The lindbergh nanny, p.1
The Lindbergh Nanny, page 1
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For Fredric Larry Weiss, with love and respect.
Thank you for having the conversation.
You’ve made an image of me, that’s quite clear, a complete and final image, and there’s an end of it. You just won’t see me any other way.… Every image is a sin.
—MAX FRISCH, I’m Not Stiller,
a favorite book of Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Only in the sky is there hope, only in that which man has never touched.
—CHARLES LINDBERGH,
The Wartime Journals of Charles A. Lindbergh
In 1932, Charles Lindbergh and Anne Morrow Lindbergh were the most celebrated couple in America, famous throughout the world. On March 1, their twenty-month-old son was kidnapped. Two months later, he was found dead in woods not far from their home. A man was convicted and executed for the crime. But many believe there were others involved who were never identified or held accountable.
Chapter One
Englewood, New Jersey
February 1931
I can see the house. But not all of it and certainly not how you get there from here. It sprawls above us, main house, servants’ quarters, garage, those who live there and those who serve their needs. As the car winds up the hill, you get glimpses through the skeletal winter trees that stand like witches’ brooms. A window flashes. A stretch of white-painted brick. The dark gray point of a slate gable. All of a sudden, the sun finds its spot through the trees, catching my eye like a needle.
The car turns a corner and I have to look through the back window to keep the house in sight. It’s like the start of a fairy tale, and I think of how I’d tell it.
Once upon a time, on a hill in the dark wood, was a house. And in that house lived a mummy and a daddy … and who else?
Me, the child would say.
Of course, you, otherwise how would there be a mummy and a daddy? You’re the most important person in the story.
But who are you?
“The Morrows brought the living room and the library over from some pile in England.”
I turn to meet the chauffeur’s eye. He’s seen me staring at the house. I feel caught.
“Did they.” As if I couldn’t care less.
We roll through a high iron gate, stopping to let the guard inspect us. He peers through the window of the little guard box, then raises a hand to the driver. We continue on the gravel path. I can see the whole house now. They call it an estate, but really, it’s a chockablock sort of place, a few buildings set this way and that up against each other. Only three stories, it doesn’t seem that grand, at least when you consider who lives there. A lot of windows. And funny little doors tucked here and there. How many open? How many are locked? So many ways in, you wonder if they worry.
I’m told it’s new. But everything in this country is new.
I take a deep breath.
Colonel. Mrs. Lindbergh.
No, other way round. Mrs. Lindbergh. Colonel. Greet the mother first. People fawn over him all the time, she must be sick of it. Show her you know she’s the one you have to please …
The fingers on my left hand are tingly; no surprise, I’ve been gripping my wrist the whole way here. I let go, shake out both hands. Wonder how it is the Lindberghs are living at her parents’ house. Surely, they have all the money in the world …
We’ve stopped. Why? We’re only halfway up the drive, nowhere near the house. And yet the chauffeur is out of the car, he’s coming round to open the door. Hastily, I straighten myself, tugging at my gloves, the edge of my jacket, run the heel of my hand over my skirt.
I get out to see a woman standing at the door of a small stone cottage. She’s in her mid-forties, wearing a smart suit, dark hair pulled back into a chignon. For a second, I brace myself, Dear Lord, it’s her. But this woman is too old, the clothes too sensible, the gaze too frank in its assessment.
“Miss Gow?” she says.
“Yes?” I hate the question mark.
“Kathleen Sullivan. We spoke on the phone.”
I remember: secretary to Elizabeth Morrow, the grandmother. Strange that the mother doesn’t do the interviewing. But of course, she’s up the hill. In the big white house. With the baby. It occurs to me: I may never get inside that house, may never get to meet him. This could well be as far as they let me go.
“They’ll want to meet you, get to know you,” Mary said when she told me she’d put me up for the job. The thing is, she’s wrong. They don’t. Knowing you, really knowing you, is the last thing they want. What they want to find out is: Can you be who we need you to be? Now, standing on the gravel path, I can tell the assessment has started. Am I Miss Gow? Probably. But who is Miss Gow? A name tells her nothing. I’ve sent a letter; how much of it is lies? The recommendations; are they honest? Have they told her everything she needs to know? Not likely. Everyone wants this job. But do I want it for the right reasons?
Should she let me in?
She waits so long, I think for a moment she’s decided, No, actually. But then she stands back from the door and I say “Thank you” to the invitation that hasn’t been made.
It’s a nice office they’ve given Mrs. Sullivan. Pretty, with curtained windows and a lovely blue-and-white rug. It’s snug, low ceilinged in the way of cottages. Her desk barely fits, and the two armchairs are so close they don’t leave much room for your legs. I cross my ankles, look appreciatively around the room so I don’t have to face her just yet.
She asks if the ride over from Tenafly was all right. I say yes, thank you.
Then add, “Thank you. For sending the car.”
She smiles briefly; they’d send the car for anyone. It’s not a mark of favor.
