Noemi drops her head, and Mrs. Payne’s face becomes thoughtful. “We have always valued our domestics’ opinions.”
Caroline’s gaze slings to me, as if I were the source of the trouble.
“Honesty is the best policy, especially with all eyes on this race,” Mrs. Payne continues. “Though, if I give the suffragists a horse, the Atlanta Belles will be in a lather. Fans will go up.” With her letter, she mimes drawing open a fan and hiding her face behind it, as the ladies do when they gossip.
Proceeds from the race go to the Society for the Betterment of Women, which supports orphans and widows. But the Atlanta Belles would rather parade about in their petticoats than associate with the loudmouthed suffragists, even though they are working toward the same cause. It is perfectly acceptable to treat women as charity, but perish the thought they should be enabled to help themselves. Another lion growls in Miss Sweetie’s face.
I snort a little too loudly, and I fumble the spool I am winding.
Caroline cups her hand to her ear and leans dramatically toward the entryway. “What’s that? I believe another unsolicited opinion is knocking down the door.”
Mrs. Payne purses her lips into a quick smile. “Jo?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I was just remembering the time Mrs. English put two playing cards on her blackjack hat, and the Anti-Gambling League threatened to boycott her. That was the best-selling hat of the season. Controversy boosts sales, and think of all the poor women who would benefit.”
Noemi, standing quietly beside Mrs. Payne’s chair, nods thoughtfully. “It’s why people pay good money to see Tantrum, the baby-eating spider, at that Barnum’s Traveling Museum. If it’s just spiders they want, they could stare at their ceilings.”
I laugh, and I swear Mrs. Payne does, too. She fans herself with the letter. “I’ve been curious about the Fiji mermaid myself, half monkey, half fish, though it’s all fiddle-faddle, of course. Animals just can’t mix like that.”
Caroline noisily gets to her feet, maybe having a baby-eating tantrum of her own. “Rather like people,” she sneers, sweeping away.
* * *
—
THE EVENING STREETCAR takes its sweet time arriving. A group of ladies cycles past us. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the population of safety bicycles appears to be on the upswing. I smile, remembering the clever picture Nathan drew for Miss Sweetie’s column of a woman bicycling past a train. I filed a clipping in the B section of my dictionary.
“I am glad to see you smiling,” remarks Old Gin, wearing the curious expression he gets when I play an unexpected piece in Chinese chess. “There is something different about you.”
“Oh? It must be the rides. Sweet Potato has grown wings on her feet.” It’s a wonder that Six Paces Meadow is still standing after our searing afternoon rides across it. Thankfully, Merritt’s work at the mills has kept him from intruding.
“Seems so.”
After today’s jag, I allowed the mare to carry me north to where the streetcar tracks bend toward Piedmont Park, the site of the upcoming race. With her nose up and ears forward, it was almost as though the thoroughbred in her were drawn to the sweat of her kinsmen emanating from that oval shrine. If I had not drawn up on the reins, she would’ve sailed through the stone pillars and past the stands.
“And Miss Caroline, how are her rides?” Old Gin tacks on casually as he watches a jay bully away a titmouse.
But why would he ask me separately about Caroline, as if my first answer had not included her? Surely he couldn’t know that we take separate paths unless he had followed us, which he could not possibly do without my noticing. The longer I don’t answer, the more I hang myself. “Fine, I expect.” Before he can throw me more rope, I pull out the Pendergrass’s elixir from my damask bag. “Got this for you. Robby says they can’t keep it on the shelf. The instructions say to drink the bottle for three days—you can see they marked the lines—and when you finish, you should feel ‘strong as a horse.’” I’d decided not to tell him about Billy Riggs, as he would worry, maybe even feel compelled to do all the shopping himself.
He skims the ingredients.
“Cost fifty cents, but it comes with a money-back guarantee if it doesn’t work, so we have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
He fills his lungs, but noting my crossed arms, his protest slips away. With a sigh, he uncorks the bottle and gulps down a mouthful. “Strong as horse, hm?” He smacks his lips. “Please let me know if you see a tail growing.”
As the streetcar approaches, Maud Gray hobbles up, still wearing her blue-and-white-striped milkmaid apron. Her cap has gone askew, and her mussed hair puffs out like dandelion fluff from her dark skin.
Old Gin nods to her. “Evening, Mrs. Gray.”
“Didn’t think I’d make it. Something spooked the cows, and they wouldn’t let down till noon.”
Sully halts in front of our stop with a single clang of his bell. It is an ominous sound, different from the ka-klank, ka-klank that the children make with their eager hands, milking the clapper for every last ring. Tonight, everyone seems to sit too rigidly in their seats. No one is talking, not even chatty Mrs. Washington.
Old Gin slips into a middle row with enough space for both of us, while Mrs. Gray moves to the front as usual, in order to warm her old bones by the coal heater.
“There ain’t room for you here,” says a crabby gardener whom I never liked, with his eternally sunburned face caused by a too-small hat. What kind of a gardener wears a one-inch brim? He shifts his lanky frame, closing off the empty space next to him. “I suggest you set your pins farther back.”
A ball of anger gathers in my chest. Old Gin stiffens beside me.
“She always sits there,” says someone, though it’s hard to tell who.
“Hm.” Old Gin’s usually musical utterance comes out curt and disapproving. People in the front rows have begun to glare at Maud, who plucks at her shawl with her thin fingers.
Something cold pours through my veins, running all the way to my clammy toes. It occurs to me that all the faces in the front are white. A child in the back whimpers, and his mother squeezes him to her.
Maud stares down at her shoes. “My hands are so stiff. I just wanted to warm them.” Her husky voice has lost its bounce.
The gardener flips up the collar of his coat. “Well, warm them in the back from now on.”
“Sit down already,” Sully throws over his bony shoulder. “I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
“Come sit by me, Maud,” says a young maid from the row behind us.
Maud gives the coal heater a longing glance. Then, with a sigh that crumples the stripes of her apron, she scoots in beside the maid.