I nod guiltily. “But not all the time. Just sometimes, when I need to.”
She presses her hands over her crestfallen expression.
“And only in the print shop,” I add hastily. “That’s where the abolitionists built the speaking tube.”
“Abolition—” The word breaks off. She carefully shifts into a cross-legged position. “I wish I had figured it out earlier. I had seen you and your grandfather a few times before, and thought you must have lived around here. When the solicitor’s wife told me about the Chinese girl in the hat shop, well, I was curious about you, but I still couldn’t work out why you were so familiar to me.”
I wipe my leaky eyes on my palm. She reaches over Old Gin and takes my wet hand in her warm one. “And at last, when Nathan told me you were our Miss Sweetie, I thought, well, of course. That girl is destined to be in our lives.”
“So, you’re not upset?”
“No.” There are tears in her eyes. “I am relieved.”
The next half hour passes quickly as I answer Mrs. Bell’s questions about how Old Gin and I came to be living under her house. I tell her the truth about my relationship with Mrs. Payne. Now that the worst has happened, there is no reason to hide. Either that or I am too tired to think of one.
The sounds of clopping hooves and grinding wheels hasten toward us. Then a bear-size man with a grizzled beard appears in the doorway, smelling of cigars and swinging a large carpetbag. He takes one look at Mrs. Bell’s and my tear-streaked faces and says, “Hope I’m not too late.”
Mrs. Bell pushes herself to her feet. “No, Doctor. But please hurry.”
Thirty-Six
From the outside, the Bells’ two-story house features cheerful curtains in its white-framed windows. Two potted cypresses stand guard on either side of a stout brown door. I always imagined Mrs. Bell kept her house the way she dressed—plain and neat. But while the house is neat, its contents are like a field of wildflowers to my eyes. Knitted throws in whimsical colors like meadow green and tulip pink drape the couch and two fireside chairs. A bucolic landscape pieced from cheerful feed sacks has been stretched onto a wooded frame and hung on the wall. Braided rugs stitched with a stout needle cause each footfall to feel lovingly supported. There’s even a tufted cushion on the floor by the fireplace, perfectly sheepdog-size.
After Dr. Swift patched up the worst of the injuries, including Old Gin’s eye, Nathan helped him cart Old Gin to the Bells’ front door. We did not find the boot; it was probably already picked up by a street urchin. The men carried Old Gin into a spare bedroom on the first story with a view of the street, and laid him upon a mattress made of ticking with sheets that look freshly ironed.
Dr. Swift rolls his sleeves back down. “Elevate his back. It’ll make it easier to breathe with that punctured lung. We must pray that infection does not set in.”
I help Mrs. Bell tuck pillows behind Old Gin’s back and under his knees. “What about his eye?”
“Keep it clean and be thankful the good Lord gave us two.”
My toes grip the floor extra hard. Oh God, please save his eye. A sympathetic noise feathers from Mrs. Bell’s mouth.
The doctor takes a bottle of antiseptic from his bag and sets it on a dresser, along with a blue vial. “This tincture will help with the pain, though start small—a teaspoon or two. I never gave it to a yellow man before, but I expect he’ll tolerate it like the rest of us. He needs two months of rest and good soup. How’s he at chess?”
“Chinese or American, if he loses, it’s on purpose,” I say weakly.
“Really. Well then, maybe it’s time for the old horse to learn a new trick.”
Maybe it’s the way the last of the sunlight falls when Nathan adjusts the shutters, but despite the news about his eye, I swear a smile ghosts around Old Gin’s face. I hope he knows he’s in the best of hands. Not quite home, but home just the same.
* * *
—
MRS. BELL GIVES me a rice-root brush and then shows me to a washroom on the first floor. “Take your time. I will prepare dinner.” She leaves, and soon I hear the clang of a pot meeting a stove.
The washroom matches the size of my basement corner and contains a bin of towels, a basin, and a catching tub, meant for the dribbles from washing and rinsing. Another door conveniently leads to the garden, where used water can be deposited, and an outhouse.
I glance into a looking glass, and my own face scares me, my eyes painfully loud, my mouth chewed up with worry.
Nathan brings two buckets of steaming water, which he sets by the catching tub. He edges past me to the doorway, as if he is suddenly conscious of the close quarters.
“I could fill the tub if you don’t mind waiting.” He takes in my matted hair, maybe wondering if he’ll be boiling water all night.
“This is more than enough. Thank you.”
“Jo, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about your grandfather, but I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t stand . . .” He grips the doorframe, and his gray eyes are not sure where to land. “Er, I should let you get on with it.” He winces and then closes the door.
My limbs ache, but I make every drop of water count, scrubbing my skin with a washcloth until it turns pink. My discovery this morning seems a lifetime ago. Who knew so many moments could happen in the span of one day? I will need to inform the Paynes of what happened, though the thought of going back blows more smoke on my mood.
Did she ever love me?
I never loved her, only the idea of her. I dreamed of having a mother like Mrs. Payne, someone with a smile in her eyes and a song on her lips. Someone who smelled like summer peaches. What a fool she has played me for these seventeen years. I detest the woman. Maybe even more than Billy Riggs.
I take my anger out on my tangled tresses, washing, rinsing, and detangling until the mass gleams like spilled ink over my shoulders. Then I station myself by Old Gin, watching every rise and fall of his bony chest. Mrs. Bell brings me a bowl of stew to eat while I watch him. It is good stew, with silky bits of potato and carrot, but I can only eat a few bites as my stomach knots with worry.
Mrs. Bell pokes her head back in, and I carry my half-finished bowl out of the room to talk with her. “Thank you, ma’am. I will finish the rest later. You must let me take care of the dishes.”
“I won’t hear of it. Would you like to borrow one of my Mother Hubbards?”
“That is kind of you, but I need to return to the basement for a few things.”
Nathan, carrying a stack of newspapers through the house, stops. “Will you let me accompany you?”
The idea of letting him look into the private corners of my life makes my stomach as jumpy as a hundred dried beans being poured on a pie tin. But all my life, haven’t I been the one looking in on him? “I would like that.”