When she puts my letter on the desk, I feel a jolt of panic, certain I’ve made a mistake, spelled my own name wrong, written Sheboygan instead of Chicago. You didn’t give the Mosers’ name, nor their telephone number, I remind myself. There’s no way for her to know you ever worked for them, no way for her to get in touch.
“I understand you come recommended by Mary Beattie.”
Mary works as a maid for Elisabeth Morrow, the sister, but I can’t imagine her recommendation greatly impresses Mrs. Sullivan. “Yes, we’re good friends.”
We’re not, but it sounds better than saying I’ve met her a few times through my sister-in-law.
“We like to trust our people,” she says. “How old are you?”
It’s a simple question that covers a multitude of others, and I hesitate. “Twenty-six.”
A slight raise of the eyebrow. Some experience, not much for the number of years. Boyfriend? Fiancé?
“And I have it right, it’s Miss Gow?”
“It is.”
She sifts through papers. My letter, the Gibbs reference, what else could she have about me? “How long have you been in America, Miss Gow?”
Precise, I think. Be elegant and precise. Recrossing my ankles, I say, “I arrived in April 1929.”
“From Scotland?”
“That’s right. Glasgow. My brother came first. He got me the position with the Gibbs family.” No, “got me” is wrong. Sloppy. I should have said “secured.” Engaged. Through him, I was engaged by the Gibbs family …
“And you worked for them…” She frowns as if she can’t quite make out the dates. “For a year.”
It’s only the truth, I tell myself. No criticism implied. “Yes. Unfortunately they suffered in the financial crash and couldn’t keep me on. I believe that’s in their letter.”
She doesn’t say if it is or it isn’t. “You were in Detroit for a time.”
“Yes.”
“What took you to that fine city?”
I don’t know what devil is in the brain that makes you think of the very thing you shouldn’t. The right answer, the correct answer, is there, ready to be given. I came up with it yesterday and rehearsed it in the car. Yet now, when it matters, the only voice I hear is myself screaming like a shrew: “You told me to come to America. You said come to Detroit.”
Mrs. Sullivan has noticed the pause, I can tell from the way she’s holding the point of her pen to the paper. A moment’s more hesitation and she’ll scratch me right out.
“I was offered a position.”
“You didn’t stay long. Only five months.”
There are two choices, two truths, both unpleasant. One admits failure as an employee, the other failure as a woman. At least a woman of intelligence. I don’t know who Mrs. Sullivan has called, who she might have spoken to.
I may have to be truthful. A little.
“There was a gentleman I hoped to marry. I knew him from back home and…”
I shift slightly in my seat. “Let’
Our eyes meet; I feel the question. Is that all? No complaints, recriminations? It’s something they watch for. You complain about one thing, they think, Whiner. Admit you left a position after three weeks because the father thought he was entitled to put his hand down your blouse, they write, Difficult. If you get teary because you’ve had a shock, they write, Emotional.
I push the memories down, keep my face still.
She asks, “Is it fair to say you haven’t had much experience working for this sort of family?”
“It is.” The Mosers were well off. But I’ve been sure to not mention the Mosers, and I’m not going to now. “But I daresay very few people have.”
She sets the pen down. Now I have her full attention; maybe even some respect.
“That is correct,” she says. “Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh are unlike any other couple in America. Her father is a senator. His father was a congressman. These are people not only of means, but distinction. You may have heard of his little flight to Paris. As a result, they and their child are the focus of unparalleled attention from the public and from the press. Anyone connected with them comes under intense scrutiny. That includes members of their staff. Are you prepared for that?”
“Yes.”
“You may be offered money for stories or photographs, as much as two thousand dollars…”
This Mary warned me about, and I know what to say. “I’m familiar with the tabloid press, Mrs. Sullivan. I think it’s disgusting, their lack of regard for people’s privacy. I want no part of it.” I let a touch of outrage slip into my tone that she would ask such a thing, think me such a person. She listens closely, trying to decide: Am I sincere?
Then she says, “You understand why I have to ask.”
“Of course.”
“The couple’s schedule is irregular. They intend to travel. Extensively. You will be on your own with the baby for considerable stretches of time.”
She waits for me to add objections, conditions. I smile. No objections, Mrs. Sullivan. None whatever.
She stands. “Well, then. I’ll take you up to the house.”
It’s so abrupt, I’m not sure what’s happening. Gathering my things, I ask, “What happens there?”
“You meet Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh.”
Chapter Two
So. Here is how you get to the house. You are driven by the chauffeur, who has been waiting this whole time. You ride in the company of Mrs. Sullivan, who makes pleasant conversation as she tries to find out more about you. You long to say, Please, I need to think, could you be quiet? Instead you smile as if this is all quite normal and say, “Yes, it is mild for February.”
Mrs. Lindbergh, a pleasure to meet you.
