Jacques the Doll
After Yankee sea captain Winslow Humphreys made his fortune in the East Indies spice trade, he married the daughter of a wealthy sugar planter in Jamaica. The marriage, prompted by love rather than financial gain, proved to be a happy one, and the couple was soon blessed with the birth of a son. After living for several years on his father-in-law's plantation, however, Captain Humphreys longed to return to his home in New England. Thus in 1879 he packed up his treasures and left Jamaica with his wife, his son and his wife's maid, Emmanuelle, and set sail for Martha's Vineyard.
The Georgian-style mansion he built in Edgartown lacked none of the comforts and modern conveniences of the plantation home in Jamaica, but the temperatures in Massachusetts were much colder than those in the Caribbean Islands. The severe winter weather did not bother Captain Humphreys, a New Englander by birth. Being of a strong, healthy constitution, he fared well in less temperate climes. His wife, however, had been born in Kingston; and like a delicate, tropical flower, she withered in the frosty environment.
The family doctor was a frequent caller to the Norh Water Street house, not only to tend to the captain's wife but also, on several occasions, the young boy, Emile. The child, it seemed, was prone to catching colds. His mother was usually too ill herself to tend to her son, so the boy was nursed to health time and again by the faithful Emmanuelle. Unlike her sickly mistress, the servant was strong and resilient and fully able to shoulder the added responsibility of raising a young child.
When Emile reached the age of six, the captain hired former school teacher Addie Poole, a widow from Oak Bluffs, to educate him. A bitter rivalry soon arose between Emmanuelle and the widow. Both women battled for the young boy's affections. Addie, in addition to teaching him the three R's, showed him how to paint and draw. Meanwhile, Emmanuelle, who had no formal education herself, entertained the child with stories of pirates and voodoo queens, tales handed down by her enslaved Jamaican ancestors. On cold winter nights, when the wind rattled the shutters and whistled through the trees, Emile would sit wide-eyed by the fireplace and listen to Emmanuelle spin her stories of piracy, vengeance, black magic and foul murder.
Unfortunately, Emile did not stay a child forever. When he turned nine, he began to feel the need for friends of his own age.
"What you need friends for?" Emmanuelle asked him in her island accent. "You have me; dat's all you need."
"But I want someone to play with when you're busy cleaning the house and doing the laundry," the boy explained.
In a stroke of genius, the resourceful housekeeper took several yards of old fabric and fashioned a doll, only an inch shorter in height than Emile himself. She then dressed the doll with clothing the boy had recently outgrown.
"What is that?" Emile cried with delight when Emmanuelle presented him with the finished toy.
"Dat be your new friend."
"What's his name?"
"Dat be for you to decide."
The boy thought for several minutes and then announced, "I'll call him Jacques."
"Jacques it be den," the servant said with a smile. "Jacques da doll."
That night Emile took his cloth friend to bed with him.
"I see you have Jacques with you," Emmanuelle said when she went into the boy's room to tell him his nightly bedtime story. "You be sure to take good care of him, for dolls have much magic."
"They do?" the child asked, his eyes wide with fascination.
"In da islands, da voodoo queens use dolls to cast a spell so powerful it can kill people."
Emile involuntarily drew back from his new toy as though it might mean him harm.
Emmanuelle laughed and quickly reassured him, "Don't you be afraid. Dis be your doll; he won't hurt you."
From that point on, the boy and his doll were inseparable. Although it had not taken much time or skill to make, the simple cloth playmate became the deciding factor in the rivalry between Emmanuelle and Addie Poole. Emile loved Jacques above all his other possessions and was grateful to Emmanuelle for making it.
His teacher, on the other hand, had always disliked dolls, even as a young child. The porcelain dolls so prized by other little girls had scared Addie who hated the lifeless glass eyes that stared out from beneath painted eyelashes and seemed to follow her every move. Innocuous as he appeared, Jacques frightened the widow, and she forbade Emile to bring the doll to his classes. Consequently, the boy began to resent his teacher.
* * *
Shortly after Emile celebrated his tenth birthday, his mother finally succumbed to one of the many illnesses that had plagued her since leaving Jamaica. Understandably, the boy was sad at his mother's passing, yet he was by no means inconsolable. He had spent so little time with her, after all. It had been Emmanuelle and, to a lesser extent, Addie who had raised and nurtured him.
The Widow Poole saw the death of her employer's wife as an opportunity to better her situation. As his son's teacher slowly insinuated herself into Captain Humphreys's life, Emmanuelle watched with a wary eye.
"You getting mighty close to da captain," the housekeeper declared one day.
