Chapter 5

Claire waited on an old leather sofa where she had been told to
sit by the woman who answered the door. The sofa was in a dark
entry hall and faced a yellow-faced clock hanging on the opposite
wall. Behind the glass front of the clock, a pendulum marked the
slow passing of time making a sound that was more of a clunk than
a click as the minute hand crept from one Roman numeral to the
next.

The hall was illuminated only by the dim light that managed to
filter through the screen of shade trees in front of the house
and shine weakly through the frosted glass pane of the front
door. Outside the door was a plaque of polished brass that read:
“Juttison School for Young Women.” The school was in a large old
house on a tree-shaded street of the American Quarter, where the
Greek Revival architecture of the homes and their expansive park-
like grounds distinguished that part of the city from the close-
packed commercial buildings and anonymous fronts of the homes in the Vieux Carré where the descendants of the original French
residents of New Orleans lived as separately as possible from the
Americans on the upriver side of Canal Street.

Clair had left Bart and Andre at the barge where it was tied up
at a wharf at the foot of Bienville Street in the French Quarter.
Andre had decided to accompany them from Baton Rouge and he had
assured Claire that he had many good friends in New Orleans that
would provide her with very good food, wine and other diversions.
When she left the barge, he gave her a slip of paper with the
name and address of an aunt where she could contact him when she
was free after her meeting with Miss Juttison. Claire had begun
to like Andre very much since the first exciting night in Baton
Rouge and she was looking forward to being alone with him without
a third party. They had made plans to meet later in the day if it
were possible.

She set out from the dock at 7 o'clock in the morning carrying
her heavy pasteboard box and pillow case stuffed with clothes.
She had to take her possessions with her because Mrs. Dillon was
expected at the barge in mid-morning. The box was tied with heavy
twine that cut into her fingers. She had to put it down and rest
several times and shift it from one hand to the other often. Now
both palms were red and swollen from carrying the box. She
listened as the wall clock struck 11 o'clock with a dull sound
that matched the clunking of the pendulum.

She was dressed in a fresh dress, one of her favorites, a cotton
print covered with small pink roses, and she had rubbed her black
patent leather shoes with a dab of lard to make then shine.
During the long, hot walk, however, she sweated through the dress
in front and under her arms, and her shoes were dusty from the
streets. Her hair was plaited in braids which were wound into a
neat bun on the back of her head, but it was damp too and
although she had not seen herself in the mirror, she knew her
hair probably needed attention.

She saw a mirror on the wall next to the door where she had come
in and she got up to go see if she make any improvement to the
way she looked. She had only walked a few steps toward the mirror
when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned and
saw a tall grey-haired woman coming out of the dark hallway
toward her.

"Miss Crane?" the woman asked, looking first at Claire, then at
the pasteboard box and pillow case on the floor beside the sofa.

"Yes, ma'am," Claire said. She stood up and smiled. "Are you
Ophelia Juttison?"

The woman nodded but did not return Claire's smile. "Yes, I'm
Miss Juttison," she said. The woman looked closely at Claire
through steel-rimmed glasses. Her eyes were close set and her
lips were drawn into a sour pucker that looked as if were
probably permanent.

"What is it that you want, Miss Crane?"

"I. . . that is, Miss Elizabeth Belton, a friend of my mother’s
in Shreveport said I should come see you when I got to New
Orleans."

"Yes, that's what Miss Greenbirch said you told her, but what do
you want?"

Claire did not know what to ask for. Aunt Elizabeth had only told
her to find Miss Juttison. She had not told her what to expect
from the meeting. Claire had not thought beyond the necessity of
finding the woman and presenting herself to her. She had not
thought she would need to know what to ask for, but it seemed
that Miss Juttison expected her to know what she wanted.

"I think Miss Belton thought you might be willing to help me."

"In what way?"

"I need to find employment. And I need a place to stay."

