“Certainly, ma’am,” I say, though the words sting like vinegar on a sunburn. “I hope I have never, er, acted above my station?”
“No, you have not. But now that you are both young ladies, I want to be clear on where we all stand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’ve understood that ever since I could stand.
A sigh pulls her shoulders down. “Wonderful. You will work Monday through Friday, with payment on Fridays, five dollars each week. I trust that is acceptable?”
It’s much more than Mrs. English paid and includes meals. The Paynes take pride in how well they treat their domestics. Yet, I still prefer my old job, with its promise of a future. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
She pulls from a wardrobe a black uniform of thick cotton, and cream-colored stockings. “As before, leave your uniform in the laundry basket for our washerwoman to collect at the end of the week. Your duties are to maintain Caroline’s quarters, her wardrobe, and her person, and to accompany her when she goes out. You may use one of my old riding habits. Caroline’s might be too big for you.”
Back into the wardrobe she goes, selecting a velvet jacket and matching skirt. A pair of jersey pants with quilted knees hangs next to the other riding clothes.
Noticing my interest, she peers back into the closet. “Is there something there that interests you?”
“I just noticed, er, the riding breeches.” As girls, Caroline and I rode horses astride—she in knee-length dresses, and I in boy’s overalls—but now that we are older, we are expected to use the sidesaddle. At least, fine ladies are.
“Oh, I thought I had given them away.” She brings them out and smooths the fabric under her slender fingers. “I used to show horses on my parents’ farm.”
Old Gin told me the “farm” spanned more than a hundred acres and produced some of the finest horses in the South. Horses seem to be the only thing that cause her eyes to light, though she had to give up riding them after an injury.
“Would you like to use them?”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Things are meant to be used.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I ride better in the cross saddle.”
“As do I. Being packed and twisted into an unnatural side seat is hard on the spine. I swear it’s the reason for my bad back, despite what the doctor says. And I daresay it would make keeping up with Caroline easier.” Her smooth brow furrows, as if mentioning her daughter’s name set off a flurry of thoughts underneath. She digs out a smile. “Of course, they might mistake you for a suffragist.”
“Oh, they won’t make that mistake,” I return brightly. “You have to be a citizen before you can be a suffragist.” Without birth records, Old Gin and I couldn’t prove to City Hall that I was born here. He suggested there might be an exception for foundlings, but the clerk wheezed in my face, “Not fer you, there ain’t.”
Mrs. Payne’s smile flattens and the beadlike protrusion in the center of her upper lip—same as mine—disappears. Chinese believe a “pearl” lip attracts good fortune. “Well, be that as it may, women have more important worries than the vote. Like raising up our children. Surely you don’t disagree?”
“No, ma’am,” I demure. If I were truly a saucebox, I would point out that many women are unable to raise their children when factories such as the ones owned by her husband make them early widows.
She snorts. “Those suffragists want equality, but I gave up such romantic notions long ago. One must be careful about what one wishes. Better to be satisfied with one’s lot, as there is always someone who is worse off.”
Make that a whole lot of someones, in her case. I lower my eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I do not want Caroline to go visiting alone.” Mrs. Payne’s tone crisps. “If I find you have disobeyed me, you will be dismissed. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She breezes away. Quickly, I undo my waterfall braid and finish dressing. But even after every button is fastened and every stray hair is tucked under a mobcap identical to Noemi’s, I still feel exposed. Caroline is like spring weather; you know to carry an umbrella in case a cloudbuster comes along. But Mrs. Payne is winter most days of the year. It was rumored that, when Caroline was still a toddler, Mrs. Payne fell into a year-long melancholic spell during which she lived with her parents in Savannah. There is no understanding her, only the reminder that one should not get too comfortable in her presence, for things can change very quickly.
Eight
Dear Miss Sweetie,
I do not possess the plump curves so in fashion. My arms are like sticks, and I have a barrel for a chest, but wearing a corset makes me red in the face. How shall I ever be beautiful?
Miss Broad in the Middle
Dear Miss Broad in the Middle,
Puffed sleeves deemphasize a stocky middle, and adornment on the bib adds “treasure” to the chest. Leave the whalebone to the whales; it is healthier for both man and fish. The best way to boost your attractiveness is to accept yourself the way you are, which will free your mind to pursue creativity and joy.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
* * *
—
Noemi takes in my crisp uniform and nods. “Welcome back. Let the fun begin.” She hands me a broom. While she glides around the kitchen assembling Caroline’s tray, I sweep up pecan shells.
“Mr. Merritt wants pecan pie for his engagement party.” Her cast-iron eyes glare at a wall hook. “Folks who love pecan pie ain’t usually the ones making it. Barely finished half, and look.” She shows me a constellation of blisters along her palm.
“Mind if I take a crack?” I set down the broom, then take the hammer and begin splitting nuts. The first bang nearly cracks open my thumb. The second leaves a dent in the table.
Noemi bends an eyebrow my direction. “Good. By the time you’re done, we might not have pecan pie, but we will have firewood.”
I say a silent word of appreciation for Noemi, who had made Caroline’s cruelty easier to bear growing up here because she knew firsthand how it felt. Her mother had been Caroline’s mammy.
Etta Rae pokes her head in the kitchen. A breeze couldn’t enter the house without her knowing it. “Work don’t get done on giggles. Noemi, if Solomon comes by, tell him to move the bicycle to the work shed by the crates with the castoffs.”
Noemi’s eyes become thoughtful. “Yes, ma’am.” She hands me a tray of steaming oatmeal, a pitcher of cream, a bowl of brown sugar so fine it glitters, and a pot of coffee. “Better git before the porcupine starts throwing quills.”