A Sense of Entitlement by Anna Loan-Wilsey

that she spun away, pulling the two other maids and the groomsman with her. Someone had brought out an accordion and now joined the banjo player. Before long, everyone had moved away from the labor man but me. I wondered why I was still there. I too started to walk away.
    “I’ve seen you before,” he said, stopping my retreat, “at the Newport Casino a few days ago.”
    I was startled that he remembered. “Yes, you and Mr. Whitwell were having words.”
    The man laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.” He shoved out his hand. “Lester Sibley, at your service.”
    “Hattie Davish,” I said, taking his hand before realizing it might not be a good idea to be seen fraternizing with him.
    “I like you, Hattie Davish.”
    “You just met me, Mr. Sibley,” I said, now suspicious of his intent.
    “Doesn’t matter. I can tell an honest laborer when I see one. What line of work are you in, Hattie Davish?”
    “I’m Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew’s social secretary.”
    “So are you treated fairly, Hattie Davish? Or do you work at all hours, always at the beck and call of Mrs. Mayhew?”
    “Long and unusual hours are the nature of the job, Mr. Sibley,” I said.
    “Are cramped, cold, dreary living quarters part of the nature of the job too?”
    “I have a spacious suite of rooms, Mr. Sibley.”
    “And what about your private life, Hattie Davish? Can you do as you like, even in the little time you do have off?”
    “Yes, I believe I can.” I was tiring of this line of questioning. Like Sena, I had worked hard to attain my position. I was respected, well treated, and enjoyed challenging, satisfying work. What more could I ask for? I was content. Why shouldn’t he be? But Mr. Sibley wasn’t about to give up.
    “Did you know that one dinner party at Marble House or Rose Mont costs over a thousand dollars? One dinner party. What do you make in a year, Hattie Davish?”
    “That, Mr. Sibley, is none of your concern,” I said, doing nothing to hide my irritation. “I understand there are people in need of a voice such as yours, but I am not one of them.”
    “Whether you know it or not, Hattie Davish, you are one of them. My voice, my message, my cause, is fair rights for all, and that includes maids, butlers, clerks, and social secretaries.”
    “I’m grateful for my position, Mr. Sibley. I have been poor and I have been lonely.”
    After my father died, I was an orphan with no siblings, no close living relatives, and less than twenty dollars at my disposal. The doctors who attended, though I would say “killed,” my father had taken almost all we had. I was no longer able to live in my childhood home, and all I could afford was a tiny basement room at Mrs. Coombs’ Boardinghouse that flooded during spring rainstorms. Luckily, my father had paid my tuition at Mrs. Chaplin’s school in full. I never wanted to imagine where I would be now if not for my typewriter, my training, and the opportunities given to me by the likes of Sir Arthur and Mrs. Mayhew.
    “So,” I said, “despite the limitations or demands placed upon me, I prefer my current full and interesting life. Once I could never have imagined standing on the top of a cliff, looking out over the ocean, listening to banjo and accordion music while discussing labor strife with a man such as yourself.”
    Lester Sibley nodded his head. “If only I could persuade you that you could have even more. Here, at least take this.” He reached into his pocket. “Damn, I forgot.”
    “Forgot what, Mr. Sibley?”
    “Excuse my language, but I forgot that all my pamphlets are lying on the bottom of the ocean. Don’t you see, Hattie Davish, that they don’t want you to realize you deserve more? And they’ll stop at nothing to prevent it.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but his comments about his pamphlets called up the image of the steamer trunk bobbing in the water before it disappeared beneath the waves.
    “Were you in a shipwreck, sir?” I