"I see," Miss Juttison said, but her expression seemed no more
enlightened than before and her mouth increased its pucker. She
stood looking at Claire closely for several long moments without
speaking, inspecting the younger woman's hair and dress and shoes
as if she might find the answers to several questions she
disliked asking but wanted answers to.

"Have you come to New Orleans alone?" she said finally. The
pinched-mouth frown deepened.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You have been traveling alone?"

"Yes, ma'am."

“How is that?”

"On the train, ma'am," Claire lied. Miss Juttison certainly would
not like knowing that she had made the trip on a barge alone with
a river man. She also intentionally misinterpreted the older
woman’s meaning, replying as if the woman had wanted to know how
she had traveled rather than why she had traveled alone.

If Miss Juttison detected Claire’s answering a question she had
not asked, she did not say so.

"You traveled all the way from Shreveport? And alone?"

"No ma'am, from Houston."

"I thought Miss Belton lived in Shreveport with her sister’s
family."

"Yes, ma'am she does. But I lived in Houston."

"Why did you leave Houston?"

"My mother died and I no longer have a place to live there."

"No relatives to take you in?"

"No ma'am."

"Why did you decide to come to New Orleans? Shouldn’t you have
stayed in Houston where you are known by people?"

Claire had begun to dislike the woman's questions and she also
disliked having to remember the string of lies she was telling.
She wished she had spent more time thinking about the interview
and a plausible story to tell the woman.

"I. . . that is, Miss Belton thought there would be more
opportunity in New Orleans, ma'am. It’s much bigger than Houston
and has more opportunities. I have also heard that it is more
cultured."

“New Orleans is a hostile place for young women, especially
pretty young women. And Culture is a matter of taste. How old are
you?"

"Twenty." Now she had another lie to remember.

"How do you know Miss Belton?”

"I cleaned for her sister, and I sewed for her sometimes when we
lived in Shreveport," she added quickly. She included the detail
about sewing, because it was closer to the truth than the
cleaning. Aunt Elizabeth did most the cleaning in the Crump
household, but Claire sewed for both her mother and her aunt.

"Do you sew well?"

"Yes, ma'am, pretty well."

"Did you make your dress?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Miss Juttison’s pucker eased a bit and she looked more closely at
Claire's dress.

"Did you pick the material yourself?”

“No ma’am. Not directly. My mother gave it to me – before she
died.” That was only partly a lie. Claire’s mother had given her
the cloth as a birthday present.

“Did you sew it on a machine?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can you do hand work too?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Embroider?"

"Yes, ma'am. And I can crochet too."

"Crochet? Indeed?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Needlepoint?"

"No ma'am, but my grandmother taught me lace making and tatting."

“How much education do you have?”

“I’ve finished highschool.”

“Did you study a foreign language?”

“French ma’am.”

“Depuis quand êtes-vous ici?”

Claire looked at the clock on the wall. “About half an hour,” she
said. She did not think Miss Juttison’s French accent was
particularly authentic – at least she did not sound quite as
correctly French as Mademoiselle Beauvoir, her teacher in Shreveport.

“Répondez en français.”

“Je suis ici depuis la demi-heure, madam.”

“A Novelle Orleans non ici a la maison.”

“Aujourd’hui.”

"Today? Indeed? Are you good at arithmetic?”

“Oui, ma’am. Je crois.”

“You may speak English now.”

“Yes, ma’am. I believe I’m fairly good at figures.”

“But no needlepoint?"

"No, ma'am."

"Sit there and wait," Miss Juttison said gesturing towards the
sofa.

She watching Claire as she sat down, then she walked off down the
hall, back into the gloom from which she had emerged. Clair
returned to the sofa and the vigil of the clunking clock.

When she had stared at the clock for the better part of another
half an hour, she got up from the sofa and walked about in the
better lighted end of the hall inspecting the ornaments and
pictures. Overall the room had the look of elegance, but of the
sort that made the impression that the house had at one time
enjoyed a better economy. An occasional table below the clock
provided for the display of a smallish plate with an ivy-covered
Gothic church building painted in the center surrounded by a
scalloped gold border. Gold old-English letters identified the
building as Christ Episcopal Church, established 1803.

