr. Miller's money for the farm. She had turned off Bessie and her family with neither references nor their last month's salary. Then she had whisked her only daughter off to live first with her own elderly father in Ellicott City, then into this narrow little rowhouse in Baltimore with the smart-sounding address, where she considered herself quality, while her neighbors looked down their long noses at the poor woman from the country.