Climbing the stairs, I manage to keep most of the coffee in the pot, though the tray is as awkward to carry as a live pig. “Miss?” I call through Caroline’s door. Keeping an iron grip on the tray, I let myself into the room.
Caroline sits at a mirrored dressing table. The formerly pastel room has been updated with wallpaper featuring peacock feathers, which stare like a hundred eyeballs. Turquoise swags cascade into indulgent puddles on the floor. A potted African violet with a single bud stands its ground among all the eyes. Don’t I know how it feels.
I set the tray on a table by the window.
Through her mirror, Caroline casts me a look severe enough to crack the glass. “Oatmeal is hardly robust. Eggs are robust. Bacon is robust. You’ve wasted my time. Still slow as ever, I see.”
I grit my teeth and remind myself it is just a job. One that pays money that I wouldn’t have otherwise, money that will become critical if the Focus folds. Refusing to acknowledge her mocking expression in the mirror, I heft the tray and carry it back to the door.
“Make sure you bring those eggs sunny-side. I only eat eggs sunny-side.”
Perhaps that is because she doesn’t have one of her own. “Certainly, miss.” I duck out of the room.
I nearly drop the tray on the old farm table. Noemi barely glances up from her spot at the sink where she is washing out the oatmeal pot.
“Miss Caroline would prefer bacon and eggs, sunny-side,” I pant, taking over the washing of the pot.
Noemi shakes her head slowly, as if she isn’t surprised in the least. She sets a frying pan on the stove and soon the smell of frying grease is making my stomach grumble. Something out the window catches her eye. “Ever ride a bicycle?”
“No.” I hang the pot on the wall and edge next to her. Outside, Mr. Payne’s butler, Solomon, wheels the bicycle down the carriage track. “I’m not ready to break my legs just yet.”
“You know how to ride a horse. A bicycle must be easier than that. It’s closer to the ground, and you don’t have to train it. See, I get these ideas, and they keep wheeling around in my head. A bicycle means no waiting for streetcars, sometimes packed so tight you can’t even breathe. Plus, I could visit my no-account brother in the blights without being pawed at.”
Noemi rarely talks about her brother, whom, according to Robby, she’s taken to visiting every week to thump Bible-sense into his low and disease-ridden mind. But I don’t see that many women riding bicycles, let alone colored women. I heft the tray, now arranged with two perfectly cooked sunny-side eggs nestled against four rectangles of bacon, and a fresh pot of coffee. “A bicycle must cost a fair penny. You think Mrs. Payne would let you have Caroline’s castoff? She is planning to give it away.”
Noemi adds a tiny saltshaker to the tray, but not the pepper—Caroline is allergic to pepper. Instead of answering me, she pushes me out of her kitchen. “Go before she changes her mind again.”
* * *
—
“ARRANGE MY HAIR into a Newport knot,” orders Caroline, still in her dressing gown. “Be quick about it. I am late for my ride, no thanks to you.”
“Yes, miss.”
While I clean her scalp with a rice-root brush, she smooths cream from a tin of Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber onto her face. Her skin favors her father’s, thick and ruddy, not the moonlight-clear complexion of her mother.
Her eyes catch mine, and a scowl colors her face. The mirror makes a fickle friend, my lady. Besides which, as Hammer Foot always said, it is better to look out a window than into a looking glass; otherwise all you see is yourself and what’s behind you.
“Don’t touch this. It’s very expensive.” The label on the tin promises to rid the skin of freckles, rendering it “soft, smooth, and white.” But Caroline’s freckles are still loud as exclamation points.
“Yes, miss.” I coil her heavy hair at the crown, and shape her curls about her forehead.
“Noemi has the manners of a cow, but she makes passable eggs, not as good as her mama, of course, but who can measure up to one’s dear mother? You’re lucky you don’t have one.” Her blue eyes goad me in the reflection of her gilded dressing mirror.
It’s impressive how deftly she manages to slap three faces—her mother’s, Noemi’s, and mine—with one glove. But I steel my ears against her petty remarks. She’s been singing that tune about my lack of a mother just as long as she’s been pushing Noemi off her mama’s lap. Mrs. Payne’s reminder that Caroline and I are not equals almost makes me laugh. As if Caroline would ever let me forget.
She flings commands like stones. “Powder my neck.” “Fetch my fan—no, not that one, you cow, can’t you see it’s broken?” “Button these boots.”
Is this to be my life, then? One tedious chore after the next, with intermittent pokes in the eye? Unlike with making hats, there is nothing to show for my work, nothing to be proud of, and certainly no gratitude. I despise it and I haven’t even made it past the first day.
I hold her boots while she pours in her ghostly white legs. The boots are fashioned from leather so dark they are almost black, with teardrop-shaped cutouts along the top and the polished sheen of a violin. I bet they were purchased in Italy.
When we emerge from the grand entrance of the Payne Estate, her in an elegant navy riding habit, me in Mrs. Payne’s riding breeches, not even the sun, bright as a new penny, can cheer me.
Old Gin is feeding Caroline’s horse, Frederick, pecans, while Sweet Potato tries to lick the cap off his head. The mare has grown at least two hands since I worked here last, and the white jag on her forehead has blossomed into a starburst. Her coat, once fuzzy with a nap that ran in every direction, lies smooth as spilled ink over her well-shaped hindquarters.
I scratch the star on Sweet Potato’s forehead. “Aren’t you the prettiest belle on Peachtree Street? Robby would approve of those teeth. Old Gin, give me a few of those nuts.”
Old Gin shakes his head. “No nuts for Sweet Potato. We are on a diet, hm?” He pats her neck.
“Diet? She’s shipshape.” I stroke her left front leg, which still bears the crook that made her limp as a foal, but it feels strong and pliant. Old Gin’s massage and exercises have worked magic.
Once Old Gin helps Caroline into the saddle, Frederick immediately begins to jitter and snort. Old Gin says that to understand your horse is to understand yourself. You cannot get a horse to mind if your own mind is in turmoil, which might explain why Frederick is trying to fling Caroline off like a hot coal.
Frederick finally settles, and Caroline presses a hand to her nose. “I feel my allergies acting up.” She has always been reactive in both mind and body.