Turning to look at the wall behind the sofa she saw a sepia-toned
photograph of three women tightly enclosed in an oval wooden
frame which appeared to be birds-eye maple, but which on closer
examination revealed itself to be painted faux-bois. Two of the
women were seated and the puckered mouth of the one on the left
revealed her identity to be none other than Miss Ophelia
Juttison. The seated woman on the right, while not quite so
puckered as Miss Ophelia had a somewhat duplicitous expression
suggesting that she would not be particularly reliable. The woman
standing was younger than her sisters and prettier but with perhaps more internal anger in her countenance than the other two.


The Juttison Sisters 

“That’s Miss Ophelia and her sisters.”

Claire turned to see that Miss Greenbirch, the woman who had
answered the door earlier, had returned.

“Oh?” Claire said. Are they all associated with the school?

“Well, yes,” Miss Greenbirch answered. They all live together in
their own apartment, but only Miss Althea – she’s the youngest –
the one standing in the middle – actually teaches. Miss Susan –
she’s the other one – she manages things.”

“Manages things? What does she manage? I did not get the
impression talking to Miss Ophelia that she would need help
managing anything.”

Miss Greenbirch eyes opened wide and her eyes darted quickly back
into the gloom in the dark end of the hall, as if to see if
Claire had been overheard. “Shh!” she said looking back quickly
at Claire and then at the picture over the sofa as if it too
might be listening. “You’ll want to be careful about what you
say, Miss Crane. Miss Ophelia and Miss Susan are really very
particular about any sort of insolence.”

“Oh, I hope I didn’t sound insolent. I just meant that Miss
Ophelia seems to be quite capable.”

“Oh, yes, she is, but Mrs. Clutcher is very capable too.”

“Mrs. Clutcher? Who is she?”

“That’s Miss Susan’s married name.”

“Then Miss Susan is married?”

“Well, no. Not any more. Mr. Clutcher died. She’s a widow.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. And how about Miss Althea? Is she married
too, or a widow?”

“No, she’s never been married.” Miss Greenbirch looked quickly
into the gloom and at the picture again. “She’s not likely to
either.” The last sentence was spoken in a whisper.

“Oh? Why not. She seems pretty enough and she has a sweet
expression.”

“I don’t think Miss Ophelia and Miss Susan will ever allow it.”

“No? They don’t want her to marry?”

“They won’t let a man get close enough to ask her.”

“Surely there ought to be some men in New Orleans they would
approve of.”

Miss Greenbirch too another quick look around. “They don’t
approve of men at all.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“They are quite hostile to men. They think they are all brutes
and beastly and are the ruin of women altogether.”

“How odd. Why did Mrs. Clutcher ever marry if that’s the way they
think?”

“I’m sure that’s a mystery, but he didn’t live very long, so it
didn’t matter in the long run.”

“How did he die?”

“He vomited to death.”

“Vomited to death? That really seems strange. What was the cause
of his vomiting. Did he have a disease or was he poisoned by
something?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I understand that he just started
vomiting one evening after supper and died within an hour.”

“Not really! But wasn’t the cause investigated?”

“It must have been looked into I’m sure, but I don’t know. It
happened before they moved to New Orleans. I think it was the
money Mrs. Clutcher got from Mr. Clutcher’s estate that they used
to establish the school.”

“Then at least one man has proved to be fortunate for Miss
Ophelia and her sisters,” Claire said, then before Miss
Greenbirch had an opportunity to reply, she added: “Did Miss
Ophelia send you to talk to me?”

“Why yes. How silly of me not to have told you already. Miss
Ophelia said for you to put your things in the cupboard there. .
.” She pointed into the gloom “. . .and to bring you to the
refectory for luncheon. Afterward you’re to visit with Mrs.
Clutcher – actually we call her Miss Susan, not Mrs. Clutcher.
She doesn’t like to be called Mrs. Clutcher by the staff or the
girls.”