"And what's wrong with that?" Addie asked defensively.
"His wife isn't even cold in her grave yet."
"That's none of your business."
"I be with da captain and little Emile since they live in Jamaica. They be like family to me."
"But they're not your family, any more than that ridiculous doll is Emile's playmate. You're a housekeeper; that's all. And if you don't treat me with more respect, one of my first actions as the new Mrs. Winslow Humphreys will be to dismiss you."
In the heat of their argument, neither woman noticed that Emile was standing out in the hallway and had overheard every word of their conversation.
"She can't get rid of Emmanuelle," the boy cried, fiercely clutching his doll to his breast. "I must find a way to stop her."
* * *
The following afternoon, as Emile was doing his daily lessons with Mrs. Poole, Emmanuelle went to the market to buy fresh vegetables for the evening meal. Upon her return, she was walking up the front steps when she heard a scream from inside the home. The housekeeper burst through the door, just in time to see Addie Poole tumble down the grand staircase from the second-floor landing. Emmanuelle ran to her aid, but the widow had broken her neck in the fall and lay dead on the foyer floor.
When the housekeeper looked up, she saw Emile standing at the top of the staircase. As usual, Jacques the doll was at his side.
"Did you see what happened, child?" Emmanuelle asked.
"She fell down the stairs. Didn't she, Jacques?"
When Emmanuelle informed her employer of the tragic accident, Captain Humphreys was clearly upset. It was the second death in the household in less than a year. Furthermore, he was just beginning to develop a close friendship with his son's teacher, and now she was gone.
After the unfortunate widow was laid to rest, Captain Humphreys and his son left the Westside Cemetery that was located between Robinson Road and Cookie Street. It suddenly occurred to the father that Emile might be saddened over the loss of two people in his life and that he might desperately need attention from his surviving parent.
"I know I haven't been the best father," he told the boy as they rode home from the cemetery, "but from now on, things will be different. I'll spend more time with you. You won't need that doll as a friend."
While Emile would enjoy getting to know his surviving parent better, he had no intention of forgetting about Jacques.
* * *
On the eve of Emile's thirteenth birthday, Captain Humphreys invited his son into his study for a man-to-man talk.
"You're no longer a boy," the father announced with pride. "You're well on your way to becoming a man. That's why I've spoken to a friend of mine, Solomon Walper from Gloucester, and he's agreed to take you on his next voyage."
"Why a voyage? I have no desire to travel."
"It's time you learned a trade, and sailing is a fine, noble vocation. Of course, you must start at the bottom as a cabin boy. Under Captain Walper's tutelage, however, you'll learn all you need to know to skipper a boat of your own someday."
"But I don't want to be a sailor," the boy cried. "I want to stay here with you and Emmanuelle—and Jacques."
Although a kind man and a loving father, Captain Humphreys was not one to tolerate disobedience—not from his crew when he was at sea and certainly not from his son.
"You will stop this childish behavior at once!" he thundered. "You're far too old to be playing with a doll. I should have put a stop to it years ago, but I felt sorry for you after you lost your dear mother and then your teacher."
"I don't care about them," the boy shouted defiantly. "I have Emmanuelle. She loves me, and so does Jacques."
"Jacques is only a toy. It's not real. It hasn't the capacity to love or to hate."
"You're wrong. He does love me. And he knows how to hate, too."
Several minutes later, Emile ran out of his father's study in tears. Emmanuelle heard first the boy's footsteps and then the angry slam of his bedroom door.
"Is dat you, child?" she called. "Is somet'ing wrong?"
The housekeeper walked up the stairs to investigate. As she passed the open door of the captain's study, she saw Humphreys lying sprawled across his desk.
"Captain?" she asked fearfully.
When he did not reply, she tiptoed into the study.
"Captain?" she repeated.
In the light of the fire, she saw the wound on her employer's head, and on the floor beside the desk, she spotted the fireplace poker stained with blood.
Emmanuelle ran to Emile's bedroom. When she opened the door, she saw the boy sitting on his bed, rocking back and forth with Jacques the doll cradled in his arms. The housekeeper noticed the blood on Emile's hands and her heart sank. She always suspected the child had been involved in Addie Poole's death, but loving him as she did, she tried to convince herself she was wrong. Now, here he was with his father's blood still on his hands. She could not deny the truth any longer.
"My poor child," she crooned, holding Emile to her bosom. "Everyt'ing be all right now. Emmanuelle is here to take care of you."
"My father wanted to send me away," Emile sobbed. "He said I was going to be a man and that I should go to sea."
Emmanuelle took him into her arms and patted his head, comforting him.
