I park the tray on a side table and wait outside Caroline’s bedchambers for the flames to cool. On the wall hangs a painting of a horse standing atop a knoll, his tail high, ears rigid. A herd of black sheep graze in the valley below it, kept in line by a fierce-looking dog. The painting probably gave the artist a mean hand cramp with all the tiny strokes, but something about the scene puts an itch under my skin.
I hear Old Gin’s voice in my head. Fancy horse like that wouldn’t just be strolling around, free as a bird, hm? Noemi might wonder why the sheep are all black and stuck at the bottom of the hill, a question that four years of bloody battles between the states and twenty-five years of Reconstruction still haven’t answered. For me, the piece is simply banal—one of Nathan’s favorite words. For once, couldn’t the artist show the things people don’t pay attention to? Like the wind. Maybe the wind wouldn’t be so invisible if people took the time to notice it.
When I detect a lull in the conversation, I shoulder into the room. “Good morning, ma’am. Miss.”
Mrs. Payne pulls the African violet away from Caroline, lying in bed, and a trail of soil spills onto the woman’s apricot skirts. She dusts them off with a few flicks of her fingers. “Good morning, Jo.”
Unlike her mother, Caroline holds her displeasure up for all to see: two hot spots on her cheeks, a scowling mouth, and eyes narrowed to slits. I might have been wrong about the cinnamon buns, which seem to have been frightened into silence and no longer smell. I set the tray on her table and pour the coffee.
Mrs. Payne paints on a bright smile. “Jo, we were just discussing whether common horses can compete alongside pedigreed horses. As Old Gin’s daughter, perhaps you are knowledgeable about things like pedigrees.”
My gut tells me to demure, but then Caroline pipes up. “She’s certainly knowledgeable about being common.”
I pass Caroline her mug of coffee, fixing her with a look to remind her of our agreement. I can see the loathing in her eyes, and I can’t help wondering if, instead of moving us to a more temperate clime, I’ve summoned winter forever. She lowers her eyes and takes the coffee.
“With the proper training and advantages, I think any horse can be great. Family name is a burden unique to humans.” I pick a cushion off the floor and bring it to the open window to shake out.
Caroline slurps her drink. “You see, Mama, the maid agrees with me. Now you must let Thief race.”
Mr. Q’s horse, Thief? A racehorse? I give the pillow I am holding an extra slap. It gives me a stitch in the flank to know I have unwittingly taken Caroline’s side.
Her gloating eyes crest the rim of her mug, and I wish I could take back my words. The tricky thing about giving opinions is that sometimes they cost you more than you wanted to spend.
Mrs. Payne sighs. “The sponsors are paying good money to put their name on a horse. They won’t be happy to receive Thief.”
Caroline slides languidly off her bed and settles herself at her table. “Maybe the Atlanta Suffragists will win a bid and you can give Thief to them.” She holds up a fist and chirps, “Equal votes for all.”
Mrs. Payne lets out a ladylike huff. “Heaven forbid they could scrape together enough to qualify.” She stiffly crosses to the door. “Your friends will be here soon. Jo, that is a fetching hairstyle. Perhaps you can do the same for Caroline.”
Caroline tears a chunk off a bun with her teeth, sugaring her lips. Something tells me the taste is not very sweet.
* * *
—
IN THE DRAWING room where the Paynes receive their visitors, golden curtains pool onto milky carpets. A gilded piano plays catch and throw with the late-morning light streaming in from the windows. This is not the room to be caught smacking your lips or scratching your nits. The simple arrangement of furniture puts every guest on display, the sofas extra plush to encourage lingering while they slowly digest you.
Noemi pours glasses of lemonade for the two ladies seated at a circular table. She moves away, and I recognize two crushed-velvet capotes, hats made by my own hands.
My eyes pop out when I recognize Miss Saltworth and Miss Culpepper, bright as petunias in pink and violet frocks. The sweet scent of Salt’s Eau de Lilac perfume mingles with that of the lemon furniture oil and cigar smoke.
Well, if the sun hasn’t risen in the west. Old money likes to think it weighs more than new money, and Caroline, at least the Caroline I knew, only associated with girls whose families have carried around their wealth for generations. But perhaps she has dropped her old acquaintances after her years away at school, and is in need of new ones. Funny enough, I don’t remember her having many friends.
Salt’s round face splits open. “Why, it’s Jo! Whatever are you doing here?”
Pepper’s dark eyes sweep down my uniform. Unlike the curvy Salt, Pepper’s as slim as a fiddle string with a deeper bass of a voice. “Oh! She’s a maid.”
My reversal of fortune lands like a dead pigeon on the carpet. “It’s nice to see you, Miss Saltworth, Miss Culpepper.”
“You’re Caroline’s new maid?” Salt was always half a step behind Pepper.
“I’m afraid so,” Caroline drawls before I can answer.
Noemi winks at me.
“Caroline!” Pepper folds herself back into a chair. “If I’d known Jo was up for grabs, I would’ve taken her in a heartbeat.” Hope rises in my chest until she adds, “That is, if I didn’t already have my Martha.”
Salt pulls a blond ringlet with a doughy finger, and then lets it snap back into place. “And if I didn’t already have my Lucy, I would’ve taken her, too. Think of all the hats. Plus, Jo knows the cleverest hairstyles.”
Pepper rubs her thin hands together. “I have an idea. Maybe Jo could do Melly-Lee’s hair. What do you say, Caroline?”
Caroline, who had refused all hairstyles except for her Newport knot, wrings her mouth into a grim smile. “Of course. Maid, go fetch a brush and pins.”
When I return with the items, Mrs. Payne has joined the threesome, the perfect model of poise as she deals the cards. Unlike Caroline, her spine doesn’t touch the back of the chair. And unlike Salt, whose knees bounce under her pink gingham skirt like two frogs caught under a picnic blanket, the lady of the house has mastered the art of sitting quietly.
After brushing out Salt’s considerable white-blond mane, I begin to weave.
When I was little, Lucky Yip and Hammer Foot let me braid their queues, mostly to keep my fingers out of their games of Chinese chess. Lucky Yip would turn red in the face when he found his hair done up in a “staircase to the heavens,” but Hammer Foot always accepted his hairdo with a grateful bow.