*****

Luncheon, a meager affair consisting of a thin soup and bread,
was eaten in silence. At a table raised a step above the other
diners, the three Juttison sisters were arrayed side by side in
the same order they held in the photograph in the hall except

that Miss Althea was seated rather than standing between her
sisters. The girls, who ranged in age from about 6 years old to a
few that Claire thought might be about her own age, where seated
at three long tables. Three women, older than the students, were
seated at a separate table. Miss Greenbirch led Claire to a seat
at this table and they two sat down quietly without exchanging
introductions or greetings, only silent nods recognizing the
arrival of the two.

In spite of the fact that more than twenty young women occupied
the refectory, the room was not filled with laughter and chatter
as one might expect in a room filled with young women. Instead
they listened in silence as one of the older students, who was
seated alone at a small table in front of the raised dais, read
from a tract explaining the virtues of women’s suffrage.

After no more than half an hour, the reading stopped and at the
Juttison sisters’ table Miss Ophelia shook out a loud clang from
a brass bell she picked up from the table. Immediately every one
in the room stood and the refectory emptied quickly.

Miss Greenbirch took Claire’s arm as the two got up.

“Come with me. It’s time to meet the other sisters,” she said.
Her voice had a nervous edge.

She led Claire to the raised dias and the two stood looking up at
the three women who remained seated gazing down at them, like
three judges in a French law court.

“Miss Susan. Miss Althea. This is Miss Claire Crane,” she said,
then added quickly and appearing even more nervous, “Miss Ophelia
has already met Miss Crane,” she said nodding at Miss Opelia.
Miss Crane, this is Miss Susan. . .”

Miss Susan nodded with the same duplicitous expression exhibited
in the photograph in the hall.

“. . .and this is Miss Althea.”

Miss Althea smiled with a bit of anger in her countenance. “How do you do,
Miss Crane?” she asked.

Miss Susan rose abruptly followed by Miss Althea quickly and Miss
Ophelia more slowly and with greater dignity.

“Come with me, Crane,” Miss Susan said with little grace and
great severity and walked toward the door without looking back.

She led Claire up a back staircase to a large parlor on the
second floor and waved her into a straight-backed chair facing a
velvet chaise lounge where Miss Susan settled herself by putting
her legs up on the chaise and kicking off her shoes.

“Now, Crane,” she said. “Let’s have an accounting of yourself.”

“Accounting, ma’am?”

“Exactly. Tell me why you took it upon yourself to travel, quiet
alone, I understand, from Houston, where you must have had at
least a few friends who could have been helpful to you in your
destitution, to New Orleans where you know no one, and where it
is necessary for you to depend on the kindness of strangers.”

“My mother died. . “ Claire began, but the older woman waved her
hand dismissing the beginning.

“I know about that. You told my sister that much. In taking off
from Houston alone on a train – she pronounced the word ‘train’
if it were the equivalent of a gypsy wagon – where you could have
been severely compromised in several unpleasant and disgraceful
ways by marauding men who would have used you shamefully and
abandoned you. What could you have been thinking? I hope, very
sincerely that you were not compromised during the journey. You
were not, were you?”

“Oh no, ma’am. No not at all. I took great care to prevent any
such thing. I made the acquaintance of an elderly woman who was
traveling with her maid and put myself under her protection.”

“Indeed? What is the woman’s name? Perhaps I know her. Did she
detrain in New Orleans?”

“No, ma’am. She was traveling on to Birmingham, in Alabama.”

“I know where Birmingham is,” Miss Susan snapped. “What was her
name?”

“Josephine,” Claire said Christening her fictitious benefactor
with the name of one of her mother’s friends in Shreveport.
“Josephine Merryweather. Mrs. Josephine Merryweather. And her
maid’s name was Mary. I don’t know Mary’s last name.”

“One generally doesn’t know a maid’s last name–unless that’s the
name she’s called. I prefer to call a maid by her last name. I
only call someone by her Christian name if I hold her in special
affection.”