"Hush, now, dearest one. You don't have to go anywhere. But da police will want to know who killed your father."
"It wasn't me. I swear it! Jacques did it."
"Well, I t'ink we should get you cleaned up, and I put Jacques in da laundry. I tell da police dat a thief came into da house, argue with your father and kill him. Dat way you will be safe."
"Jacques, too?"
"Yes. Jacques, too," the housekeeper replied, fighting back her tears.
* * *
In the years that followed the death of Captain Humphreys, Emile was content to remain at home with his devoted servant. He no longer carried his doll wherever he went, nor did he sleep with it at night. His father had been right about one thing at least: Emile was too old to play with a doll. Art, once a mere pastime, became his passion, and he grew to be a talented painter.
Jacques, however, remained a symbol of the deep affection and gratitude he felt toward Emmanuelle. The doll also served as a reminder to Emile of his childhood. It was for these reasons he kept it on a chair in his bedroom.
When Emile was twenty-five, the owner of a Rockport art gallery agreed to feature several of his seascapes in an exhibit of New England artists. It was on the opening night of this exhibit that he met Isabella Carrington, a beautiful young art student from Boston. When Isabella first approached Emile, she found him shy and tongue-tied, but her exuberant personality soon drew him out of his shell. By the end of the evening, the timid, taciturn young man had fallen hopelessly in love.
Emmanuelle was not pleased when she learned of the budding romance several weeks later. Since Captain Humphreys's death, the housekeeper had tried to shield Emile from contact with other people. She feared that if provoked the young man might kill again. It was in everyone's best interest then, Emmanuelle decided, to discourage Emile from pursuing the young woman.
"You know not'ing about da young lady," she warned. "Dere be women who seek out men with money."
"You can put your mind at rest," he assured his housekeeper with an affectionate kiss on her forehead. "I can assure you that Isabella Carrington isn't after my money. She is from one of the wealthiest families in Massachusetts."
Emmanuelle soon realized she could not dissuade the artist from pursuing the student.
"I must make sure dis relationship goes no further," she vowed to herself. "If I cannot turn his head, I must try to talk some sense into her."
* * *
Shortly after the happy couple announced their plans to marry, Isabella received an unexpected visit from her betrothed's housekeeper.
"Emmanuelle?" she cried with surprise. "What are you doing here? Has something happened to Emile?"
"No. He be just fine," the housekeeper assured her. "It is your safety I am worried about."
Isabella looked at the Jamaican woman with puzzlement.
"I don't know why you should be concerned with me. I'm in no danger."
Emmanuelle's soft brown eyes clouded with sadness.
"You don't know Emile very well."
"No, but I know enough about him to realize I love him."
"Dis marriage must not take place."
"You want to keep Emile for yourself, don't you?" Isabella accused the housekeeper. "Why? Is it his money you want? Or are you afraid he'll no longer need you if he marries me?"
"I'm not concerned with myself. I only want to save you."
"I don't need your help. Emile loves me, and we'll be very happy together. Now I must ask you to leave, and if you persist in trying to interfere, I will have to ask Emile to let you go."
Emmanuelle bowed her head, apologized and left. There was nothing she could do. The two headstrong young people were intent on rushing ahead on their destructive course.
* * *
After a month-long honeymoon trip to Spain, Emile and Isabella returned to Massachusetts where they would live as man and wife in the groom's family home in Edgartown. The newlywed bride coolly greeted Emmanuelle upon her arrival. Apparently, Isabella had not forgiven the housekeeper for trying to prevent the marriage.
"Welcome, home," the Jamaican woman said.
"Have my trunks arrived yet?" the bride asked coldly.
"Yes, and I put your t'ings upstairs in Mr. Emile's room."
"Thank you. I'm tired, and I want to take a nap before lunch. Which room is his?" she asked.
"I show you," Emmanuelle offered and led her new mistress upstairs.
When the servant opened the door, Isabella walked into the master bedroom.
"Thank you. When my husband returns ...."
Suddenly, the bride spotted Jacques the doll sitting on a chair near the large canopy bed.
"What is that ugly thing doing here?" she demanded to know.
"Dat be Emile's doll, Jacques. Da master, you see, was an only child, a very lonely little boy. Jacques da doll became his only friend."
"Well, my husband is no longer a little boy, and he won't be lonely with me here. So, get rid of it."
The housekeeper hesitated.
"Did you hear me? Get rid of it—now!"
Emmanuelle nodded. She crossed the room and picked up the doll, but rather than throw it away, she took Jacques to her own room.