Colonel, an honor, of course …
Mrs. Sullivan has said something. I haven’t been listening, and it takes me a moment to translate the sounds. “It goes without saying, no autographs for your nephew or anything like that.”
I say, “Of course not.” Easily and honestly, because my niece in America is not even a year old and nobody else gives a damn. I suppose the Lindberghs do get asked a lot. Still, it’s insulting.
But insulting is good, gives me a bit of spine, something of myself to hold on to as we get out of the car and Mrs. Sullivan goes up to the front door and rings the bell.
A butler in tailcoat answers the door. He’s dark, tall, with a full, doleful mouth. Heavy-lidded eyes widen to take me in, then slide off in dismissal. The black hair looks like it’s had some help from a bottle; there’s a dash of powder to cover up those red, broken veins around the nose. Get close enough, I think, and you’d know what he drank for lunch.
Mother once said to me, “Betty, when you get nervous, you get snippy.” I might say I see what I see and there’s no use pretending otherwise. But she’s not entirely wrong.
The butler’s name is Septimus Banks, and Mrs. Sullivan asks if he would take me up to see the Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh. In an accent not his own, he says, “If you would come this way,” then gives me his back. I smile thank you to Mrs. Sullivan and follow, careful not to react because the house is much grander on the inside—not simply designed to impress, but to intimidate. When I was a child, they opened one of the local manors to the public and Mother took me as a treat. What I mostly remember was queuing and shying away from things as Mother whispered, “Don’t touch.” Easy not to touch here; the entry hall alone is larger than my mother’s house. The walls are wood paneled, with two massive marble fireplaces on either side. Vases almost as tall as me and crowded with lilies, roses, and gardenias stand on mahogany pillars. The floor, pale red stone, makes my shoes look quite shabby. I feel my gaze pulled upward and see a vast crystal chandelier overhead.
We reach the second-floor landing. A lovely clock ticks on a side table. Above that, there’s a portrait of a handsome steel-haired woman by a fireplace in a heavy gilt frame ten feet high. A gold-fringed runner of green vines and peonies extinguishes the sound of our footsteps. There are doors at either end of the hall, but Mr. Banks doesn’t lead me toward either one.
“Please wait here.”
He disappears through the door on the right. Now it’s me and the lady in the painting. Who is she? I wonder. An actual member of the family or just some impressive stranger’s portrait from that pile in England, thrown in with the library and living room furniture?
I hear footsteps below and look over the railing to see a maid carrying a bowl of flowers across the entryway below. She walks quickly, as if those flowers better get where they’re going and fast. I lose sight of her as she passes under the balcony. A moment later, I hear a door close.
And … still, no one comes.
The chandelier looms near, the endless columns of crystal cascading like fireworks. An unseen disturbance—a rat in the attic, a gust of wind from an open window, a stomped foot in a far-off room—sends a shiver through the crystals, and there’s a tinkling, so faint that by the time you’ve heard it, it’s gone. Looking up at the stout chain that holds the massive light aloft, I imagine giving it a shove, watching it sway, come loose, tipping as it crashes to the stone floor below.
The impulse puzzles me; I’m not a destructive person. It’s all those delicate crystals, hanging in space—a vision so beautiful, so precious and pristine, you can’t help but think about breaking it.
I hear voices. On this floor and getting close. The door on the left opens. And there they are.
At first, they don’t quite make sense. I compare them to the images I’ve seen and find something missing in the picture. Well, the plane, for a start. Always, in the newsreels they show it: the plane so simple it looks like a toy. And other people, the vast crowds surging like so many ants, breaking through barricades to surround him. Then him standing on the balcony, looking down on thousands of cheering faces and frantically waving arms. The next shot him alone with the plane, a long, gangly boy who’s done the miraculous and now what?
Here there are no crowds, no celebration, no cheers. Just three people in a quiet hallway. But he’s not ordinary. He hangs back, the ends of his arms in his pockets, bright golden head ducking. No aviator jodhpurs or khaki jacket, just a pleasant tweed suit. His smile is brief, nervous. But his eyes, hero blue, stay on you. For a moment, I’m caught by those eyes, then remember: don’t.
She comes forward, hand outstretched. As I take it, I feel I am meeting an exceptionally poised twelve-year-old girl. When the news of their engagement was announced, some complained Anne Morrow wasn’t pretty enough for the great Lindy. True, she’s too small to be a great beauty. He’s too tall, she too small. Yet they fit. She’s got a funny nose, tilted and elfin. Her eyes are a gorgeous violet; you don’t see that in the films. But it’s her hair that’s her glory, cut short and high off her pale forehead. Her smile as we shake is modest, as if to say of the house, Yes, it’s a lot, isn’t it?
Then taking back her hand, she laughs. “It’s funny, I can’t help feeling we look alike. Do you see it, Charles?”
“No.”
I wait for the pleasantry. It does not come.
Then she says airily, “No, of course, you’re taller and you haven’t got my ridiculous nose.”