“Yes, ma’am,”

“I must tell you, however, Crane, that I don’t believe a word you
say. I don’t think you came by rail. The train only arrived from
Houston at ten o’clock this morning, much too late for you to
have made your appearance here as early as you arrived. And the
previous train was day before yesterday. If indeed you came by
train, where have you been keeping yourself – surely not alone in
a hotel, I hope.”

“Oh, no ma’am.” Claire decided she needed a new strategy and she
needed one quickly. She remembered the Juttison aversion to men.

“Well, Crane?”

“Oh, Mrs. Clutcher, I had hoped to avoid the horrid thing that
forced me to leave home, but I think I must throw myself on your
kindness and understanding by telling you the truth.”

“I should certainly think so. And don’t call me Mrs. Clutcher. I
prefer ‘Miss Susan.’”

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Susan.”

“Well, I propose you start telling the truth immediately.”

“In the first place, I did not travel from Houston, but from
Shreveport. The train arrived last evening and Mrs. Merryweather
was kind enough to break her journey to keep me company with her
maid at a friend’s house in the French Quarter.”

Claire felt she was on safer ground now. She knew for a fact when
the last train had arrived from Shreveport. Andre had mentioned
it during the trip down the river from Baton Rouge.

Claire expecting to be asked the name of Mrs. Merryweather’s
friend, and she was prepared to produce the name of Andre’s aunt
in the French Quarter, but Miss Susan did not pursue the matter.

“Go on,” Miss Susan said. “Why did you leave Shreveport? Not
because your mother died, I presume.”

“No ma’am. I ran away from home.”

“Ran away? I declare. Whatever for? That doesn’t recommend you
particularly well, you know, but I trust you had a good reason.
Tell me what possessed you to flee your home?

“Oh, Miss Susan, I had to run away. My father beat me very badly
and I had to leave because I was afraid he would do so again. My
aunt, Elizabeth Belton, Miss Ophelia’s friend helped me. She put
me in touch with Mrs. Merryweather, who took me under her wing
during the journey here.”

“Your father beat you? Why did he beat you? What had you done?”

“I refused to marry the man he chose for me.”

“He beat you because you refused to marry?”

“Yes, ma’am. He wanted me to marry a very old man. . .” She
calculated Miss Susan’s age quickly as being greater than the 40-
year-old Mr. Birder. “. . .an old man of sixty who had grown
children older than me.”

“Not really.”

“Yes ma’am. And I just couldn’t bear the idea of intimacy with
such a man.”

“Well, I should think not. How dreadful. I certainly can see why
you objected to having a dreadful old beast wallowing around on
you – such a pretty fresh young woman. So sweet and pure as you
are! The idea is repulsive in the extreme.”

“Well yes, ma’am. That and because he beat me. I’m afraid I may
have permanent scars on my back as a result.” Tears came into
Claire’s eyes, aided by nervousness and fear.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here closer and let me comfort you.”

Susan Clutcher beckoned for Claire to join her beside the chaise.
Her severity of expression abated somewhat, but not the visage of
duplicity which was as permanently set as in the photograph.

Claire knelt on the carpet beside the chaise lounge. Miss Susan
put a hand on her head and drew the younger woman to her breast.
“There, there, my sweet. Let me comfort you.”

Claire relaxed into the woman’s breast as much as was possible
considering the stiff corsetting that constrained Susan
Clutcher’s bossom.

Miss Susan caressed Claire with her hand, moving it gently on the
girl’s back. Does it still cause you pain?”

“Yes, ma’am, some.”

“Let me see.”

Claire turned her back to the other woman still kneeling beside
the chaise. “Would you unbutton me please, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes, dear. Indeed I will.” And Susan Clutcher began with
fingers that trembled just slightly to unfasten the buttons of
Claire’s dress. The degree of severity on the older woman’s face
was modified again, this time by a knotting of the muscles of her
jaw.