That night when Emile went up to his bedroom, he immediately noticed the doll was missing. The newlyweds argued, and Emile stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"Emmanuelle!" he shouted. "Where is Jacques? Please tell me you haven't destroyed him!"
"Da doll be safe. It is in my room."
Emile retrieved the doll, but rather than return it to the master bedroom where it would surely upset his wife further, the artist carried it up to his tower room studio on the fourth floor.
* * *
Before she married Emile Humphreys, Isabella had led an unusually full life for a woman of her day. She studied art, attended plays and music concerts, visited friends and went to dinner parties. Sadly, her active social life abruptly ended when she moved to Martha's Vineyard. The young bride felt lonely and isolated in the large house on the remote island.
"You stay in your studio all day long and ignore me," she complained when her husband came down to supper late one evening.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I'm preparing for a new exhibit," he explained. "So far, I have only two paintings to show."
A brilliant idea came to the young bride.
"I could paint, too. Then we can keep each other company."
Emile agreed that it was an excellent idea—that is until he took his wife upstairs to his fourth-floor art studio.
"What's that doll doing here?" Isabella asked when she saw Jacques in the corner of the room. "I thought I told that housekeeper of yours to get rid of it."
The couple then had their second argument, this one much worse than the first. While Emile had given in to his wife's wishes regarding the doll before, this time he put his foot down. Jacques was staying right where he was.
* * *
Emile was surprised and pleased to see that his wife handled her defeat well. She never cried or pouted. Instead, she put on a mask of cordiality, smiling benignly and replying politely whenever her husband spoke to her. Emmanuelle, however, kept careful watch over her new mistress. She was certain Isabella's senior behavior was false and that the peace in their home was nothing more than the calm before the storm. When that storm broke, it was sure to have dire consequences.
One day, nearly three weeks after the couple's argument, Emile gathered up his four completed canvasses and announced, "I'm going to deliver these paintings to the gallery myself. I want to make sure that they don't accidentally wind up in the storage room like the last two did. Would you like to come with me? We could stop and get something to eat afterward."
"No thank you, Emile, darling," Isabella replied with a sweet but insincere smile. "I have something to do myself."
No sooner had her husband left the house than Isabella disappeared into the upper floors of their home. Emmanuelle had no time to wonder what her young mistress was up to; she had far too much work to do to play nursemaid. The aging servant had just finished cleaning the parlor and was on her way to the dining room to polish the silverware when she heard a woman's scream. She ran out into the foyer. On the floor at the foot of the grand staircase, where years earlier Addie Poole had met her untimely end, lay Emile's young wife. Just like the widow who had been hired to educate the captain's young son, Isabella broke her neck and died instantly.
Emmanuelle raised her eyes to the top of the landing, fully expecting to see her master there. All she saw, however, was Jacques the doll. She ran to the front door, looked outside and saw that the family carriage was not in the driveway. The housekeeper realized that Emile was not home and, as such, he could not have pushed his wife down the stairs. Perhaps this time, at least, the death had been an accident.
When Emmanuelle returned to the foyer, she discovered with shock that Jacques the doll was no longer on the landing. She remembered, with sudden clarity, Emile's words after his father's death: "It wasn't me. I swear it! Jacques did it."
Has it been da doll all along? she wondered.
At first, she scoffed at the idea. It was only a cloth body stuffed with straw and two buttons for eyes. It couldn't kill anyone. Or could it?
With grim determination, Emmanuelle stepped over Isabella's lifeless body and mounted the stairs. She had created that murderous doll. It was now up to her to rid the world of its evil.
* * *
After delivering his completed paintings to the captain of the ship that would transport them to the owner of the Rockport art gallery, Emile headed home. It was a bright, clear day, and he hoped to get in several hours of painting before the sun went down. As he turned into his driveway, his attention was drawn to a movement in the tower window. Suddenly, the glass shattered, and a body flew out and landed with a sickening thud on the front lawn.
"Emmanuelle!" he screamed as he jumped from the carriage and ran to the side of the woman who had loved and protected him all his life.
When he knelt beside the body, he saw with horror that his Jamaican housekeeper was dead.
"Oh, God!" he cried. "What could have happened to you?"
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Emile gazed up at his studio. Looking down at him from the shattered window was Jacques the doll. For a moment—improbable as it seemed—Emile thought he saw a smile on the doll's cloth face.
This story was inspired by the legend of Robert the doll, a doll that belonged to artist Gene Otto of Key West, Florida. Photo of Robert the doll (upper left corner) © Thomas R. Pasawicz and is used with his permission.
No, Salem. I don't believe your cat doll left that dead mouse on the doorstep!
