When he spots us, a rakish grin bends the perfect line of Merritt’s mustache. “Hullo, Jo!” He trots Ameer up to us.
“I am glad to see you in good spirits, sir.”
“Never been better. Ever since the news broke of my, er, status, I’ve received, so far, four invitations to Mama’s horse race. It’s curious how things work out.”
It doesn’t surprise me. He has always been one of the most eligible bachelors this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. Jane Bentley is a distant memory.
“I rather like being a coquet. It’s a good life you ladies have. I don’t know why those suffragists are so hell-bent on being men.”
Miss Sweetie bristles. “They don’t want to be men, only to be allowed to have a say. God wouldn’t have given us feet if He didn’t want us to walk. By the same token, why give us a brain if He didn’t want us to have thoughts?”
He paces Ameer in front of us, his eyes roving my figure. I’m suddenly all too aware of the form-fitting nature of my riding breeches and turn Sweet Potato to block the view.
He laughs. “I’m merely admiring your . . . thoughts.”
“The thoughts happen higher up.” A warning bell clangs in my head. The most powerful piece in Chinese chess, the chariot, goes where it wants, felling anything in its path, while I am a lowly disposable soldier. Merritt and I might’ve been friends once, but now that we are older, lines must be drawn. Miss Sweetie would insist on it. “I’m sorry, sir, but your family is my employer. I must be on my way.”
Something wistful passes over his face. “Can we not be friends?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” My mare ferries us off, and this time, I do not look back.
Thirty-Two
Dear Miss Sweetie,
An admirer caught me staring at him. Of course, I quickly looked away, but I am certain he now thinks I’m a hussy. I want to die of shame.
Mortified,
Fannie Smith
(please don’t use my real name)
Dear Mortified,
An anxious mind makes lions of tumbleweeds. Live in the present, not in the future.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
* * *
—
The printer whirs and thrums next to my ear. I am back to listening in on the Bells, if only to assure myself they are still in business.
Old Gin is spending tonight again at the Paynes’. I finish tying a knot from the spools of cord Mr. Buxbaum sent through Noemi.
The printer stops and the soothing tones of Mrs. Bell’s voice tumble down, too distant to hear. Nathan’s voice follows. “Let him try to shut us down.” His voice grips the words. “The more he blows, the weaker his son looks.”
“Not if the Constitution turns this into a witch hunt for Miss Sweetie. I could claim responsibility. It would make sense that the publisher’s wife is Miss Sweetie. Probably no one would care after that.”
“Exactly. People would stop caring.” Something bumps the desk, maybe Nathan’s fist. “As much as people want to know who she is, her anonymity is part of her allure. She could be anyone, a sister, a friend, a neighbor. It’s what makes her relatable.”
“What will your father say?”
“No doubt he’ll have a fit. ‘Revolution is best taken by the teaspoon, not the glass.’”
I replug the listening tube. The idea that I have created discord in the Bell household stirs an itchy restlessness in me. My socks catch against the uneven concrete floor as I trek to Old Gin’s room.
The silk lies in a neatly folded pile. He finished it. My fingers glide over the thick cloth, pausing on the chrysanthemums woven into the silk in gold thread. I lift out the garment. To my surprise, it falls into two pieces. I hold up a long-sleeved blouse, which is more of a jacket that fastens down the middle, and a pair of close-fitting pants that taper at the ankle. Strange.
Stripping down to my cotton underclothes, I step into Old Gin’s creation. My feet just fit through the tapered openings, and I cinch the waist tight. The jacket hangs looser. Five button-and-loop closures down the middle resemble gold frogs. Old Gin’s knot-tying surpasses even mine.
I consider my outfit. With a cap and from the back, I might pass for Johnny Fortune in riding silks. I strut with my nose in the air, like a puffed-up jock.
Now, who would marry a woman wearing such a peculiar getup?
I freeze so fast, my socks nearly slip out from under me.
Old Gin and I stand the same height, though he bests me in girth by an inch or two.
The outfit is not for me.
The words on the Paynes’ flyer parade through my head . . . Mr. and Mrs. Winston Payne invite all Atlantans to attend an eight-furlong race at Piedmont Park Racetrack, a purse of $300 to be awarded to the winner.
Three hundred dollars is the same amount Shang owed Billy Riggs.
Coincidence? Coincidence is just destiny unfolding.
Old Gin is planning to run in Mrs. Payne’s horse race.
Perhaps that is why Sweet Potato knows her way to the track. It occurs to me that Old Gin’s birdlike appetite may not have been due to sickness after all, but discipline. The less weight for Sweet Potato to carry, the faster she will be. I peel off the deceptive outfit, and the glossy weave of the silk catches on a hangnail. I suck on my finger. Even the most beautiful of fabrics has a traitorous side, and so, it seems, does Old Gin.
* * *
—
I OVERSLEEP, OWING to a restless night, and half walk, half jog down Peachtree, frozen hands stuck under my arms. At least the nippy air clears my foggy head. My two fishtail braids whip my backside with every hurried step.
Sixty-year-old men have no business racing horses. Old Gin’s knees creak and his back seizes up when the weather is too damp. Not to mention, months of hacking must have crumpled his lungs into paper sacks. A horse race could kill him. Each beast is a thousand-and-a-half-pound engine of muscle and flesh, all stampeding down the same narrow corridor.
I shiver, and not just from the chill. It’s cracked.
Preposterous.
Unthinkable.
Yet here I am, still thinking about it.
If anyone knows how to ride a horse, it’s Old Gin. Johnny Fortune might be as steady as a bird on a fence, but Old Gin is a bird on a clothesline. He has a natural equine understanding that transcends any learned skill. In fact, it was his ability to calm a steed that had gone wild in the middle of a Shanghai marketplace that caught the eye of a wealthy American businessman. When Winston Payne offered him a job in America, Old Gin, not so old then, accepted.